The night was dark and fearful,
The blast swept wailing by;
A watcher, pale and tearful,
Looked forth with anxious eye:
How wistfully she gazes—
No gleam of morn is there!
And then her heart upraises
Its agony of prayer.
...
The birds their love-notes warble
Among the blossomed trees;
The flowers are sighing forth their sweets
To wooing honey-bees;
The glad brook o’er a pebbly floor
Goes dancing on its way,—
But not a thing is so like spring
As happy...
