In the Summer golden,
When the forests olden
Shook their rich tresses gaily in the morn;
And the lark upflew,
Sprinkling silver dew
Down from its light wing o'er the yellow corn;
When every blessing
Seem'd the earth caressing,
As though 'twere fondled by some love sublime,
Strong in her youthful hope,
Upon the sunny slope
A maid sat, dreaming o'er the happy time--
Dreaming what blissful heights were hers to climb.
In the Winter dreary,
When the willow, weary,
Hung sad and silent o'er the frozen stream;
And the trembling lark
Murmur'd, cold and stark,
In wailful pathos o'er its vanish'd dream;
When the bleak winds linger'd
And dead flowerets finger'd,
When all earth's graces, pale and coffin'd, slept,
With joys for ever flown,
In the wide world alone,
Over a broken faith a maiden wept--
Yet, with unswerving love, true vigil kept.