26 GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 



When wild clouds fly 

 Athwart the sky, 

 And ghostly shadows glancing, 

 Are darkening the gleam 

 Of the hurrying stream, 

 And your close, bright heads gayly dancing 



Though dull awhile, 

 Again ye smile, 

 For, see, the warm sun breaking, 

 The streams going glad. 

 There 's nothing sad, 

 And the small bird his song is waking. 



The dew-drop sip 

 With dainty lip, 

 The sun is low descended, 

 And Moon, softly fall 

 On troop true and small, 

 Sky and earth in one kindly blended. 



And Morning, spread 

 Their jewelled bed 

 With lights in the east sky springing, 

 And Brook, breathe around 

 Thy low murmured sound. 

 May they move, ye birds, to your singing, 



For in thy play, 

 I hear them say, 



