2<3 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, 
