The Drizzling Day
I walk the glistening porch, but all in vain
Hope for the sun. Drip—drip from oaken sprays,
While every bole grows darker in the haze,
And lyric spouts announce their low complain.
The downward smoke that leaves the rumbling train
Hugs the dimmed hill. Through veils of misty grays
I see the distant herd contented graze
In dull indifference to the dismal rain.
I feel the leaden time; I need the cheer,—
Even the solemn cheer of setting suns;
Yet still the mind on brighter prospects runs:
If skies are dark, lo, to the shrine I turn;—
Doth not the torch of song forever burn
Within the minstrel's home, though days are drear?
Hope for the sun. Drip—drip from oaken sprays,
While every bole grows darker in the haze,
And lyric spouts announce their low complain.
The downward smoke that leaves the rumbling train
Hugs the dimmed hill. Through veils of misty grays
I see the distant herd contented graze
In dull indifference to the dismal rain.
I feel the leaden time; I need the cheer,—
Even the solemn cheer of setting suns;
Yet still the mind on brighter prospects runs:
If skies are dark, lo, to the shrine I turn;—
Doth not the torch of song forever burn
Within the minstrel's home, though days are drear?
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