The dawn of the day was dreary, And the lowering clouds o'erhead Wept in a silent sorrow Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; And a wind came out of the eastward Like an endless sigh of pain, And the leaves fell down in the pathway And writhed in the falling rain.
I had tried in a brave endeavor To chord my harp with the sun, But the strings would slacken ever, And the task was a weary one: And so, like a child impatient And sick of a discontent, I bowed in a shower of tear-drops And mourned with the instrument.
And lo! as I bowed, the splendor Of the sun bent over me, With a touch as warm and tender As a father's hand might be: And, even as I felt its presence, My clouded soul grew bright, And the tears, like the rain of morning, Melted in mists of light.
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