Poems (Griffin)/A Trill

​
A TRILL.
WHEN the breeze is sighing,
And the day is dying,
Light with darkness vieing,
        Then I pray.

And the soft, low murmur
Of the coming summer,
In its gentlest humor,
        Seems to say:

Let the young spring hours,
With their glowing showers,
And their buds and flowers,
        Time beguile.

Soon the seasons fleetly
Shall be moving, sweetly,
When love comes to greet thee
        With a smile.

Then no more shall sadness
Mar thy spirit's gladness
 ​Or might vex to madness
        Thy heart's pride;

But each daylight beaming,
Shall with joy be gleaming,
And the heart-tears streaming,
        Shall be dried.

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.