There are eyes that look out for a gale;
Always when the bosom’s lord sits lightly
Comes some croaking proverb to affright,
And in sweetest music grieving blindly
Sits the shadow of a sorrow pale.
Though to-day says not a word to sadden,
Still to-morrow’s menace fills my ear.
Less intent on this than that I hie me,
Fearful, eager, all the worst to know,
Missing that which might the moment gladden,