Days are dreary, and life is long;
(Yet down in the wood the ivy clings),
And the winds they moan a desolate song,
(And there’s snow on the bough where no throstle sings).
Spring will come with its buds and leaves
(Back to the wood where the ivy clings);
But ’tis winter cold for the heart that grieves,
(And I hear not the song that the throstle sings).
J. C. H.