And yet—and yet—something I miss—
Thought’s ever changeful play—
The variant, passing moods of life—
Its lights and shades in pleasant strife—
A dash of Sorrow’s spray.
I look upon thy morning face,
Enrapt with its sun-lighted grace—
But seek in vain the faintest trace
Of some o’ershadowing cloud.
Alas! dear child! it is not thou—