Of thee when morn’s first glories gush
In gold and crimson o’er the sky;
My thoughts are thine ’mid toil and strife,
Thine when from all life’s perils free—
Ay, thine—forever thine—my life
Is but a living thought of thee.
I think of thee ’mid spring’s sweet flowers,
And in the summer’s brighter glow,
Of thee in autumn’s purple bowers,
And gloomy winter’s waste of snow;