In this drear time, the heart asks where are they
That tell of sunshine being on the way?
The harbingers of light and genial heat,
That make the meadows and the valleys sweet
When softly sighs the wind:
Make rich the upland grass to mountain goat,
When balm and beauty through the ether float,
Like gossamer reclined.
Oh! for a cheerful note from blackbird—gone,
All gone, the songster and his song are flown;