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Bereaved


  The passionate humming-birds cling
    To the honeysuckles' hearts;
  In and out at the open window
    The twittering house-wren darts,
                And the sun is bright.


  June is young, and warm, and sweet;
    The morning is gay and new;
  Glimmers yet the grass of the door-yard,
    Pearl-gray with fragrant dew,
                And the sun is bright.


  From the mill, upon the stream,
    A busy murmur swells;
  On to the pasture go the cattle,
    Lowing, with tinkling bells,
                And the sun is bright.


  She gathers his playthings up,
    And dreamily puts them by;
  Children are playing in the meadow,
    She hears their joyous cry,
                And the sun is bright.


  She sits and clasps her brow,
    And looks with swollen eyes
  On the landscape that reels and dances,--
    To herself she softly cries,
                And the sun is bright.


 

William Dean Howells