Sadder than lark when lowering
Clouds defend the sky;
Sadder than wild swan pouring
Death-notes ere it die;
Sadder than winds imploring
Shelter when storms are high,-
Couldst thou be less than adoring,
More sad were I.
Happy as streamlet flowing
'Twixt banks of heathery peat;
Happy as murmur going
Through the inclining wheat;
Happy as mother glowing
Over her little one's feet,-
I am happy in knowing,
Thou'rt mine, my sweet!
