Poems (Griffin)/A Trill

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A TRILL.
WHEN the breeze is sighing,And the day is dying,Light with darkness vieing,        Then I pray.
And the soft, low murmurOf the coming summer,In its gentlest humor,        Seems to say:
Let the young spring hours,With their glowing showers,And their buds and flowers,        Time beguile.
Soon the seasons fleetlyShall be moving, sweetly,When love comes to greet thee        With a smile.
Then no more shall sadnessMar thy spirit's gladness ​Or might vex to madness        Thy heart's pride;
But each daylight beaming,Shall with joy be gleaming,And the heart-tears streaming,        Shall be dried.
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