The birds in the branches sang blithe overhead,
'Twas the rarest of days in June;
But I caught no joy from the warbler's lay.
Though the strains were sweet, and gladsome, and gay,
They woke no response, and they passed away,
For my heart was out of tune.
The world was abloom with a thousand dyes,
'Twas a perfect summer day;
But I saw not the beauty, and felt not the grace
Of the daisy's form, or the pansy's face,
Nor the concord of sound, and color, and place,
For my heart to grief was a prey.
There came a day when the clouds hung low,
The elements were at strife;
But I heard not the storm that went whirling past,
Nor felt the cold breath from the wintry blast;
I heard but a message of peace, that had cast
All sense of unrest from my life.
Now I know the subjective world of my thought,
Is the only world I see;
That my sense of harmony, beauty or strife,
Comes not from without, but within my life;
That I see reflected, whatever is rife
In my heart, Ah me! Ah me!
—
