A sad man on a summer day
Did look upon the earth and say —
“Purple cloud the hill-top binding;
Folded hills the valleys wind in;
Valleys with fresh streams among you;
Streams with bosky trees along you;
Trees with many birds and blossoms;
Birds with music-trembling bosoms;
Blossoms dropping dews that wreathe you
To your fellow flowers beneath you;
Flowers that constellate on earth;
Earth that shakest to the mirth
Of the merry Titan Ocean,
All his shining hair in motion!
Why am I thus the only one
Who can be dark beneath the sun?”
But when the summer day was past,
He looked to heaven and smiled at last,
Self-answered so —
“Because, O cloud,
Pressing with thy crumpled shroud
Heavily on mountain top,—
Hills that almost seem to drop
Stricken with a misty death
To the valleys underneath,—
Valleys sighing with the torrent,—
Waters streaked with branches horrent,—
Branchless trees that shake your head
Wildly o'er your blossoms spread
Where the common flowers are found,—
Flowers with foreheads to the ground,—
Ground that shriekest while the sea
With his iron smiteth thee —
I am, besides, the only one
Who can be bright without the sun.”