There's something wrong with the world to-day,
What can it be, what can it be?
The morn is at six, and the year's at May,
So mayhap that something is wrong with me.
But there's something wrong,
With the joyous song
Of the thrush in the apple-tree.
There's something gone from my heart I trow!
That then is why, that then is why
The flower seems dead on the orchard bough,
And never a sunbeam is in the sky.
There's something gone,
And the light of the dawn
Is the dimmer when you're not by.