How dreary is the pale sunlight of spring
That paints the skyward facets of the clouds
Which drizzle on the Roseland's ev'ry thing
And soften shapes to gray, besotted shrouds?
Could not Apollo for us intervene
And lift the gray oppression from our souls?
We glimpse his glory in the weakened sheen
But hides he yet behind the nimbus ghouls;
To taunt us thusly seems to me unfair,
So long we've braved the weeping of the skies,
And yearned to see his fiery visage glare,
To offer him salute with shaded eyes;
I know complaint doth offer small reward
But could he not one sunny day afford?
