While The Billy BoilsSearchIt is a day to dream one dream,And then in full content to die,Bearing away in memoryThe colours of that cloudless sky;The odour of the fragrant grass,As ’mid its seeded spears we lie;The motion of those throbbing wings,That thro’ the dense blue distance fly.
It is a day to dream one dreamOf earthly peace, forgetting allThe bygone gloom of darker days,The keen cold blasts, and sullen fallOf slant grey rain; the leafless lineOf solemn poplars, straight and tall;The burial hours of mid-year June,That wrap the earth with sombre pall.
A day to dream one dream of rest,Untortured by foreboding fears;To drink with joy the breezy gustThat round this spreading lightwood sheers.
To clasp dear Hope with eager arms,And look with eyes undimmed by tears,While memory blots away for onceThe sorrows of the yester-years.
In the broad marsh the colours glow,Nut browns and blues, and liquid gold;Deep purples fill the dimpling clefts,Piercing each wooded mountain fold.On yonder gradual slope the clear,Transparent summer-sunlight holdsNo trace of shadow,—standing brightAgainst the circle of the wolds.
A day to dream one dream of rest,—O friends, your happy voices ringSo freshly from the glowing lawnThat glistens through the sombre wingOf yon old fir; sweet is the soundThe echoes to my senses bring,Painting soft pictures of content,That ever to the heart will cling!