The Dark Hour

 And now, when merry winds do blow, 
And rain makes trees look fresh, 
An overpowering staleness holds 
This mortal flesh.


Though well I love to feel the rain, 
And be by winds well blown -- 
The mystery of mortal life 
Doth press me down.


And, In this mood, come now what will, 
Shine Rainbow, Cuckoo call; 
There is no thing in Heaven or Earth 
Can lift my soul.


I know not where this state comes from -- 
No cause for grief I know; 
The Earth around is fresh and green, 
Flowers near me grow.


I sit between two fair rose trees; 
Red roses on my right, 
And on my left side roses are 
A lovely white.


The little birds are full of joy, 
Lambs bleating all the day; 
The colt runs after the old mare, 
And children play.


And still there comes this dark, dark hour -- 
Which is not borne of Care; 
Into my heart it creeps before 
I am aware.

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