A song

Thou art the soul of a summer's day,

Thou art the breath of the rose.

But the summer is fled

And the rose is dead;

Where are they gone, who knows?

Thou art the blood of my heart o' hearts,

Thou art my soul's repose

But my heart grows numb

And my soul is dumb;

Where art thou, love, who knows?

Thou art the hope of my after years --

Sun for my winter snows;

But the years go by

`Neath a clouded sky.

Where shall we meet, who knows?