Bayard Taylor

There's a pang in all rejoicing,
And a joy in the heart of pain;
And the wind read more

There's a pang in all rejoicing,
And a joy in the heart of pain;
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the selfsame strain.

Shelved around us lie
The mummied authors.

Shelved around us lie
The mummied authors.

Pansies in soft April rains
Fill their stalks with honeyed sap
Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.

Pansies in soft April rains
Fill their stalks with honeyed sap
Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.

When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the read more

When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox
His torch of purple fire:
. . . .
And when the punctual May arrives,
With cowslip-garland on her brow,
We know what once she gave our lives,
And cannot give us now!

And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the selfsame strain.

And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the selfsame strain.