The Dark Hour
And now, when merry winds do blow,
by William Henry Davies
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.