Why doth the heart brood o'er the past—
The past of many sorrows?
Why doth it looks of fondness cast
O'er scenes where mem'ries rise and blast
To-days, and coming morrows?
It fondly seeks for balm and joy,
But thorns grow with our flowers;
There's nought on earth without alloy,
The ways of life perplex—annoy—
The breeze unrobes our bowers.
Behind the clouds are sunny rays,
Behind our griefs are pleasures;
Pleasures which live, while life decays,
The heart to these a visit pays,
And proves them precious treasures.
