WHEN down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy. When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief. My little April lady, Of sunshine and of showers She weaves the old spring magic, And breaks my heart in flowers! But when her moods are ended, She nestles like a dove; Then, by the pain and rapture, I know her name is Love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MYSTIC'S VISION by MATHILDE BLIND THE CAT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: THE FOUR WINDS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 39 by PHILIP SIDNEY ELEGIAC SONNET: 7. ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE by CHARLOTTE SMITH |