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Among the thistles on the hill,
In tears, sat little Sorrow;
"I see a black cloud in the west,
'T will bring a storm to-morrow.
And when it storms, where shall I be?
And what will keep the rain from me?
Woe's me!" said little Sorrow.
"But now the air is soft and sweet,
The sun is bright," said Pleasure;
"Here is my pipe,—if you will dance,
I'll wake my merriest measure;
Or, if you choose, we'll sit beneath
The red rose tree, and twine a wreath;
Come, come with me!" said Pleasure.
"O, I want neither dance nor flowers,—
They 're not for me," said Sorrow,
"When that black cloud is in the west,
And it will storm to-morrow!
And if it storm what shall I do?
I have no heart to play with you,—
Go! go!" said little Sorrow.
But lo! when came the morrow's morn,
The clouds were all blown over;
The lark sprang singing from his nest
Among the dewy clover;
And Pleasure called, "Come out and dance!
To-day you mourn no evil chance;
The clouds have all blown over!"
"And if they have, alas! alas!
Poor comfort that!" said Sorrow;
"For if to-day we miss the storm,
'T will surely come to-morrow,—
And be the fiercer for delay!
I am too sore at heart to play;
Woe's me!" said little Sorrow.
—Marian Douglas.
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