MY cot was down by a cypress grove,
⁠And I sat by my window the whole night long,
And heard well up from the deep dark wood
⁠A mocking-bird's passionate song.

And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
⁠And my life's cold winter that knew no spring;
Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
⁠Of my heart too sad to sing.

But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song,
⁠A thought stole into my saddened heart,
And I said, "I can cheer some other soul
⁠By a carol's simple art."

​For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
⁠Come songs that brim with joy and light,
As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
⁠The mocking-bird sings at night.

So I sang a lay for a brother's ear
⁠In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
⁠Though mine was a feeble art.

But at his smile I smiled in turn,
⁠And into my soul there came a ray:
In trying to soothe another's woes
⁠Mine own had passed away.