Sing the song of the singer, merrily ring the rhymes,
Light is the lay they tell us, light as its echoed chimes;
Sing the song of the singer, mocking at doubt and fear,
Catch the joy of its melody, let its daring beauty cheer;
Well that the mellow music may bear no hidden signs
Of the broken heart of the poet, written between the lines.

Watch the part of the player, bravely and deftly done,
See the difficult height attained, the loud applauses won;
Weep with his passionate sorrow, thrill to his passionate bliss,
Blending your joyous laughter with that happy laugh of his;
Well that his marvellous acting dazzles, wins, refines,
Who thinks of the desperate effort, written between the lines?

See the work of the painter, in coloring rare and rich,
Give it its well-won homage, choose it the choicest niche;
Hang it where it may render, as an artist's best can do,
Companionship in its beauty, delicate, pure, and true!
Well that its silent loveliness softness and thought combines;
None read the bitter baffling strife, written between the lines.

Watch the path of the prosperous, sunny, and smooth, and bright,
Health and wealth to give it its full of sweetness and of light;
See how the easy future is planned for the careless feet,
Given each slight desire, flattered each vague conceit.
Well that the outward surface gladness and peace enshrines;
Who knows the tale of the skeleton, written between the lines?

If the singer dies in solitude, his songs sigh on as sweetly;
If the statesman has a hearth disgraced, does he face the world less metely?
So the artist's touch is fine and sure, who heeds the hand that guides it?
Does the player feel a fading life? his miming, masking, hide it.
Cypress, and rose, and laurel, Fate's reckless hand entwines;
Life reads the printed story — Death writes between the lines.

Coldly and bright draws in the day;
Gloomy and drear it steals away;
For slowly now comes up the sun,
His summer's ardent labors done;
And low his golden wheel declines
Where winter shews his starry signs.

No more to earth the fervid beams
Give beauty such as poet dreams;
No more descends the glorious ray,
The rapture of the summer day.
The sky's deep blue is waxing pale,
The sun's inspiring fervors fail;
The slanting beam he gives is chill
Within the vale and on the hill;
And now, with many a jealous fold,
The clouds would all his cheer withhold,
Nor would on plain or height bestow
The soothing of his waning glow.

The flowers are gone, save those that still,
Like friends who cleave to us through ill,
Outbrave the bitter wind that blows,
And deck their season to its close.
The leaves that late were only stirred
By gentlest breath, that only heard
The song-bird's note, round these the blast
Blows keen and fierce, and rude and fast
The rising gale flings far and wide
Their withered bloom and idle pride.
The birds have fled; the wind alone
Makes song in many a sullen tone.

But sudden through the bursting sky
The sun again comes out on high;
The clouds fall back to yield him way,
And fly before his eager ray;
And gladness fills the breast amain —
The glimpse of summer come again!
Ah! sweet the beam, but like the smile
With which the dying would beguile
The mourning heart — the last sad ray
Love gives to cheer our tears away.
The light is gone, the moment's bloom
Is sunk again in cold and gloom.
So pass away all things of earth,
Whate'er we prize of love and worth —
The form once dear; the voice that cheered;
The friends by many a tie endeared;
The dreams the aching heart forgets;
The hopes that fade to cold regrets.

Sweet scenes, dear haunts, that once I knew,
My heart yet fondly turns to you.
Let seasons change, and be ye bright
With all the summer-tide's delight,
Or let the winter's gloom be yours,
Your beauty still for me endures;
For memory keeps unfaded yet
What love would have me not forget.