Mock not my soul with mirth, nor ask me why
The cheerless clouds have fallen upon my way;
To-morrow—it may be—they will go by;
But——Life is dark to-day.

The soul hath days when all the subtlest wines
That ever Ceres blest, could bring no cheer;
When like a funeral torch the sad sun shines,
And music frets the ear.

To-morrow—it may be—the cloud will rise,
But vex not, now, my soul with words, I pray;
Then—haply—I shall see with other eyes;
But——I am sad to-day.