Shadows

The fairest summer hath its sudden showers;
The clearest sky is never without clouds;
And in the painted meadow's host of flowers
Some lurking weed a poisonous death enshrouds.
Sweet days, that upon golden sunshine spring,
A gloomy night in mourning waits to stain;
The honey-bees are girt with sharpest sting,
And sweetest joys oft breed severest pain.
While like to Autumn's storms, sudden and brief,
Mirth's parted lips oft close in silent grief,
Amid this checkered life's disastrous state.
Still Hope lives green amid the desolate;
As Nature, in her happy livery, waves
O'er ancient ruins, palaces, and graves.