Since Yesterday
THE mavis sang but yesterday
A strain that thrilled through autumn’s dearth;
He read the music of his lay
In light and leaf, and heaven and earth;
The wind-flowers by the wayside swung,
Words of the music that was sung.
In all his song the shade and sun
Of earth and heaven seemed to meet;
Its joy and sorrow were as one,
Its very sadness was but sweet.
He sang of summers yet to be;
You listened to his song with me.
The heart makes sunshine in the rain,
Or winter in the midst of May;
And though the mavis sings again
His self-same song of yesterday,
I find no gladness in his tone:
To-day I listen here alone.
And—even our sunniest moment takes
Such shadows of the bliss we knew—
To-day his throbbing song awakes
But wistful, haunting thoughts of you;
Its very sweetness is but sad:
You gave it all the joy it had.
A. St. J. Adcock.