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Among the thistles on the hill, In tears, sat little Sorrow; "I see a black cloud in the west, 'T will bring a storm to-morrow. And when it storms, where shall I be? And what will keep the rain from me? Woe's me!" said little Sorrow. "But now the air is soft and sweet, The sun is bright," said Pleasure; "Here is my pipe,—if you will dance, I'll wake my merriest measure; Or, if you choose, we'll sit beneath The red rose tree, and twine a wreath; Come, come with me!" said Pleasure. "O, I want neither dance nor flowers,— They 're not for me," said Sorrow, "When that black cloud is in the west, And it will storm to-morrow! And if it storm what shall I do? I have no heart to play with you,— Go! go!" said little Sorrow. But lo! when came the morrow's morn, The clouds were all blown over; The lark sprang singing from his nest Among the dewy clover; And Pleasure called, "Come out and dance! To-day you mourn no evil chance; The clouds have all blown over!" "And if they have, alas! alas! Poor comfort that!" said Sorrow; "For if to-day we miss the storm, 'T will surely come to-morrow,— And be the fiercer for delay! I am too sore at heart to play; Woe's me!" said little Sorrow. |