Sister darling, ope the window, let the balmy air once more Fan my flushed and throbbing brow as in the happy days of yore; I would gaze again in rapture on the brightly setting sun For I know, my gentle sister, that the goal is almost won.
See the crimson clouds are hov’ring round the glorious orb of day, And the far-off hills are basking in its golden, garnished ray: Listen to yon forest warbler hymning sweet and joyous lay, Chanting forth its evening vespers to the sinking god of day.
But sister, time is waning, after all it doth but seem That life is but a toilsome march, a weariness, a dream; And yet I do not murmur, for if all the joys of earth Had not faded from my vision ere they ripened into birth,