The dawn grows red in the eastern sky,
   (Long, so long is the day,)
And I lean from my lattice and sigh and sigh,
As I watch the night fog creeping by
   And vanish over the bay.

The thrush soars up, over green clad hills,
   (The day is long, so long;)
Like liquid silver his music spills,
And ever it quivers, and runs, and trills
   In a glad sweet burst of song.

Under my window there blooms a rose,
   (How long a day can be.)
And I lean and whisper what no soul knows
Of my heart's sorrows and secret woes,
   And the red rose sighs, 'Ah me!'

A ship sails into the waiting bay,
   (The day is long, alack,)
But what would that matter to me, I pray
If the ship that sailed out yesterday
   Should never more come back.

The summer sun rides high and clear,
   (The day is long, so long,)
How long it must be ere it grows to a year--
How deep the sorrow that finds no tear,
   But only a wail of song.

Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.

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