The day was dull and drenched and cold,
Full half a year from June–
Was this the garden where, of old,
The birds sang late and soon?
Grey mists, more desolate than rain,
Hung low o’er borders bare;
Would ever roses bloom again,
Or sunbeams linger there?
But, sudden, from a laurel spray,
There came a gift of cheer–
A robin’s joyous roundelay,
Full, sorrowless, and clear.
“His will be done! God’s will is love.”
He sang, “And love is rest;
Through mist below or cloud above
His ways are always best.”
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