The world is old and the world is cold,
And never a day is fair, I said.
Out of the heavens the sunlight rolled,
The green leaves rustled above my head,
And the sea was a sea of gold.
The world is cruel, I said again,
Her voice is harsh to my shrinking ear,
And the nights are dreary and full of pain.
Out of the darkness sweet and clear,
There rippled a tender strain:
Rippled the song of a bird asleep,
That sang in a dream of the budding wood;
Of shinning fields where the reapers reap,
Of a wee brown mate and a nestling brood,
And the grass where the berries peep.
The world is false, though the world be fair,
And never a heart is pure, I said.
And lo! the clinging of white arms bare,
The innocent gold of my baby’s head,
And the lisp of a childish prayer.
