On a picture

When Summer o'er her native hills
A veil of beauty spread,
She sat and watched her gentle fold,
And twined her flaxen thread.

The mountain daisies kissed her feet,
The moss sprung greenest there;
The breath of Summer fanned her cheek,
And tossed her wavy hair.

The heather and the yellow gorse
Bloomed over hill and wold,
And clothed them in a royal robe
Of purple and of gold.

There rose the sky-lark's gushing song;
There hummed the laboring bee;
And merrily the mountain stream
Ran singing to the sea.

But while she missed from those sweet sounds,
The voice she sighed to hear;
The song of bee, and bird, and stream,
Was discord to her ear.

Nor could the bright green world around
A joy to her impart,
For still she missed the eyes that made
The summer of her heart.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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