Alone. It is the smiling month of May, And brightly shines the sun to-day ; Yet would that I were far away, For I am weary, weary. Though nature gaily now renews Her fairest forms, her freshest dews, And paints her flowers in brilliant hues, Still am I faint and weary. How green the fields—how bright the sky ! Yet all alone, with no one nigh, How low and bitter is my cry— Lonely I am and weary. So long and strong has been the strife, So oft my heart with sorrow rife, That in the morning of my life Already am I weary. Yet bravely would I stem the tide, My saddest feelings seek to hide, To none but One above confide That I am weary, weary. For, whispers Faith, ‘ When He thinks best, He’ll take thee to His Father’s breast, Where trustingly thou aye shalt rest, And never more be weary.’ E.