Reminiscences (McKay)

When the day is at its dimmest And the air is wild with snow, And the city s at its grimmest In mine eyes there is a glow. . . . When the day is at its brightest And the city is a dream, And my heart is at its lightest, In mine eyes there is a gleam; For I'm thinking, O I'm thinking, Of an old worn sugar-mill Where the southern sun is sinking–– Gold and crimson––o'er the hill; And I hear the toilers talking As they shoulder pick and hoe, And I watch their steady walking To the quiet plain below. O! I see the white stream dashing Gay and reckless through the brake, O'er the root-entwined rocks washing Swiftly, madly to the lake; O! I hear the waters falling, Flowing, falling, flowing free, And the sound of voices calling O'er the billows of the sea.