THE sunshine is a glorious thing,
That comes alike to all,
Lighting the peasant’s lowly cot,
The noble’s painted hall.
The moonlight is a gentle thing;
It through the window gleams
Upon the snowy pillow where
The happy infant dreams;
It shines upon the fisher’s boat
Out on the lovely sea,
Or where the little lambkins lie
Beneath the old oak tree.
The dewdrops on the summer morn
Sparkle upon the grass;
The village children brush them off,
That through the meadows pass.
There are no gems in monarchs’ crowns
More beautiful than they;
And yet we scarcely notice them,
But tread them off in play.