Do slumber wholly; nor shall know at all
The weariness of changes; nor perceive
Immeasurable sands of centuries
Drink of the blanching ink, or the loud sound
Of generations beat the music down.
Similar Posts
Come up here, O dusty feet!
Here in my retiring room,Children ,you may dineOn the golden smell of broomAnd the shade of pine;And when you have eaten well,Fairy stories hear and tell.
The gardener does not love to talk,
And when he puts his tools away,He locks the door and takes the key.Away behind the currant rowWhere no one else but cook may go,Far in the plots, I see him digOld and serious, brown and big.He digs the flowers, green, red and blue,Nor wishes to be spoken to.He digs the flowers and cuts the…
The Sick Child
CHILD.O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!O mother, mother, where am I now?Why is the room so gaunt and great?Why am I lying awake so late?MOTHER.Fear not at all: the night is still.Nothing is here that means you ill –Nothing but lamps the whole town through,And never a child awake but you.CHILD.Mother, mother, speak…
I NOW, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows
Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:* * * * *The kindly hill, as to complete our hap,Has ta’en us in the shelter of her lap;Well sheltered in our slender grove of treesAnd ring of walls, we sit between her knees;A disused quarry, paved with rose plots, hungWith clematis, the barren womb whence sprungThe…
AS in their flight the birds of song
But halt not overlong;The time one rural song to singThey pause; then following bounteous galesSteer forward on the wing:Sun-servers they, from first to last,Upon the sun they waitTo ride the sailing blast.So he awhile in our contested state,Awhile abode, not longer, for his Sun –Mother we say, no tenderer name we know –With whose diviner…
When at home alone I sit
I have just to shut my eyesTo go sailing through the skies–To go sailing far awayTo the pleasant Land of Play;To the fairy land afarWhere the Little People are;Where the clover-tops are trees,And the rain-pools are the seas,And the leaves, like little ships,Sail about on tiny trips;And above the Daisy treeThrough the grasses,High o’erhead the…