Still yours from others they shall know
Twenty years hence.
Twenty years hence though it may hap
That I be called to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunderclap
Was never heard,
There breathe but o’er my arch of grass
A not too sadly sighed Alas,
And I shall catch, ere you can pass,
That winged word.
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WITH rosy hand a little girl press’d down
Often as they sprang up again, a frownShow’d she dislik’d resistance to her will:But when they droop’d their heads and shone much less,She shook them to and fro, and threw them by,And tripp’d away. “Ye loathe the heavinessYe love to cause, my little girls!” thought I,“And what has shone for you, by you must die!”
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!But oh, who ever felt as I?No longer could I doubt him true;All other men may use deceit:He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.
With much ado you fail to tell
But, what bad writing is, you quiteHave proved by every line you write.
I COME to visit thee agen,
To touch the hand, almost to press,That cheer’d thee in thy loneliness.What could thy careful guardian findOf thee in form, of me in mind,What is there in us rich or rare,To make us claim a moment’s care?Unworthy to be so carest,We are but withering leaves at best.
The Year’s twelve daughters had in turn gone by,
Some froward, some sedater, some adorn’dFor festival, some reckless of attire.The snow had left the mountain-top; fresh flowersHad withered in the meadow; fig and pruneHung wrinkling; the last apple glow’d amidIts freckled leaves; and weary oxen blinktBetween the trodden corn and twisted vine,Under whose bunches stood the empty crate,To creak ere long beneath them carried…