the litter of funeralson the granite of churchyard steps—the distant darkening sky—church spire: blank bone whiterising against the grain grayhorizon of tree and water towersilent noon
These tiny loiterers on the barley's beard,And happy units of a numerous herdOf playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,Mocking the sunshine in their glittering wings,How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!No kin they bear to labour's drudgery,Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;And where they fly for dinner no one knows--The dew-drops feed them not--they love the shineOf noon, whose sun may bring them golden wine.All day they're playing in their Sunday dress--Till night goes sleep, and they can do no less;Then, to the heath bell's silken hood they fly,And like to princes in their slumbers lie,
Blessed be Thou for all the joyMy soul has felt today!O let its memory stay with meAnd never pass away!I was alone, for those I lovedWere far away from me,The sun shone on the withered grass,The wind blew fresh and free.Was it the smile of early springThat made my bosom glow?'Twas sweet, but neither sun nor windCould raise my spirit so.Was it some feeling of delight,All vague and undefined?No, 'twas a rapture deep and strong,Expanding in the mind!
I WROTE some lines once on a timeIn wondrous merry mood,And thought, as usual, men would sayThey were exceeding good.They were so queer, so very queer,I laughed as I would die;Albeit, in the general way,A sober man am I.I called my servant, and he came;How kind it was of himTo mind a slender man like me,He of the mighty limb."These to the printer," I exclaimed,And, in my humorous way,I added, (as a trifling jest,)"There'll be the devil to pay."