 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
101
THE CRUEL THORN.
A bit of wool sticks here upon this thorn:
Ah, cruel thorn, to tear it from the sheep!
And yet, perhaps, with pain its fleece was worn,
Its coat so thick, a hot and cumbrous heap.
Ah, cruel thorn, to tear it from the sheep!
And yet, perhaps, with pain its fleece was worn,
Its coat so thick, a hot and cumbrous heap.
The wool a little bird takes in his bill,
And with it up to yonder tree he flies;
A nest he's building there with matchless skill,
Compact and close, that well the cold defies.
And with it up to yonder tree he flies;
A nest he's building there with matchless skill,
Compact and close, that well the cold defies.
To line that nest, the wool, so soft and warm,
Preserves the eggs which hold its tender young;
And when they're hatched, that wool will keep from harm
The callow brood, until they're fledged and strong.
Preserves the eggs which hold its tender young;
And when they're hatched, that wool will keep from harm
The callow brood, until they're fledged and strong.
Thus birds find use for what the sheep can spare:
In this, my dear, a wholesome moral spy,
And when the poor shall crave, thy plenty share:
Let thy abundance thus their wants supply.
In this, my dear, a wholesome moral spy,
And when the poor shall crave, thy plenty share:
Let thy abundance thus their wants supply.
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |