 | My Lyrical Life |  |
XVII.
Our leaves are shaken from the Tree,
Our hopes laid low,
That after our Spring-nurslings, we
May long to go.
Our hopes laid low,
That after our Spring-nurslings, we
May long to go.
The warm love-nest our little Doves leave
With helpless moan,
As they for us at heart would grieve
In heaven—alone!
With helpless moan,
As they for us at heart would grieve
In heaven—alone!
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The tender Shepherd beckoningly
Our Lambs doth hold,
That we may take our own when He
Makes up the fold.
Our Lambs doth hold,
That we may take our own when He
Makes up the fold.
| My Lyrical Life | |