A book of Bristol sonnets | ||
38
WHIT MONDAY, FROM ASHLEY HILL.
All down the vale there's not a single stileBut bears love's burden and the rough-hewn name,
But hears the sigh of withered envious dame,
And sees some old man full of memories smile.
Free as the flowers, they gravely pluck, of guile,
A pigmy people gives itself to game:
These, swinging twixt the pollards, fan to flame
The buttercups; those, kiss in ring the while.
Here, urchins dabbling in the streamlet go;
There, maidens watch the daisies' swimming race.
Fresh fun the cuckoo starts with his “Peep-bo,”
And merry butterflies invite the chace!
With God to bless, and innocence to guide,
Our alley children keep their Whitsuntide.
A book of Bristol sonnets | ||