 | [Poems by Whittier in] John Greenleaf Whittier |  |
387
[Ah, ladies, you love to levy a tax]
“Ah, ladies, you love to levy a taxOn my poor little paper parcel of fame;
Yet strange it seems that among you all
No one is willing to take my name—
To write and rewrite till the angels pity her,
The weariful words,
Thine truly, Whittier.”
374
[‘Words butter no parsnips,’ the old adage says]
“‘Words butter no parsnips,’ the old adage says,And to fill up the trencher is better than praise;
So, trust me, dear friend, that, while eating thy butter,
The thanks that I feel are far more than I utter.
375
“Kind Providence grant thee a life without ills;
May the cows never dry up that feed on Pond Hills.
May the cream never fail in thy cellar so cold,
Nor thy hand lose its cunning to turn it to gold.
May the cows never dry up that feed on Pond Hills.
May the cream never fail in thy cellar so cold,
Nor thy hand lose its cunning to turn it to gold.
“Thrice welcome to him, who, unblest with a wife,
Sits and bungles alone at the ripped seams of life,
Is the womanly kindness that pities his fate,
And sews on his buttons, and fills up his plate!”
Sits and bungles alone at the ripped seams of life,
Is the womanly kindness that pities his fate,
And sews on his buttons, and fills up his plate!”
| [Poems by Whittier in] John Greenleaf Whittier | |