 | The lion's cub |  |
IN THE MEADOWS.
Tramping through the meadows,
In the summer day,
Under the blue arch of sky,
When the clouds go sailing by,
On their windy way;
In the summer day,
Under the blue arch of sky,
When the clouds go sailing by,
On their windy way;
Through the bending grasses,
Tall and lushy green,
All alive with tiny things,
Stirring feet and whirring wings,
Just an instant seen;
Tall and lushy green,
All alive with tiny things,
Stirring feet and whirring wings,
Just an instant seen;
Down each fragrant hollow,
Up each little hill,
Leaping ditches, crossing brooks,
In the heart of shady nooks,
Fresh, and cool, and still;
Up each little hill,
Leaping ditches, crossing brooks,
In the heart of shady nooks,
Fresh, and cool, and still;
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Past the spear-like rushes,
Swaying to and fro,
And along the river's bed,
Where grows the broad-leaved arrow-head—
I wonder where the bow?
Swaying to and fro,
And along the river's bed,
Where grows the broad-leaved arrow-head—
I wonder where the bow?
Lost somewhere in the meadows,
Like what I meant to sing—
Who can tell what way it went?
Or lies it in my mind unbent,
A bow without a string?
Like what I meant to sing—
Who can tell what way it went?
Or lies it in my mind unbent,
A bow without a string?
| The lion's cub | |