 | Country muse |  |
65
MY CHERRY-TREES
O children of the smoke and fog,
With faces pinched by early care,
Would God you might adventure forth
To breathe this country air!
Would God your ears might drink the song
Of grasses, birds, and singing trees!
Would God your eyes grew round to see
My wealth of cherry-trees!
With faces pinched by early care,
Would God you might adventure forth
To breathe this country air!
Would God your ears might drink the song
Of grasses, birds, and singing trees!
Would God your eyes grew round to see
My wealth of cherry-trees!
A hundred thousand shining lamps
To light the glory of the green!
The rubies of my orchard hang
The sturdy leaves between;
The blackbird pecks them at his will,
The brazen sparrow with his beak
Attacks some swaying globe of fruit
And stabs its ruddy cheek.
To light the glory of the green!
The rubies of my orchard hang
The sturdy leaves between;
66
The brazen sparrow with his beak
Attacks some swaying globe of fruit
And stabs its ruddy cheek.
But in the Covent Garden roads
You see the sluttish cabbage-leaf
In air that steals away your strength,
God's bounty turned a thief!
How happy is my growing boy
That here in grass which pricks his knees
He roams his world so shy and clean
Beneath my cherry-trees!
You see the sluttish cabbage-leaf
In air that steals away your strength,
God's bounty turned a thief!
How happy is my growing boy
That here in grass which pricks his knees
He roams his world so shy and clean
Beneath my cherry-trees!
I often lift him to a branch
That burns with cherries redly ripe;
A startled thrush in flight displays
The shrillness of his pipe;
And down to mother's upturned mouth
His baby hand so plumply fair
He reaches full of fruit, or drops
A cherry in her hair!
That burns with cherries redly ripe;
A startled thrush in flight displays
The shrillness of his pipe;
67
His baby hand so plumply fair
He reaches full of fruit, or drops
A cherry in her hair!
Apollo gave my rustic Muse
Her artless shepherd-songs to sing;
The sorrel charms her, and the gloss
Upon the swallow's wing;
But often dreaming in the wood,
When comes the evening gift of dew,
Her soul flies forward to your souls,
And, children, thinks of you.
Her artless shepherd-songs to sing;
The sorrel charms her, and the gloss
Upon the swallow's wing;
But often dreaming in the wood,
When comes the evening gift of dew,
Her soul flies forward to your souls,
And, children, thinks of you.
Your naked feet within this grass
Should learn some simple country dance;
Upon your hearts should flash at last
The colours of romance.
O empty purse of mine, alas
That such a happy vision flees!
That all these urchins may not romp
Beneath my cherry-trees!
Should learn some simple country dance;
Upon your hearts should flash at last
The colours of romance.
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That such a happy vision flees!
That all these urchins may not romp
Beneath my cherry-trees!
| Country muse | |