 | Poems |  |
89
An Invitation
Oh! come to yonder pasture-hill,
To drink the distance with our eyes;
There, through the summer noonday still,
Shall tinkling of the sheep bells rise;
And near at hand, in cadence low,
A bubble-tossing spring shall flow.
To drink the distance with our eyes;
There, through the summer noonday still,
Shall tinkling of the sheep bells rise;
And near at hand, in cadence low,
A bubble-tossing spring shall flow.
Or, if the shade we more esteem,
Through yon secluded woodland ways,
We'll trace the winding of the stream,
That round the boulder peeps and plays;
There water-ousels sweetly cry,
And with their cousin thrushes vie.
Through yon secluded woodland ways,
We'll trace the winding of the stream,
That round the boulder peeps and plays;
There water-ousels sweetly cry,
And with their cousin thrushes vie.
Till, guided by the laughing linn,
That runs before, with becks and nods,
We come to where the meads begin,
Fringed by a bank of golden-rods;
And there we'll lie 'neath leaning boughs
To watch the quiet cattle browse.
That runs before, with becks and nods,
We come to where the meads begin,
Fringed by a bank of golden-rods;
And there we'll lie 'neath leaning boughs
To watch the quiet cattle browse.
But not of love must be our theme,
Nor of the world's delirious ways;
In silence will we lie and dream,
Watched by a thousand forest fays;
Until our souls aloft shall fly,
To carol in that leafy sky.
Nor of the world's delirious ways;
In silence will we lie and dream,
Watched by a thousand forest fays;
Until our souls aloft shall fly,
To carol in that leafy sky.
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