LITMIR.BIZ

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       THE LAMBS OF GRASMERE, 1860.

      The upland flocks grew starved and thinned:

       Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs

      Whose milkless mothers butted them,

       Or who were orphaned of their dams.

      The lambs athirst for mother's milk

       Filled all the place with piteous sounds:

      Their mothers' bones made white for miles

       The pastureless wet pasture grounds.

      Day after day, night after night,

       From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,

      With teapots for the bleating mouths

       Instead of nature's nourishment.

      The little shivering gaping things

       Soon knew the step that brought them aid,

      And fondled the protecting hand,

       And rubbed it with a woolly head.

      Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,

       It was a pretty sight to see

      These lambs with frisky heads and tails

       Skipping and leaping on the lea,

      Bleating in tender, trustful tones,

       Resting on rocky crag or mound,

      And following the beloved feet

       That once had sought for them and found.

      These very shepherds of their flocks,

       These loving lambs so meek to please,

      Are worthy of recording words

       And honor in their due degrees:

      So I might live a hundred years,

       And roam from strand to foreign strand,

      Yet not forget this flooded spring

       And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.

       A BIRTHDAY.

      My heart is like a singing bird

       Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

      My heart is like an apple-tree

       Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

      My heart is like a rainbow shell

       That paddles in a halcyon sea;

      My heart is gladder than all these

       Because my love is come to me.

      Raise me a dais of silk and down;

       Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

      Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

       And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

      Work it in gold and silver grapes,

       In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

      Because the birthday of my life

       Is come, my love is come to me.

       REMEMBER.

      SONNET.

      Remember me when I am gone away,

       Gone far away into the silent land;

       When you can no more hold me by the hand,

      Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

      Remember me when no more, day by day,

       You tell me of our future that you planned:

       Only remember me; you understand

      It will be late to counsel then or pray.

      Yet if you should forget me for a while

       And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

       For if the darkness and corruption leave

       A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

      Better by far you should forget and smile

       Than that you should remember and be sad.

       AFTER DEATH.

      SONNET.

      The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept

       And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may

       Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,

      Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.

      He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

       And could not hear him; but I heard him say:

       "Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away

      Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.

      He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold

       That hid my face, or take my hand in his,

       Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:

       He did not love me living; but once dead

       He pitied me; and very sweet it is

      To know he still is warm though I am cold.

       AN END.

      Love, strong as Death, is dead.

      Come, let us make his bed

      Among the dying flowers:

      A green turf at his head;

      And a stone at his feet,

      Whereon we may sit

      In the quiet evening hours.

      He was born in the Spring,

      And died before the harvesting:

      On the last warm summer day

      He left us; he would not stay

      For autumn twilight, cold and gray.

      Sit we by his grave, and sing

      He is gone away.

      To few chords and sad and low

      Sing we so:

      Be our eyes fixed on the grass

      Shadow-veiled as the years pass,

      While we think of all that was

      In the long ago.

       MY DREAM.

      Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night,

      Each word whereof is weighed and sifted truth.

       I stood beside Euphrates while it swelled

      Like overflowing Jordan in its youth:

      It waxed and colored sensibly to sight,

      Till out of myriad pregnant waves there welled

      Young

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