RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY.
217
And you let the goldfinch sing, in the alder near, in spring,—
Toll slowly!
Let her build her nest and sit all the three weeks out on it,
Murmuring not at anything.
Toll slowly!
Let her build her nest and sit all the three weeks out on it,
Murmuring not at anything.
In your patience ye are strong; cold and heat ye take not wrong:—
Toll slowly!
When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel,
Time will seem to you not long.
Toll slowly!
When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel,
Time will seem to you not long.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,
Toll slowly!
And I said in underbreath,—all our life is mixed with death,—
And who knoweth which is best?
Toll slowly!
And I said in underbreath,—all our life is mixed with death,—
And who knoweth which is best?
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,—
Toll slowly!
And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,—
Round our restlessness, His rest.
Toll slowly!
And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,—
Round our restlessness, His rest.
