Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/16

vi.

If thou art blest, my mother's smile

Undimmed, if bees are on the wing:
Then cease, my friend, a little while,
That I may hear the throstle sing
His bridal song, the boast of spring.

vii.

Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains

Of bubbling wells that fret the stones,
(If any sense in me remains)
Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones
As welcome to my crumbling hones.