TO T. L. H.
133
It is not that I envy autumn there,
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprighthest, gravest, wisest, kindest one—
Shakspeare; nor yet, oh no—that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprighthest, gravest, wisest, kindest one—
Shakspeare; nor yet, oh no—that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.
No; but it is, that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,[1]
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art: a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age one tune they bore;
Marian,—who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er.
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,[1]
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art: a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age one tune they bore;
Marian,—who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er.
TO T. L. H.
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b1/Rule_Segment_-_Span_-_20px.svg/20px-Rule_Segment_-_Span_-_20px.svg.png)
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/db/Rule_Segment_-_Diamond_-_4px.svg/5px-Rule_Segment_-_Diamond_-_4px.svg.png)
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b1/Rule_Segment_-_Span_-_20px.svg/20px-Rule_Segment_-_Span_-_20px.svg.png)
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
- ↑ Pershore, or Pearshore, on the Avon; so named probably from its abundance of pears.