WHERE a brook with lisping tongue Through the lonelier meadows sung, And woodnotes mingled silver showers, Mother and child were picking flowers, Were picking flowers blue, cool and gay, And answering each the other's play: Ah, slow, sweet hours! Go with them in those fearless bowers, And you, kind sun, Forget the arc you yet must run. A ringlet, which the golden wind Had spirited and unconfined, The mother from her brow put by And starting looked up at the sky: There a pale cloudiness crept on, Low whispering, time to get her gone: Then no sweet hours Can loiter in the merriest bowers, Nor you good sun Can stop the wheels that change made run? And soon beyond the church and hill Mother and child had passed, but still Chance-dropt from warm young fingers lay Forget-me-nots along the way. The broken day has long since died, And change has grown in power and pride, Yet those sweet hours, Strange luck, are loitering in those bowers, And that charmed sun Forgets he had a course to run. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM by RICHARD ALDINGTON THE FLIRT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS by JOHN KEATS AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN REDBEAST by SAMUEL ROGERS I SHALL HAVE PEACE AGAIN (WRITTEN AFTER READING 'RIDERS TO THE SEA' by FLORA LOUISE BAILEY SONNET: 11 by RICHARD BARNFIELD |