MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play, Prithee, let me be idle to-day. Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie Languidly under the bright blue sky. See, how slowly the streamlet glides; Look, how the violet roguishly hides; Even the butterfly rests on the rose, And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, And the flies go about him one by one; And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, Without ever thinking of washing her face. There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree, But very lazily flieth he, And he sits and twitters a gentle note, That scarcely ruffles his little throat. You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near, And the soft west wind is so light in its play, It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud, That sails about with its misty shroud; Books and work I no more should see, And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 28. THE WELSH MARCHES by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN HERE LIES A LADY by JOHN CROWE RANSOM TWILIGHT AT SEA by AMELIA B. WELBY PSALME 137 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE FLIRT by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR BLESSED ARE THEY THAT HAVE NOT SEEN! by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON by HANNAH COWLEY |