To write as your sweet mother does Is all you wish to do. Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose! Let others write for you. Or mount again your Dartmoor grey, And I will walk beside, Until we reach that quiet bay Which only hears the tide. Then wave at me your pencil, then At distance bid me stand, Before the cavern'd cliff, again The creature of your hand. And bid me then go past the nook, To sketch me less in size; There are but few content to look So little in your eyes. Delight us with the gifts you have, And wish for none beyond: To some be gay, to some be grave, To one (blest youth!) be fond. Pleasures there are how close to Pain, And better unpossest! Let poetry's too throbbing vein Lie quiet in your breast. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUTUMN by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE MOCK EPITAPH ON MR. AND MRS. ESTLIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE by MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY ACHRONOS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN WHEN I AM DEAD by MARGUERITE BOWMAN CLARK ON TAKING LEAVE OF - , 1817 [SHORTER VERSION OF 'TO TWO SISTERS'] by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE A JOURNEY INTO THE PARK; TO SIR ASTON COCKAIN by CHARLES COTTON |