THE LAMBS OF GRASMERE, 1860. THE upland flocks grew starved and thinned : Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs Whose milkless mothers butted them, Or who were orphaned of their dams. The lambs athirst for mother's milk Filled all the place with piteous sounds: Their mothers' bones made white for miles The pastureless wet pasture grounds. Day after day, night after night, From lamb to lamb the shepherds went, With teapots for the bleating mouths Instead of nature's nourishment. The little shivering gaping things Soon knew the step that brought them aid, And fondled the protecting hand, And rubbed it with a woolly head. Then, as the days waxed on to weeks, These lambs with frisky heads and tails Resting on rocky crag or mound, And following the beloved feet That once had sought for them and found. These very shepherds of their flocks, And honor in their due degrees : So I might live a hundred years, And roam from strand to foreign strand, Yet not forget this flooded spring And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland. M A BIRTHDAY. Y heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down; In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys ; Is come, my love is come to me. REMEMBER. R SONNET. EMEMBER me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more, day by day, You tell me of our future that you planned : Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while. And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. THE AFTER DEATH. SONNET. HE curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, And could not hear him; but I heard him say: "Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold To know he still is warm though I am cold. 3 L AN END. OVE, strong as Death, is dead. Among the dying flowers : In the quiet evening hours. He was born in the Spring, He is gone away, To few chords and sad and low Be our eyes fixed on the grass |