THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

The days are cold, the nights are long,

The North wind sings a doleful song;

Then hush again upon my breast;

All merry things are now at rest,

Save thee, my pretty love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,

The crickets long have ceased their mirth;

There's nothing stirring in the house

Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,

Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at the sparkling light;

'Tis but the moon that shines so bright

On the window-pane

Bedropped with rain:

Then, little darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.

Dorothy Wordsworth