The friction frets the temper of the child.—
Not natural, you see: God never shakes
The ground with earthquakes when we wish for spring.
He does not drive life from its germ, He draws
By still, bright warmth. Pauline, but look at me.
Too weak am I now to be driven to life;
Nay, nay, but must be drawn.—And ah! could tell
Where orbs there are more bright than suns could be—
Nay, do nor blush nor turn that face away.
You dream, aha, that I want sunset?—what?—