But I trust from others, who've gone before,
Thou'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee—for I shall be questioned there?"
I asked my mother, who o'er me bent,
What all this show of the Seasons meant?
She said 'twas a picture of Life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!
I woke, and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun's bright beams my room had filled!