Where (might I do’t) Living, my only suit, And dead, my dearest attribute.
HIGH TIDE AT BATTERSEA
So now my Thames is fairly on the turn And plain it is the sum of water seeks That ocean which the flood so late did spurn With long reluctance in the little creeks; Now the great barges tethered to their buoys (Their gulls still seated in deliberate loads) Swing round majestical and, with no noise, Face the hid sea beyond these sullen roads. Even so my soul which did so long abide With thoughts so fledged and meditative freighted Hath veered about and answered to the tide, Glad, and her faithless station abdicated;— Lord, ere this lovely ebb shall set for me, Slip thou my chain and lure me out to sea.
TO MY DAUGHTER
WHO TELLS ME SHE CAN DRESS HERSELF
So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired In secret, and all eyes evaded, Till you can boast yourself attired Unwatched, uncounselled and unaided?
Perfect in button, tape and hook, You’ve learned the knack, you come to tell us, And while you turn that we may look I own I am a little jealous
That she has taught you with success How to assume your frock and shed it, That you have learnt the art to dress And Abigail’s is all the credit.
Yet my devotion has its will, Nor can I lightly yield to Nurse all The praise, for I have prompted still A spiritual dress rehearsal;