O come! and be merry,
For white blows the cherry,
The bluebells ring out on their stem so tall:
Each cowslip's dear yellow
Cries joy to its fellow,
And the wind-flowers dance to the cuckoo's call.
O what is the sun for?
[108] Come, grief is all done for,
The folded leaves creep from their beds in the bough:
The seeds are awaking,
The furrows are breaking,
And the blessing of God's on the blackthorn now.
Meopham.
In a London Square[ToC]
The leaves are green, and in the grass
Lie daisy-patches, white and sweet,
That spring beneath the tender feet
Of baby-girls at play:
From ancient boughs, serenely tall,
The chequered shadows length'ning fall,
And town seems far away.
Such rest is here as woodland yields:
Here too are lambs in flowered fields—
Why heed the wheels that pass?
Thought sinks beneath our fitful speech
Into the tremor of our peace,
This hallowed hour of release
From dust and whirl and haste:
[110] Thus each may find within his breast
A respite to the world's unrest,
Fresh verdure in the waste:
Life's wheels encircle us—but, there
Where Friendship is, the untainted air
Of Heaven seems in reach.