Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be
With some deep care, and thus can find no more
Th’ accustom’d joy in all which evening brings,
Gathering a household with her quiet wings.
His wife stood hush’d before him—sad, yet mild
In her beseeching mien!—he mark’d it not.
The silvery laughter of his bright-hair’d child
Rang from the greensward round the shelter’d spot,
But seem’d unheard; until at last the boy
Raised from his heap’d up flowers a glance of joy,