Thou art couch’d in a still abode!
A quiet home from the noonday’s glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast—
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair
To win thee but this at last?
THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.
O joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall’n in thy golden honey-time!
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,