Shower’d o’er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot,
And robin’s nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee’s dreary chime? O gentle friend!
The world’s cold breath, not Time’s, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts: time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us endear spring-memories to the end.
8th May.
TO A DISTANT SCENE.
Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far-off, grassy dell?—and dost thou see,