My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold,
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
“It will not, cannot rest!—Poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
“Alas! the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there.
The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.