And the children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there’s a tree, of many one,
A single field which I have look’d upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet