Time flies, time flies! 
And yet, bless me! ’tis little changed am I;
May Jesu keep from tears those infant eyes,
Be love their lullaby!

THE FUNERAL

They dressed us up in black,
  Susan and Tom and me—­
And, walking through the fields
  All beautiful to see,
With branches high in the air
  And daisy and buttercup,
We heard the lark in the clouds—­
  In black dressed up.

They took us to the graves,
  Susan and Tom and me,
Where the long grasses grow
  And the funeral tree: 
We stood and watched; and the wind
  Came softly out of the sky
And blew in Susan’s hair,
  As I stood close by.

Back through the fields we came,
  Tom and Susan and me,
And we sat in the nursery together,
  And had our tea. 
And, looking out of the window,
  I heard the thrushes sing;
But Tom fell asleep in his chair,
  He was so tired, poor thing.

THE MOTHER BIRD

Through the green twilight of a hedge
I peered, with cheek on the cool leaves pressed,
And spied a bird upon a nest: 
Two eyes she had beseeching me
Meekly and brave, and her brown breast
Throbbed hot and quick above her heart;
And then she opened her dagger bill,—­
’Twas not a chirp, as sparrows pipe
At break of day; ’twas not a trill,
As falters through the quiet even;
But one sharp solitary note,
One desperate, fierce, and vivid cry
Of valiant tears, and hopeless joy,
One passionate note of victory;
Off, like a fool afraid, I sneaked,
Smiling the smile the fool smiles best,
At the mother bird in the secret hedge
Patient upon her lonely nest.

THE CHILD IN THE STORY GOES TO BED

I prythee, Nurse, come smooth my hair,
  And prythee, Nurse, unloose my shoe,
And trimly turn my silken sheet
  Upon my quilt of gentle blue.

My pillow sweet of lavender
  Smooth with an amiable hand,
And may the dark pass peacefully by
  As in the hour-glass droops the sand.

Prepare my cornered manchet sweet,
  And in my little crystal cup
Pour out the blithe and flowering mead
  That forthwith I may sup.

Withdraw my curtains from the night,
  And let the crisped crescent shine
Upon my eyelids while I sleep,
  And soothe me with her beams benign.

Dark looks the forest far-away;
  O, listen! through its empty dales
Rings from the solemn echoing boughs
  The music of its nightingales.

Now quench my silver lamp, prythee,
  And bid the harpers harp that tune
Fairies which haunt the meadowlands
  Sing clearly to the stars of June.

And bid them play, though I in dreams
  No longer heed their pining strains,
For I would not to silence wake
  When slumber o’er my senses wanes.