Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/16

 If thou art blest, my mother's smile Undimmed, if bees are on the wing: Then cease, my friend, a little while, That I may hear the throstle sing His bridal song, the boast of spring.

Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains Of bubbling wells that fret the stones, (If any sense in me remains) Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones As welcome to my crumbling hones.