Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/230

 Many a Nightingale perch giddily On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.


 * Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,

And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes.—That strain again? Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, His little hand, the small forefinger up, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's Play-mate. He knows well The evening-star; and once, when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes, that swam with undropt tears Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!— It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven