Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/203



thou know of me Where our dwellings be? 'Tis under this hill, Where the moonbeam chill Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade,— 'Tis under this mound Of greenest ground, That our crystal palaces are made.

Wouldst thou know of me What our food may be? 'Tis the sweetest breath Which the bright flower hath That blossoms in wilderness afar,— And we sip it up, In a harebell cup, By the winking light of the tweering star.

Wouldst thou know of me What our drink may be?