70 COWSLIP. 



Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers ; 

 Of life's unfolding prime ; 

 Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours ; 

 Of souls without a crime* 



Oh ! blessed, blessed do ye seem. 

 For, even now, I turn'd, 

 With soul athirst for wood and stream, 

 From streets that glared and burn'd: 



From the hot town, where mortal care 

 His crowded fold doth pen ; 

 Where stagnates the polluted air 

 In many a sultry den. 



And ye are here ! and ye are here ! 

 Drinking the dewlike wine, 

 'Midst living gales, and waters clear, 

 And heaven's unstinted shine. 



I care not that your little life 



Will quickly have run through. 



And the sward, with summer children rife, 



Keep not a trace of you. 



For again, again, on dewy plain, 



I trust to see you rise, 



When spring renews the wild wood strain, 



And bluer gleam the skies. 



Again, again, when many springs 

 Upon my grave shall shine. 

 Here shall you speak of vanish'd things, 

 To livins hearts of mino. 



