THE COWSLIP. 
89 
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 dew-like 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 living hearts of mine. 
