Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hush'd around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid. No more in lone and leafless groves,...
Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees. The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon, Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers, As in the shining grass she sate conceal'd, Sing to herself. ...
While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals! O fly--yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall....