THE PADDOCK
Close up, close up, our resolute ring!
—Hush! Hearken! The Strawberries sing!
The Strawberries.
To anybody passing near,
Or thro’ the Paddock going,
It might appear that nothing here
But simple Grass was growing.
Yet let him search, and he shall see
Where, deep within the Grass, are we!
Here, all our length of life, in ease
And wealth have we been lying;
A hundred faithful ministries
Round our unfitness plying;
Bidding the berry from the flower,
Rosy from green, and sweet from sour.
Till, toiling not, but giving way
To natural, kindly uses,
Nourish’d, nurs’d, by Night, by Day,
How sweet are grown our juices!
How round within our narrow niche
We glow! how rosy-ripe and rich!
The Sunbeams.
And still to grow, and still to glow,
Still, serene enjoyment
To garner that ye may bestow,
Be this your whole employment,
And your concern with Destiny
No more but this:—to bid It be!
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