13
We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And "all since Mother went away!"
To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will shew,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.
—But, see, the evening Star comes forth!
To bed the Children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:
'Tis gone—and in a merry fit
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I too, infected by their mood,
I could have joined the wanton chase.
Five minutes past—and Oh the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.
