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Or crimson, fleck'd with white, thro' the broad leaves,
Were redolent of beauty. So, methought
I'd close my books, and study with the flowers,
Where sang the bee; and where, for aught I knew,
Might winged angels hover.
                                              Closely hid
In a dense grape-vine, was a cunning nest,
Which oftimes I had visited, to strew
Crumbs for the brooding mother. On that morn
When fell disease stalk'd near me with his chain,
Intent to smite me, tho' I knew it not,
I had withdrawn those curtaining leaves, and met
Her clear, bright eye.
                     Now, all were fled and gone!
Yes, those small eggs with gladness and with song
Had travell'd forth to swell the tide of love
That bathes Creation in its boundless sea.
Oh! ever-watchful goodness, that doth work
Whether we sleep, or, 'neath the weight of pain,
Bow down in dreamy reverie; while time,