Classic Poem

M Y Cottage! in thy calm and happy shade,
I image days of purity and peace,
From the world's busier scenes a blest release,
Where every care may from my memory fade.
The little rivulet — the wild of flowers —
The deep seclusion of the embowering wood,
And the high thoughts which feed on solitude,
With books and music shall beguile the hours;
Nor shall that heart-enjoyment be forgot,
A brother's love can shed on every scene,
His cheering smile shall brighten that lone spot,
His kindness be what it has ever been:
And nothing but the thought of days gone by,
Shall ever fill my bosom with a sigh.

M Y Cottage! in thy calm and happy shade,
I image days of purity and peace,
From the world's busier scenes a blest release,
Where every care may from my memory fade.
The little rivulet — the wild of flowers —
The deep seclusion of the embowering wood,
And the high thoughts which feed on solitude,
With books and music shall beguile the hours;
Nor shall that heart-enjoyment be forgot,
A brother's love can shed on every scene,
His cheering smile shall brighten that lone spot,
His kindness be what it has ever been:
And nothing but the thought of days gone by,
Shall ever fill my bosom with a sigh.

No flower on earth is so hard to rear,
No bud is so quick to blight,
As the tender blossom, a baby fair,
That opens so sweet and bright.

But Earth is a pitiless kind of place,
Too bleak for a thing so frail,
And the gardener's heart must be warm with grace
Or the gardener's hand will fail.

For the soul of a baby is pure and white;
Nought fairer in heaven is found;
A touch will tarnish its lustre bright,
Ah, less than a touch — a sound.