Gone! they have called our shepherd from the hill,
Passed is the sunny sadness of his song,
That song which sang of sight and yet was brave
To lay the ghosts of seeing, subtly strong
To wean from tears and from the troughs to save;
And who shall teach us now that he is still!
'TENNYSON' AT THE FARM
(TO L. AND H.H.)
O you that dwell 'mid farm and fold,
Yet keep so quick undulled a heart,
I send you here that book of gold,
So loved so long;
The fairest art,
The sweetest English song.
And often in the far-off town,
When summer sits with open door,
I'll dream I see you set it down
Beside the churn,
Whose round shall slacken more and more,
Till you forget to turn.
And I shall smile that you forget,
And Dad will scold--but never mind!
Butter is good, but better yet,
Think such as we,
To leave the farm and fold behind,
And follow such as he.
'THE DESK'S DRY WOOD'
(TO JAMES WELCH)
Dear Desk, Farewell! I spoke you oft
In phrases neither sweet nor soft,
But at the end I come to see
That thou a friend hast been to me,
No flatterer but very friend.
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