Poems (Cary)/A Rustic Plaint
A RUSTIC PLAINT.
Since thou, my dove, didst level thy wild wings
To goodlier shelter than my cabin makes,
I work with heavy hands, as one who breaks
The flax to spin a shroud of. April rings
To goodlier shelter than my cabin makes,
I work with heavy hands, as one who breaks
The flax to spin a shroud of. April rings
With silvery showers, smiles light the face of May,
The thistle's prickly leaves are lined with wool,
And their gray tops of purple burs set full;
Quails through the stubble run. From day to day
The thistle's prickly leaves are lined with wool,
And their gray tops of purple burs set full;
Quails through the stubble run. From day to day
Through these good seasons I have sadly mused,
The very stars, thou knowest, sweet, for what,
Draw their red flames together, standing not
About the mossy gables as they used.
The very stars, thou knowest, sweet, for what,
Draw their red flames together, standing not
About the mossy gables as they used.
No more I dread the winds, though ne'er so rough:
Better the withered bole should prostrate lie;—
Only the ravens in its black limbs cry,
And better birds will find green boughs enough.
Better the withered bole should prostrate lie;—
Only the ravens in its black limbs cry,
And better birds will find green boughs enough.