THE MORNING WALK. THY form is full of youthful grace ; Where ancient woods have grown untrimmed, Are found in nooks retired and lone; And an old fountain's waters chime All day, as if they noted time. There hast thou grown-each passing year To thee a happy chronicler; For life to thee all good doth yield: And, as the lily of the field, Thou dost not toil, thou dost not spin, The bread thou eat'st thou dost not win; No labour is a-kin to thee, Fair daughter of prosperity! Thy heart is light; thou knowest not How sorrow is the human lot: L |