They know not of their mission from above, These little hares, that through the coppice stray; Nor how they will take rank, some future day, As friends of sorrow, and allies of love. To their wild haunts a friendly thief shall come, And take them hence, no more to rove at will, Till those three gentle hearts grow gentler still, And ready for the mourning poet's home. Hail, little triad, peeping from the fern. Ye have a place to fill, a name to earn! Far from the copse your tender mission lies -- To soothe a soul, too sad for trust and prayer, To gambol round a woe ye cannot share, And mix your woodland breath with Cowper's sighs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO A YOUNG ASS; ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE WAPENTAKE; TO ALFRED TENNYSON by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE PRINCESS: SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS by MARIA ABDY EPITAPH ON MRS. ANNE PRIDEAUX, DAUGHTER OF DR. PRIDEAUX by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |