’Twere sweet to have a comrade here,
Who’d vow to love this garreteer,
By city people’s snap and sneer
       &nbsp       &nbsp Tried oft and hard!

We’d rove a truant cock and hen
To some snug solitary glen,
And never be seen to haunt again
       &nbsp       &nbsp This teeming yard.

Within a cot of thatch and clay
We’d list the flitting pipers play,
Our lives a twine of good and gay
       &nbsp       &nbsp Enwreathed discreetly;

Our blithest deeds so neighbouring wise
That doves should coo in soft surprise,
“These must belong to Paradise
       &nbsp       &nbsp Who live so sweetly.”

Our clock should be the closing flowers,
Our sprinkle-bath the passing showers,
Our church the alleyed willow bowers,
       &nbsp       &nbsp The truth our theme;

And infant shapes might soon abound:
Their shining heads would dot us round
Like mushroom balls on grassy ground . . .
       &nbsp       &nbsp - But all is dream!
O God, that creatures framed to feel
A yearning nature’s strong appeal
Should writhe on this eternal wheel
       &nbsp       &nbsp In rayless grime;

And vainly note, with wan regret,
Each star of early promise set;
Till Death relieves, and they forget
       &nbsp       &nbsp Their one Life’s time!