Sadder than lark when lowering

Clouds defend the sky;

Sadder than wild swan pouring

Death-notes ere it die;

Sadder than winds imploring

Shelter when storms are high,-

Couldst thou be less than adoring,

More sad were I.

Happy as streamlet flowing

‘Twixt banks of heathery peat;

Happy as murmur going

Through the inclining wheat;

Happy as mother glowing

Over her little one’s feet,-

I am happy in knowing,

Thou’rt mine, my sweet!

Alfred Austin
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