Classic Poem

Mother dear! wilt pardon one
Who loved not the generous Sun,
Nor thy seasons loved to hear
Singing to the busy year:—
Thee neglected, shut his heart,
In thy being, had no part.
Mother dear! I list thy song
In the autumn eve along:
Now thy chill airs round the day,
And leave me my time to pray.
Mother dear! the day must come
When thy child shall make his home,
His long last home, amid the grass,
Over which thy warm hands pass,
I know my prayers will reach thine ear,
Thou art with me while I ask,
Nor a child refuse to hear,
Who would learn his little task.
Let me take my part with thee,
In the gray clouds or thy light,
Laugh with thee upon the sea,
And idle on the land by night;
In the trees I live with thee,
In the flowers, like any bee.