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How sweet 'tis to rove at the close of the day, O'er daisy--clad meads, by a soft murm'ring rill, When the thrush from the brake pours his evening love lay, And Sol's parting beams tinge the furze--cover'd hill; When the rustic's loud laugh tells a heart void of care, With the maid of his bosom delighted to roam; When eager the joys of his cottage to share, The labourer wearied, thinks long for his home. Now wrapt up in mist is the mountain's steep brow; No longer the din of the village is heard; Now lost is the landscape, late beauteous to view; No sound strikes the ear, save one sorrowful bird: 'Tis the partridge's wail, for his far--distant mate-- Let man learn affection from each feather'd pair, And reflect on the days he has spent, ere too late; Still thankful, midst sorrows, for blessings that were. In life's rosy morn, full of frolic and joy, Light--hearted, in quest of new pleasures we fly, Till noon brings its cares, many a hope to destroy, And the thoughts of the past will oft force a deep sigh: Eve steals on apace, and oft finds us in tears, For in friendship, in love, constant changes we see; Each wound of the heart deeper grows with our years, And the evening of life's seldom tranquil or free.
Robert Anderson's other poems:
Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):
Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1752
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