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Often have I sigh'd to measureBy myself a lonely pleasure,Sigh'd to think, I read a bookOnly read perhaps by me;Yet I long could overlookThy bright coronet and Thee,And thy arch and wily ways,And thy store of other praise.
Blithe of heart, from week to weekThou dost play at hide-and-seek;While the patient Primrose sitsLike a Beggar in the cold,Thou, a Flower of wiser wits,Slipp'st into thy shelter'd hold;Bright as any of the trainWhen ye all are out again.
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