Poems (Cary)/A Rustic Plaint

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A RUSTIC PLAINT.
Since thou, my dove, didst level thy wild wings To goodlier shelter than my cabin makes, I work with heavy hands, as one who breaksThe flax to spin a shroud of. April rings
With silvery showers, smiles light the face of May, The thistle's prickly leaves are lined with wool, And their gray tops of purple burs set full;Quails through the stubble run. From day to day
Through these good seasons I have sadly mused, The very stars, thou knowest, sweet, for what, Draw their red flames together, standing notAbout the mossy gables as they used.
No more I dread the winds, though ne'er so rough: Better the withered bole should prostrate lie;— Only the ravens in its black limbs cry,And better birds will find green boughs enough.
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