30.12.2010, 16:04
NOVEMBER SUNSHINE AND THE HOUSE-FLIES.
When the dawn struck on Meninon, as they say,
The child of morning answer'd ; so the stroke
Of this warm sunshine on the room, awoke
To song those lesser children of the day,
The window-flies ; I watch'd each mazy track,
I saw them deftly treading the smooth pane,
Or, haply, flitting with prone wings and back,
To the near cornice, to return again.
Ah ! little ones ! your joy is brief and vain :
Full soon the brush shall sweep your tiny forms,
Supine and dumb, into the wind and rain ;
'Tis sad to be swept out into the storms.
'Twere sadder to revive, and cast about
For foothold, in that roaring world without !
When the dawn struck on Meninon, as they say,
The child of morning answer'd ; so the stroke
Of this warm sunshine on the room, awoke
To song those lesser children of the day,
The window-flies ; I watch'd each mazy track,
I saw them deftly treading the smooth pane,
Or, haply, flitting with prone wings and back,
To the near cornice, to return again.
Ah ! little ones ! your joy is brief and vain :
Full soon the brush shall sweep your tiny forms,
Supine and dumb, into the wind and rain ;
'Tis sad to be swept out into the storms.
'Twere sadder to revive, and cast about
For foothold, in that roaring world without !