  Mother, mother, the winds are at play; Prithee, let me be idle to-day. Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie Languidly under the bright blue sky. See, how slowly the streamlet glides; Look, how the violet roguishly hides; Even the butterfly rests on the rose, And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun, And the flies go about him, one by one; And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, Without ever thinking of washing her face. There flies a bird to a neighboring tree, But very lazily flieth he; And he sits and twitters a gentle note, That scarcely ruffles his little throat. You bid me be busy. But, mother dear, How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near; And the soft west wind is so light in its play, It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. I wish, O I wish I were yonder cloud, That sails about with its misty shroud; Book and work I no more should see, And I’d come and float, dear mother, o’er thee. |
|
