OLD CRIES.
Oh! dearly do I love "Old Cries"
That touch my heart and bid me look
On "Bough-pots" pluck'd 'neath summer skies,
And "Watercresses" from the brook.
It may be vain, it may be weak,
To list when common voices speak;
But rivers, with their broad, deep course,
Pour from a mean and unmark'd source:
And so my warmest tide of soul
From strange, unheeded springs will roll.
That touch my heart and bid me look
On "Bough-pots" pluck'd 'neath summer skies,
And "Watercresses" from the brook.
It may be vain, it may be weak,
To list when common voices speak;
But rivers, with their broad, deep course,
Pour from a mean and unmark'd source:
And so my warmest tide of soul
From strange, unheeded springs will roll.
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