The Poet's Consolation

WHAT, though no maiden's tears ever be shed
O'er my clay bed,
Yet will the generous Night never refuse

To weep its dews.

And though no friendly hand garland the cross

Above my moss,
Still will the dear, dear moon tenderly ?hine

Down on that sign.

And if the saunterer-by songlessly pass

Through the long grass,
There will the noontide bee pleasantly hum,

And warm winds come.

Yes — you at least, ye dells, meadows, and streams,

Stars and moon-beams,
Will think on him whose weak meritless lays

Teemed with your praise.