Cowper's Three Hares

They know not of their mission from above,
These little hares, that through the coppice stray;
Nor how they will take rank, some future day,
As friends of sorrow, and allies of love.
To their wild haunts a friendly thief shall come,
And take them hence, no more to rove at will,
Till those three gentle hearts grow gentler still,
And ready for the mourning poet's home.
Hail, little triad, peeping from the fern,
Ye have a place to fill, a name to earn!
Far from the copse your tender mission lies,—
To soothe a soul, too sad for trust and prayer,
To gambol round a woe ye cannot share,
And mix your woodland breath with Cowper's sighs.