William Wordsworth

The Cottager To Her Infant

THE days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty Love! The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one 'wee', hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou? Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window pane bedropped with rain: Then, little Darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day.

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