Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one

The collier's wife had four tall sons Brought from the pit's mouth dead, And crushed from foot to head

From my own kind I only learn How foolish comfort is

They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, They cried so loud I could not sleep: For fifty thousand shillings down I would not sail again with sheep.

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent; Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze.

Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; As quietly and solemnly As Life when it is kissing Death.

What sweet, what happy days had I, When dreams made Time Eternity!