Small was thy share of all this world's delight
And scant thy poet's crown of flowers of praise;
Yet ever catches quaint of quaint old days
Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy spirit bright
Even as to lips the winds of winter bite
Some outcast wanderer sets his flute and plays
Till at his feet blossom the icy ways,
And from the snowdrift's bitter wasting white
He hears the uprising carol of the lark,
Soaring from clover seas with summer ripe--
While freeze upon his cheek glad, foolish tears.
Ah! let us hope that somewhere in thy dark,
Herrick's full note, and s**ling's pleasant pipe,
Are sounding still their solace in thine ears.