Dost thou complain that, in thy weary toil,
Day after day takes from thee something dear;
So that less welcome through the circling year
Come the new seasons;--Spring, with waking smile;
And full uncinctured Summer; and the guile
Of Autumn, lavishing, but stealing more;
And that close Winter brings thee not the store
Of sweet poetic labour, as erewhile?--
Be it thy care unfailing talk to hold
With Nature's children; be thou up at morn
Ere the the first warbler sinks into the corn;
Stand and watch evening spread her tent with gold:
Thence draw thy treasures, of their worth secure;
Lower deceives; the source alone is pure.