Although I put away his life,
An ornament too grand
For forehead low as mine to wear,
This might have been the hand
That sowed the flowers he preferred,
Or smoothed a homely pain—
Or pushed the pebble from his path,
Or played his chosen tune
On lute the least, the latest,
But just his ear could know
That what soe’er delighted it
I never would let go.
The foot to bear his errand
A little boot I know
Would leap abroad like antelope
With just the grant to do.
His weariest commandment
A sweeter to obey
Than “Hide and Seek”, or skip to flutes,
Or all day chase the bee.
Your servant, Sir, will weary,
The surgeon will not come,
The world will have its own to do,
The dust will vex your fame.
The cold will force your tightest door
Some February day,
But say my apron brings the sticks
To make your cottage gay,
That I may take that promise
To Paradise with me—
To teach the angels avarice
Your kiss first taught to me!
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