It will not, will not rest! poor creature, can it be
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in
thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see
nor hear.

Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and
fair!
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come
there:

The little brooks that seem all pastime and at play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,--our cottage is hard
by.
Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee
again.

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy
feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was
mine.