But Kate who could not stay content
To learn her lesson pat
New beauty to the rough lines lent
By changing this or that.

And she herself set fresh things down
In corners of her slate,
Of lambs and lanes and London town.
God's blessing fall on Kate!

The baby loved the simple sound,
With jolly glee he shook,
And soon the lines grew smooth and round
Like pebbles in Tom's brook.

From mouth to mouth told and retold
By children sprawled at ease,
Before the fire in winter's cold,
in June, beneath tall trees.

Till though long lost are stone and slate,
Though the brook no more runs,
And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate,
Their sons and their sons' sons.

Yet as when Time with stealthy tread
Lays the rich garden waste
The woodland berry ripe and red
Fails not in scent or taste,