Poems by Victor Hugo
page 130 of 429 (30%)
page 130 of 429 (30%)
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The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat--
All nature groans opprest with toil and care, And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer. At eve the babes with angels converse hold, While we to our strange pleasures wend our way, Each with its little face upraised to heaven, With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray, At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call On God, the common Father of them all. And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon, Born as the busy day's last murmurs die, In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom Their breathing lips and golden locks descry. And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam, Around their curtained cradles clustering come. Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent; Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light; Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles, Meet prelude to the harmonies of night; As birds beneath the wing enfold their head, Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed. HENRY HIGHTON, M.A. II. |
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