I Walk'd The Other Day
I
walk'd
the
other
day,
to
spend
my
hour,
Into
a
field,
Where
I
sometimes
had
seen
the
soil
to
yield
A
gallant
flow'r;
But
winter
now
had
ruffled
all
the
bow'r
And
curious
store
I
knew
there
heretofore.
Yet
I,
whose
search
lov'd
not
to
peep
and
peer
I'
th'
face
of
things,
Thought
with
my
self,
there
might
be
other
springs
Besides
this
here,
Which,
like
cold
friends,
sees
us
but
once
a
year;
And
so
the
flow'r
Might
have
some
other
bow'r.
Then
taking
up
what
I
could
nearest
spy,
I
digg'd
about
That
place
where
I
had
seen
him
to
grow
out;
And
by
and
by
I
saw
the
warm
recluse
alone
to
lie,
Where
fresh
and
green
He
liv'd
of
us
unseen.
Many
a
question
intricate
and
rare
Did
I
there
strow;
But
all
I
could
extort
was,
that
he
now
Did
there
repair
Such
losses
as
befell
him
in
this
air,
And
would
ere
long
Come
forth
most
fair
and
young.
This
past,
I
threw
the
clothes
quite
o'er
his
head;
And
stung
with
fear
Of
my
own
frailty
dropp'd
down
many
a
tear
Upon
his
bed;
Then
sighing
whisper'd,
"happy
are
the
dead!
What
peace
doth
now
Rock
him
asleep
below!"
And
yet,
how
few
believe
such
doctrine
springs
From
a
poor
root,
Which
all
the
winter
sleeps
here
under
foot,
And
hath
no
wings
To
raise
it
to
the
truth
and
light
of
things;
But
is
still
trod
By
ev'ry
wand'ring
clod.
O
Thou!
whose
spirit
did
at
first
inflame
And
warm
the
dead,
And
by
a
sacred
incubation
fed
With
life
this
frame,
Which
once
had
neither
being,
form,
nor
name;
Grant
I
may
so
Thy
steps
track
here
below,
That
in
these
masques
and
shadows
I
may
see
Thy
sacred
way;
And
by
those
hid
ascents
climb
to
that
day,
Which
breaks
from
Thee,
Who
art
in
all
things,
though
invisibly!
Shew
me
thy
peace,
Thy
mercy,
love,
and
ease,
And
from
this
care,
where
dreams
and
sorrows
reign,
Lead
me
above,
Where
light,
joy,
leisure,
and
true
comforts
move
Without
all
pain;
There,
hid
in
thee,
shew
me
his
life
again,
At
whose
dumb
urn
Thus
all
the
year
I
mourn.
