A little while, a little while
A
little
while,
a
little
while,
The
weary
task
is
put
away,
And
I
can
sing
and
I
can
smile,
Alike,
while
I
have
holiday.
Why
wilt
thou
go,
my
harassed
heart,
What
thought,
what
scene
invites
thee
now?
What
spot,
or
near
or
far,
Has
rest
for
thee,
my
weary
brow?
There
is
a
spot,
mid
barren
hills,
Where
winter
howls,
and
driving
rain;
But
if
the
dreary
tempest
chills,
There
is
a
light
that
warms
again.
The
house
is
old,
the
trees
are
bare,
Moonless
above
bends
twilight's
dome;
But
what
on
earth
is
half
so
dear,
So
longed
for,
as
the
hearth
of
home?
The
mute
bird
sitting
on
the
stone,
The
dank
moss
dripping
from
the
wall,
The
thorn-trees
gaunt,
the
walks
o'er
grown,
I
love
them,
how
I
love
them
all!
Still,
as
I
mused,
the
naked
room,
The
alien
firelight
died
away,
And
from
the
midst
of
cheerless
gloom
I
passed
to
bright
unclouded
day.
A
little
and
a
lone
green
lane
That
opened
on
a
common
wide;
A
distant,
dreamy,
dim
blue
chain
Of
mountains
circling
every
side;
A
heaven
so
clear,
an
earth
so
calm,
So
sweet,
so
soft,
so
hushed
an
air;
And,
deepening
still
the
dream-like
charm,
Wild
moor-sheep
feeding
everywhere.
That
was
the
scene,
I
knew
it
well;
I
knew
the
turfy
pathway's
sweep
That,
winding
o'er
each
billowy
swell,
Marked
out
the
tracks
of
wandering
sheep.
Could
I
have
lingered
but
an
hour,
It
well
had
paid
a
week
of
toil;
But
Truth
has
banished
Fancy's
power:
Restraint
and
heavy
task
recoil.
Even
as
I
stood
with
raptured
eye,
Absorbed
in
bliss
so
deep
and
dear,
My
hour
of
rest
had
fleeted
by,
And
back
came
labour,
bondage,
care.
