Phantasmagoria

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,

Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well

Rest on the friendly knee, intent to ask

The tale one loves to tell.

Rude scoffer of the seething outer strife,

Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,

Deem, if thou wilt, such hours a waste of life,

Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy

Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguilded.

Ah, happy he who owns the tenderest joy,

The heart-love of a child!

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!

Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days,

Albeit bright memories of the sunlit shore

Yet haunt my dreaming gaze.