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The child was poorly - but while from each eye, He saw the delicate spring - he could not die, For he was so loath to leave the warm bees, Attending perfect flowers, near the trees, That had for nigh on two hundred years stood, By beautious flowers as a shady wood; And he was carried to this lovely place, Where such an odd contrast was his pale face, To the cool stream of silver that fluttered by, And the solid sandstone baked warm and dry, As the laughing finches swooped in the air, And the panting fox peered from his black lair, But while such beauty lived he would not go, He was such an obstinate so-and-so. |
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