Poem by Walter Savage Landor

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With rosy hand a little girl prest down
A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill:
Often as they sprang up again, a frown
Show'd she disliked resistance to her will:
But when they droopt their heads and shone much less,
She shook them to and fro, and threw them by,
And tript away. 'Ye loathe the heaviness
Ye love to cause, my little girls!' thought I,
'And what had shone for you, by you must die.'

1. Idle Words
2. Twenty Years Hence My Eyes May Grow
3. Leaf after Leaf Drops off, Flower after Flower
4. A Pastoral
5. The Gates of Fame and of the Grave

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