The Cottager to Her Infant
Robert Owens, Dorothy Wordsworth
The days are cold, the nights are long
The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest
Save thee, my pretty Love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse
Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little Darling! sleep again
And wake when it is day