I.

When, from a pleasant ramble, home Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, I pluck some wayside flower And press it in the choicest nook Of a much-loved and oft-read book; And, when upon its leaves I look In a less happy hour, Dear memory bears me far away Unto her fairy bower, And on her breast my head I lay, While, in a motherly, sweet strain, She sings me gently back again To by-gone feelings, until they Seem children born of yesterday.