Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child,  
The feeblest of the waywardest.  
Her admonition mild  

 In forest and the hill  
By traveller be heard,  
Restraining rampant squirrel  
Or too impetuous bird.  
 
How fair her conversation 
 A summer afternoon,  
Her household her assembly;  
And when the sun go down,  

Her voice among the aisles  
Incite the timid prayer  
Of the minutest cricket,  
The most unworthy flower.  

 When all the children sleep,  
She turns as long away 
 As will suffice to light her lamps,  
Then bending from the sky  
 
With infinite affection 
 An infiniter care,  
Her golden finger on her lip,  
Wills silence everywhere.