'Art thou weary, Dove Annette--say, hast thou been roaming far?
Seeking flowers fresh and wild, watching for the evening star?
Heavily thy basket weighs; 'tis a cruel load for thee;
Shades of night are stealing o'er; thou at home, fair child, shouldst be.'
Dove Annette laughed merrily as she ope'd her basket lid;
There no hyacinthine bell or sweet eglantine was hid:
Pine cones, and fallen leaves, and slender twigs were gathered there;
Far more precious these to her than the woodland treasures fair.
'My old grandam she is cold, for the autumn nights are chill;
So I search the golden woods over dale and over hill;
Sticks, leaves, and cones together, make a warm and blazing fire;
Shame 'twould be if Dove Annette on this errand e'er could tire!
'My old grandam she is blind, but our scholars are a score;
And she tells them how to spell, and the blessed Bible lore;
At A B C I toil all day--alas, they are not quick to learn!
Little 'tis that we are paid--poor the living thus we earn.
'Forest glades are dusk and drear, save when pretty deer skip by;
Evening stars I cannot see, trees arch overhead so high;
Safely sleep the birds around: He who numbers them each one
Cares, I know, for Dove Annette in the wild wood all alone.
'So I fill my basket full--sure it is a heavy load;
But I sing a pleasant song all along my homeward road:
And within our cabin walls, gleaming with the ruddy blaze,
Grandam teaches Dove Annette hymns of thankfulness and praise.'