The Mother’s Return
Dorothy Wordsworth
1771 to 1855
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. Take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
Easy Mode - Auto check enabled
We rested in the garden bower;
Where two fair swans together glide.
Of birds that build their nests and sing.
'Nay, patience! patience, little boy;
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
Tomorrow is the happy day.
Of time and distance, night and day;
In his departing hour.
And echoes back his sister's glee;
Her joy is like an instinct, joy
And shouted, 'Mother, come to me!'
With witless hope to bring her near!
Since your dear Mother went away,
Her brother now takes up the note,
I told of hills, and far-off towns,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
He listened, puzzled, sore perplexed,
She dances, runs without an aim,
'Tis gone — and in a merry fit
Louder and louder did he shout,
I, too, infected by their mood,
While sweetly shone the evening sun
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,
The lambs that in the meadow go.
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
But he submits; what can he do?
No strike disturbs his sister's breast;
Your tender mother cannot hear.'
And all 'since Mother went away!'
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
We told o'er all that we had done,
To bed the children must depart;
The eldest heard with steady glee;
The bonds of our humanity.
Five minutes past — and, O the change!
Then, settling into fond discourse,
And she tomorrow will return;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
I could have joined the wanton chase.
And long, long vales to travel through;
And closed the sparkling eye.
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
She chatters in her ecstasy.
O blessed tidings! thoughts of joy!
They hug the infant in my arms,
— But see, the evening star comes forth!
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
We talked of change, of winter gone,
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
She wars not with the mystery
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
A sadness at the heart:
A month, sweet Little-ones, is past
To her these tales they will repeat,
As if to force his sympathy.