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