Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome; Whose service is my special dignity, And she my loadstar while I go and come. And so because you love me, and because I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name: In you not fourscore years can dim the flame Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws Of time and change and mortal life and death. THE KEY-NOTE. Where are the songs I used to know, Where are the notes I used to sing? I have forgotten everything I used to know so long ago; Summer has followed after Spring; Now Autumn is so shrunk and sere, I scarcely think a sadder thing Can be the Winter of my year. Yet Robin sings through Winter's rest, When bushes put their berries on; While they their ruddy jewels don, He sings out of a ruddy breast; The hips and haws and ruddy breast Make one spot warm where snowflakes lie They break and cheer the unlovely rest Of Winter's pause--and why not I? THE MONTHS: A Pageant. PERSONIFICATIONS. _Boys._ _Girls._ January. February. March. April. July. May. August. June. October. September. December. November. Robin Redbreasts; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale and Nestlings. Various Flowers, Fruits, etc. _Scene_: A Cottage with its Grounds. [A room in a large comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing. January discovered seated by the fire.] _January._ Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, Dim the day until the cold dark night. [Stirs the fire. Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers glow: Some one may be plodding through the snow Longing for a light, For the light that you and I can show. If no one else should come, Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb, And never troublesome: Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb? Here's butter for my hunch of bread, And sugar for your crumb; Here's room upon the hearthrug, If you'll only come. In your scarlet waistcoat, With your keen bright eye, Where are you loitering? Wings were made to fly! Make haste to breakfast, Come and fetch your crumb, For I'm as glad to see you As you are glad to come.