Chapter 9

I SING OF A MAIDENI sing of a maidenThat is makeless,[13]King of all KingsTo her son she ches.[14]He came all so stillWhere his mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.He came all so stillTo his mother's bower,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flower.He came all so stillWhere his mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.Mother and maidenWas never none but she;Well may such a ladyGod's mother be.

I sing of a maidenThat is makeless,[13]King of all KingsTo her son she ches.[14]He came all so stillWhere his mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.He came all so stillTo his mother's bower,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flower.He came all so stillWhere his mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.Mother and maidenWas never none but she;Well may such a ladyGod's mother be.

I sing of a maidenThat is makeless,[13]King of all KingsTo her son she ches.[14]

I sing of a maiden

That is makeless,[13]

King of all Kings

To her son she ches.[14]

He came all so stillWhere his mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.

He came all so still

Where his mother was,

As dew in April

That falleth on the grass.

He came all so stillTo his mother's bower,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flower.

He came all so still

To his mother's bower,

As dew in April

That falleth on the flower.

He came all so stillWhere his mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.

He came all so still

Where his mother lay,

As dew in April

That falleth on the spray.

Mother and maidenWas never none but she;Well may such a ladyGod's mother be.

Mother and maiden

Was never none but she;

Well may such a lady

God's mother be.

LULLABYUpon my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would,Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thy selfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Richard Rowlands

Upon my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would,Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thy selfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Richard Rowlands

Upon my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Upon my lap my sovereign sits

And sucks upon my breast;

Meantime his love maintains my life

And gives my sense her rest.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast,

Repose, my babe, on me;

So may thy mother and thy nurse

Thy cradle also be.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would,Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work

All that my wishing would,

Because I would not be to thee

But in the best I should.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thy selfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Richard Rowlands

Yet as I am, and as I may,

I must and will be thine,

Though all too little for thy self

Vouchsafing to be mine.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Richard Rowlands

THE LITTLE BLACK BOYMy mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O! my soul is white;White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light.My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissèd me,And, pointing to the east, began to say:"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,And gives his light, and gives his heat away;And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday."And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceIs but a cloud, and like a shady grove."For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me;And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.William Blake

My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O! my soul is white;White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light.My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissèd me,And, pointing to the east, began to say:"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,And gives his light, and gives his heat away;And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday."And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceIs but a cloud, and like a shady grove."For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me;And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.William Blake

My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O! my soul is white;White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother bore me in the southern wild,

And I am black, but O! my soul is white;

White as an angel is the English child,

But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissèd me,And, pointing to the east, began to say:

My mother taught me underneath a tree,

And, sitting down before the heat of day,

She took me on her lap and kissèd me,

And, pointing to the east, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,And gives his light, and gives his heat away;And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,

And gives his light, and gives his heat away;

And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceIs but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love;

And these black bodies and this sunburnt face

Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,

The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,

Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,

And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me;And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me;

And thus I say to little English boy.

When I from black and he from white cloud free,

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.William Blake

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear

To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;

And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,

And be like him, and he will then love me.

William Blake

THE ECHOING GREENThe Sun does arise,And make happy the skies;The merry bells ringTo welcome the Spring;The skylark and thrush,The birds of the bush,Sing louder aroundTo the bells' cheerful sound,While our sports shall be seenOn the Echoing Green.Old John, with white hair,Does laugh away care,Sitting under the oak,Among the old folk,They laugh at our play,And soon they all say:"Such, such were the joysWhen we all, girls and boys,In our youth time were seenOn the Echoing Green."Till the little ones, weary,No more can be merry;The sun does descend,And our sports have an end.Round the laps of their mothersMany sisters and brothers,Like birds in their nest,Are ready for rest,And sport no more seenOn the darkening Green.William Blake

The Sun does arise,And make happy the skies;The merry bells ringTo welcome the Spring;The skylark and thrush,The birds of the bush,Sing louder aroundTo the bells' cheerful sound,While our sports shall be seenOn the Echoing Green.Old John, with white hair,Does laugh away care,Sitting under the oak,Among the old folk,They laugh at our play,And soon they all say:"Such, such were the joysWhen we all, girls and boys,In our youth time were seenOn the Echoing Green."Till the little ones, weary,No more can be merry;The sun does descend,And our sports have an end.Round the laps of their mothersMany sisters and brothers,Like birds in their nest,Are ready for rest,And sport no more seenOn the darkening Green.William Blake

The Sun does arise,

And make happy the skies;

The merry bells ring

To welcome the Spring;

The skylark and thrush,

The birds of the bush,

Sing louder around

To the bells' cheerful sound,

While our sports shall be seen

On the Echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair,Does laugh away care,Sitting under the oak,Among the old folk,They laugh at our play,And soon they all say:"Such, such were the joysWhen we all, girls and boys,In our youth time were seenOn the Echoing Green."

Old John, with white hair,

Does laugh away care,

Sitting under the oak,

Among the old folk,

They laugh at our play,

And soon they all say:

"Such, such were the joys

When we all, girls and boys,

In our youth time were seen

On the Echoing Green."

Till the little ones, weary,No more can be merry;The sun does descend,And our sports have an end.Round the laps of their mothersMany sisters and brothers,Like birds in their nest,Are ready for rest,And sport no more seenOn the darkening Green.William Blake

Till the little ones, weary,

No more can be merry;

The sun does descend,

And our sports have an end.

Round the laps of their mothers

Many sisters and brothers,

Like birds in their nest,

Are ready for rest,

And sport no more seen

On the darkening Green.

William Blake

IF I HAD BUT TWO LITTLE WINGSIf I had but two little wingsAnd were a little feathery bird,To you I'd fly, my dear!But thoughts like these are idle things,And I stay here.But in my sleep to you I fly:I'm always with you in my sleep!The world is all one's own.But then one wakes, and where am I?All, all alone.Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:So I love to wake ere break of day:For though my sleep be gone,Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,And still dreams on.Samuel Taylor Coleridge

If I had but two little wingsAnd were a little feathery bird,To you I'd fly, my dear!But thoughts like these are idle things,And I stay here.But in my sleep to you I fly:I'm always with you in my sleep!The world is all one's own.But then one wakes, and where am I?All, all alone.Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:So I love to wake ere break of day:For though my sleep be gone,Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,And still dreams on.Samuel Taylor Coleridge

If I had but two little wingsAnd were a little feathery bird,To you I'd fly, my dear!But thoughts like these are idle things,And I stay here.

If I had but two little wings

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:I'm always with you in my sleep!The world is all one's own.But then one wakes, and where am I?All, all alone.

But in my sleep to you I fly:

I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:So I love to wake ere break of day:For though my sleep be gone,Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,And still dreams on.Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:

So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone,

Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I REMEMBERI remember, I remember,The house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away.I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups!—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birth-day,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I remember,Where I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!I remember, I remember,The fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember,The house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away.I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups!—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birth-day,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I remember,Where I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!I remember, I remember,The fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day;

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups!—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birth-day,—The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

The roses, red and white,

The violets, and the lily-cups!—

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birth-day,—

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,Where I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,The fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.

Thomas Hood

MIDNIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTERNIn the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,And the roof-lamp's oily flamePlayed down on his listless form and face,Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,Or whence he came.In the band of his hat the journeying boyHad a ticket stuck; and a stringAround his neck bore the key of his box,That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beamsLike a living thing.What past can be yours, O journeying boyTowards a world unknown,Who calmly, as if incurious quiteOn all at stake, can undertakeThis plunge alone?Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,Our rude realms far above,Whence with spacious vision you mark and meteThis region of sin that you find you in,But are not of?Thomas Hardy

In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,And the roof-lamp's oily flamePlayed down on his listless form and face,Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,Or whence he came.In the band of his hat the journeying boyHad a ticket stuck; and a stringAround his neck bore the key of his box,That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beamsLike a living thing.What past can be yours, O journeying boyTowards a world unknown,Who calmly, as if incurious quiteOn all at stake, can undertakeThis plunge alone?Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,Our rude realms far above,Whence with spacious vision you mark and meteThis region of sin that you find you in,But are not of?Thomas Hardy

In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,And the roof-lamp's oily flamePlayed down on his listless form and face,Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,Or whence he came.

In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,

And the roof-lamp's oily flame

Played down on his listless form and face,

Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,

Or whence he came.

In the band of his hat the journeying boyHad a ticket stuck; and a stringAround his neck bore the key of his box,That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beamsLike a living thing.

In the band of his hat the journeying boy

Had a ticket stuck; and a string

Around his neck bore the key of his box,

That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams

Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boyTowards a world unknown,Who calmly, as if incurious quiteOn all at stake, can undertakeThis plunge alone?

What past can be yours, O journeying boy

Towards a world unknown,

Who calmly, as if incurious quite

On all at stake, can undertake

This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,Our rude realms far above,Whence with spacious vision you mark and meteThis region of sin that you find you in,But are not of?Thomas Hardy

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,

Our rude realms far above,

Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete

This region of sin that you find you in,

But are not of?

Thomas Hardy

THE RUNAWAYOnce when the sun of the year was beginning to fallWe stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,The other curled at his heart. He dipped his headAnd snorted to us; and then he had to bolt.We heard the muffled thunder when he fledAnd we saw him or thought we saw him dim and greyLike a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.We said, "The little fellow's afraid of the snow.He isn't winter broken." "It isn't playWith the little fellow at all. He's running away.I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know.Where is his mother? He can't be out alone."And now he comes again with a clatter of stoneAnd mounts the wall again with whited eyesAnd all his tail that isn't hair up straight.He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.Whoever it is that leaves him out so lateWhen everything else has gone to stall and binOught to be told to go and bring him in.Robert Frost

Once when the sun of the year was beginning to fallWe stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,The other curled at his heart. He dipped his headAnd snorted to us; and then he had to bolt.We heard the muffled thunder when he fledAnd we saw him or thought we saw him dim and greyLike a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.We said, "The little fellow's afraid of the snow.He isn't winter broken." "It isn't playWith the little fellow at all. He's running away.I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know.Where is his mother? He can't be out alone."And now he comes again with a clatter of stoneAnd mounts the wall again with whited eyesAnd all his tail that isn't hair up straight.He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.Whoever it is that leaves him out so lateWhen everything else has gone to stall and binOught to be told to go and bring him in.Robert Frost

Once when the sun of the year was beginning to fall

We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?

A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,

The other curled at his heart. He dipped his head

And snorted to us; and then he had to bolt.

We heard the muffled thunder when he fled

And we saw him or thought we saw him dim and grey

Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.

We said, "The little fellow's afraid of the snow.

He isn't winter broken." "It isn't play

With the little fellow at all. He's running away.

I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,

It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know.

Where is his mother? He can't be out alone."

And now he comes again with a clatter of stone

And mounts the wall again with whited eyes

And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.

He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.

Whoever it is that leaves him out so late

When everything else has gone to stall and bin

Ought to be told to go and bring him in.

Robert Frost

ON EASTNOR KNOLLSilent are the woods, and the dim green boughs areHushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path throughThe apple orchard, is a tired plough-boyCalling the cows home.A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, butStill the red, lurid wreckage of the sunsetSmoulders in smoky fire, and burns onThe misty hill-tops.Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burningFades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks areA silent army of phantoms throngingA land of shadows.John Masefield

Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs areHushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path throughThe apple orchard, is a tired plough-boyCalling the cows home.A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, butStill the red, lurid wreckage of the sunsetSmoulders in smoky fire, and burns onThe misty hill-tops.Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burningFades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks areA silent army of phantoms throngingA land of shadows.John Masefield

Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs areHushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path throughThe apple orchard, is a tired plough-boyCalling the cows home.

Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are

Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through

The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy

Calling the cows home.

A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, butStill the red, lurid wreckage of the sunsetSmoulders in smoky fire, and burns onThe misty hill-tops.

A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but

Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset

Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on

The misty hill-tops.

Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burningFades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks areA silent army of phantoms throngingA land of shadows.John Masefield

Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning

Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are

A silent army of phantoms thronging

A land of shadows.

John Masefield

"HOME NO MORE HOME TO ME"Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?Hunger my driver, I go where I must.Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.The true word of welcome was spoken in the door—Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,Kind folks of old, you come again no more.Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child,Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl,Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood—Fair shine the day on the house with open door;Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney—But I go for ever and come again no more.Robert Louis Stevenson

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?Hunger my driver, I go where I must.Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.The true word of welcome was spoken in the door—Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,Kind folks of old, you come again no more.Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child,Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl,Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood—Fair shine the day on the house with open door;Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney—But I go for ever and come again no more.Robert Louis Stevenson

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?

Hunger my driver, I go where I must.

Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;

Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.

Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.

The true word of welcome was spoken in the door—

Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,

Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child,Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,

Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child,

Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;

Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.

Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,

Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.

Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,

The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl,Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood—Fair shine the day on the house with open door;Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney—But I go for ever and come again no more.Robert Louis Stevenson

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl,

Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;

Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,

Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;

Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood—

Fair shine the day on the house with open door;

Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney—

But I go for ever and come again no more.

Robert Louis Stevenson

DALYAUNCEMundus.Welcome, fayre chylde, what is thy name?Infans.I wote not, syr, withouten blame.But ofte tyme my moder in her gameCallèd me dalyaunce.Mundus.Dalyaunce, my swetė chylde,It is a name that is ryght wylde,For whan thou waxest olde.It is a name of no substaunceBut, my fayre chylde, what woldest thou have?Infans.Syr of some comforte I you crave—Mete and clothe my lyfe to save:And I your true servaunt shall be.Mundus.Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge.I wyll thee fynde[15]whyle thou art yinge[16]So thou wylte be obedyent to my byddynge.These garments gaye I gyve to thee.And also I gyve to thee a name,And clepe[17]thee Wanton, in every game;Tyll XIII yere be come and gone,And than come agayne to me.[Infans is now called Wanton.]Wanton.Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye,For now I purpose me to playe.Mundus.Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye.All rychelesnesse[18]is kynde[19]for thee.[Mundus goes out leaving Wanton alone.]Wanton.Aha, Wanton is my name!I can many a quayntė game.Lo, my toppe I dryve in same,Se, it torneth rounde!I can with my scorgė-styckeMy felowe upon the heed hytte,And wyghtly[20]from hym make a skyppeAnd blere[21]on hym my tonge.If brother or syster do me chydeI wyll scratche and also byte.I can crye, and also kyke,And mocke them all berewe.If fader or mother wyll me smyte,I wyll wryngė[22]with my lyppe;And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe;And call my damė shrewe.Aha, a newe game have I founde:Se this gynne[23]it renneth rounde;And here another have I founde,And yet mo[24]can I fynde.I can mowė[25]on a man;And make a lesynge[26]well I can,And mayntayne it ryght well than.This connynge[27]came me of kynde.Ye, syrs,[28]I can well gelde a snayle;And catche a cowe by the tayle;This is a fayre connynge!I can daunce, and also skyppe;I can playe at the chery pytte;And I can wystell you a fytte,[29]Syres, in a whylowe ryne.[30]Ye, syrs, and every dayeWhan I to scole shall take the wayeSome good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye,Perys[31]and plommes to plucke.I can spye a sparowes nest.I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest,For there begynneth a sory fest[32]Whan the mayster sholde lyfte my docke.[33]But, syrs, whan I was seven yere of age,I was sent to the Worlde to takė wage.And this seven yere I have ben his pageAnd kept his commaundėment....

Mundus.Welcome, fayre chylde, what is thy name?Infans.I wote not, syr, withouten blame.But ofte tyme my moder in her gameCallèd me dalyaunce.Mundus.Dalyaunce, my swetė chylde,It is a name that is ryght wylde,For whan thou waxest olde.It is a name of no substaunceBut, my fayre chylde, what woldest thou have?Infans.Syr of some comforte I you crave—Mete and clothe my lyfe to save:And I your true servaunt shall be.Mundus.Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge.I wyll thee fynde[15]whyle thou art yinge[16]So thou wylte be obedyent to my byddynge.These garments gaye I gyve to thee.And also I gyve to thee a name,And clepe[17]thee Wanton, in every game;Tyll XIII yere be come and gone,And than come agayne to me.[Infans is now called Wanton.]Wanton.Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye,For now I purpose me to playe.Mundus.Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye.All rychelesnesse[18]is kynde[19]for thee.[Mundus goes out leaving Wanton alone.]Wanton.Aha, Wanton is my name!I can many a quayntė game.Lo, my toppe I dryve in same,Se, it torneth rounde!I can with my scorgė-styckeMy felowe upon the heed hytte,And wyghtly[20]from hym make a skyppeAnd blere[21]on hym my tonge.If brother or syster do me chydeI wyll scratche and also byte.I can crye, and also kyke,And mocke them all berewe.If fader or mother wyll me smyte,I wyll wryngė[22]with my lyppe;And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe;And call my damė shrewe.Aha, a newe game have I founde:Se this gynne[23]it renneth rounde;And here another have I founde,And yet mo[24]can I fynde.I can mowė[25]on a man;And make a lesynge[26]well I can,And mayntayne it ryght well than.This connynge[27]came me of kynde.Ye, syrs,[28]I can well gelde a snayle;And catche a cowe by the tayle;This is a fayre connynge!I can daunce, and also skyppe;I can playe at the chery pytte;And I can wystell you a fytte,[29]Syres, in a whylowe ryne.[30]Ye, syrs, and every dayeWhan I to scole shall take the wayeSome good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye,Perys[31]and plommes to plucke.I can spye a sparowes nest.I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest,For there begynneth a sory fest[32]Whan the mayster sholde lyfte my docke.[33]But, syrs, whan I was seven yere of age,I was sent to the Worlde to takė wage.And this seven yere I have ben his pageAnd kept his commaundėment....

Mundus.Welcome, fayre chylde, what is thy name?

Infans.I wote not, syr, withouten blame.But ofte tyme my moder in her gameCallèd me dalyaunce.

Infans.I wote not, syr, withouten blame.

But ofte tyme my moder in her game

Callèd me dalyaunce.

Mundus.Dalyaunce, my swetė chylde,It is a name that is ryght wylde,For whan thou waxest olde.It is a name of no substaunceBut, my fayre chylde, what woldest thou have?

Mundus.Dalyaunce, my swetė chylde,

It is a name that is ryght wylde,

For whan thou waxest olde.

It is a name of no substaunce

But, my fayre chylde, what woldest thou have?

Infans.Syr of some comforte I you crave—Mete and clothe my lyfe to save:And I your true servaunt shall be.

Infans.Syr of some comforte I you crave—

Mete and clothe my lyfe to save:

And I your true servaunt shall be.

Mundus.Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge.I wyll thee fynde[15]whyle thou art yinge[16]So thou wylte be obedyent to my byddynge.These garments gaye I gyve to thee.And also I gyve to thee a name,And clepe[17]thee Wanton, in every game;Tyll XIII yere be come and gone,And than come agayne to me.

Mundus.Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge.

I wyll thee fynde[15]whyle thou art yinge[16]

So thou wylte be obedyent to my byddynge.

These garments gaye I gyve to thee.

And also I gyve to thee a name,

And clepe[17]thee Wanton, in every game;

Tyll XIII yere be come and gone,

And than come agayne to me.

[Infans is now called Wanton.]

Wanton.Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye,For now I purpose me to playe.

Wanton.Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye,

For now I purpose me to playe.

Mundus.Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye.All rychelesnesse[18]is kynde[19]for thee.

Mundus.Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye.

All rychelesnesse[18]is kynde[19]for thee.

[Mundus goes out leaving Wanton alone.]

Wanton.Aha, Wanton is my name!I can many a quayntė game.Lo, my toppe I dryve in same,Se, it torneth rounde!I can with my scorgė-styckeMy felowe upon the heed hytte,And wyghtly[20]from hym make a skyppeAnd blere[21]on hym my tonge.If brother or syster do me chydeI wyll scratche and also byte.I can crye, and also kyke,And mocke them all berewe.If fader or mother wyll me smyte,I wyll wryngė[22]with my lyppe;And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe;And call my damė shrewe.Aha, a newe game have I founde:Se this gynne[23]it renneth rounde;And here another have I founde,And yet mo[24]can I fynde.I can mowė[25]on a man;And make a lesynge[26]well I can,And mayntayne it ryght well than.This connynge[27]came me of kynde.Ye, syrs,[28]I can well gelde a snayle;And catche a cowe by the tayle;This is a fayre connynge!I can daunce, and also skyppe;I can playe at the chery pytte;And I can wystell you a fytte,[29]Syres, in a whylowe ryne.[30]Ye, syrs, and every dayeWhan I to scole shall take the wayeSome good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye,Perys[31]and plommes to plucke.I can spye a sparowes nest.I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest,For there begynneth a sory fest[32]Whan the mayster sholde lyfte my docke.[33]But, syrs, whan I was seven yere of age,I was sent to the Worlde to takė wage.And this seven yere I have ben his pageAnd kept his commaundėment....

Wanton.Aha, Wanton is my name!

I can many a quayntė game.

Lo, my toppe I dryve in same,

Se, it torneth rounde!

I can with my scorgė-stycke

My felowe upon the heed hytte,

And wyghtly[20]from hym make a skyppe

And blere[21]on hym my tonge.

If brother or syster do me chyde

I wyll scratche and also byte.

I can crye, and also kyke,

And mocke them all berewe.

If fader or mother wyll me smyte,

I wyll wryngė[22]with my lyppe;

And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe;

And call my damė shrewe.

Aha, a newe game have I founde:

Se this gynne[23]it renneth rounde;

And here another have I founde,

And yet mo[24]can I fynde.

I can mowė[25]on a man;

And make a lesynge[26]well I can,

And mayntayne it ryght well than.

This connynge[27]came me of kynde.

Ye, syrs,[28]I can well gelde a snayle;

And catche a cowe by the tayle;

This is a fayre connynge!

I can daunce, and also skyppe;

I can playe at the chery pytte;

And I can wystell you a fytte,[29]

Syres, in a whylowe ryne.[30]

Ye, syrs, and every daye

Whan I to scole shall take the waye

Some good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye,

Perys[31]and plommes to plucke.

I can spye a sparowes nest.

I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest,

For there begynneth a sory fest[32]

Whan the mayster sholde lyfte my docke.[33]

But, syrs, whan I was seven yere of age,

I was sent to the Worlde to takė wage.

And this seven yere I have ben his page

And kept his commaundėment....

CHRISTMAS AT SEAThe sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheerFor it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall."All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call,"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.... "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good.And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.Robert Louis Stevenson

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheerFor it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall."All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call,"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.... "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good.And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.Robert Louis Stevenson

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;

The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;

The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;

And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;

But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.

We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,

And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;

All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;

All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,

For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;

But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:

So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,

And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;

The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;

The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;

And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheerFor it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer

For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)

This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,

And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,

My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;

And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,

Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,

Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;

And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,

To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall."All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call,"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.... "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.

"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call,

"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.

... "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good.And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good.

And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.

As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,

We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.Robert Louis Stevenson

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,

As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;

But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,

Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

Robert Louis Stevenson

TWILIGHTThe twilight is sad and cloudy,The wind blows wild and free,And like the wings of sea-birdsFlash the white caps of the sea.But in the fisherman's cottageThere shines a ruddier light,And a little face at the windowPeers out into the night.Close, close it is pressed to the window,As if those childish eyesWere looking into the darkness,To see some form arise.And a woman's waving shadowIs passing to and fro,Now rising to the ceiling,Now bowing and bending low.What tale do the roaring ocean,And the night-wind, bleak and wild,As they beat at the crazy casement,Tell to that little child?And why do the roaring ocean,And the night-wind, wild and bleak,As they beat at the heart of the mother,Drive the colour from her cheek?Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The twilight is sad and cloudy,The wind blows wild and free,And like the wings of sea-birdsFlash the white caps of the sea.But in the fisherman's cottageThere shines a ruddier light,And a little face at the windowPeers out into the night.Close, close it is pressed to the window,As if those childish eyesWere looking into the darkness,To see some form arise.And a woman's waving shadowIs passing to and fro,Now rising to the ceiling,Now bowing and bending low.What tale do the roaring ocean,And the night-wind, bleak and wild,As they beat at the crazy casement,Tell to that little child?And why do the roaring ocean,And the night-wind, wild and bleak,As they beat at the heart of the mother,Drive the colour from her cheek?Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The twilight is sad and cloudy,The wind blows wild and free,And like the wings of sea-birdsFlash the white caps of the sea.

The twilight is sad and cloudy,

The wind blows wild and free,

And like the wings of sea-birds

Flash the white caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman's cottageThere shines a ruddier light,And a little face at the windowPeers out into the night.

But in the fisherman's cottage

There shines a ruddier light,

And a little face at the window

Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window,As if those childish eyesWere looking into the darkness,To see some form arise.

Close, close it is pressed to the window,

As if those childish eyes

Were looking into the darkness,

To see some form arise.

And a woman's waving shadowIs passing to and fro,Now rising to the ceiling,Now bowing and bending low.

And a woman's waving shadow

Is passing to and fro,

Now rising to the ceiling,

Now bowing and bending low.

What tale do the roaring ocean,And the night-wind, bleak and wild,As they beat at the crazy casement,Tell to that little child?

What tale do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, bleak and wild,

As they beat at the crazy casement,

Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean,And the night-wind, wild and bleak,As they beat at the heart of the mother,Drive the colour from her cheek?Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

And why do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, wild and bleak,

As they beat at the heart of the mother,

Drive the colour from her cheek?

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"HOW'S MY BOY?""Ho, sailor of the sea!How's my boy—my boy?""What's your boy's name, good wife,And in what good ship sailed he?""My boy John—He that went to sea—What care I for the ship, sailor?My boy's my boy to me."You come back from seaAnd not know my John!I might as well have asked some landsmanYonder down in the town.There's not an ass in all the parishBut he knows my John."How's my boy—my boy?And unless you let me know,I'll swear you are no sailor,Blue jacket or no,Brass button or no, sailor,Anchor and crown or no!Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."—"Speak low, woman, speak low!""And why should I speak low, sailor,About my own boy John?If I was loud as I am proudI'd sing him o'er the town!Why should I speak low, sailor?""That good ship went down.""How's my boy—my boy?What care I for the ship, sailor,I never was aboard her.Be she afloat, or be she aground,Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,Her owners can afford her!I say, how's my John?""Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her.""How's my boy—my boy?What care I for the men, sailor?I'm not their mother—How's my boy—my boy?Tell me of him and no other!How's my boy—my boy?"Sydney Dobell

"Ho, sailor of the sea!How's my boy—my boy?""What's your boy's name, good wife,And in what good ship sailed he?""My boy John—He that went to sea—What care I for the ship, sailor?My boy's my boy to me."You come back from seaAnd not know my John!I might as well have asked some landsmanYonder down in the town.There's not an ass in all the parishBut he knows my John."How's my boy—my boy?And unless you let me know,I'll swear you are no sailor,Blue jacket or no,Brass button or no, sailor,Anchor and crown or no!Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."—"Speak low, woman, speak low!""And why should I speak low, sailor,About my own boy John?If I was loud as I am proudI'd sing him o'er the town!Why should I speak low, sailor?""That good ship went down.""How's my boy—my boy?What care I for the ship, sailor,I never was aboard her.Be she afloat, or be she aground,Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,Her owners can afford her!I say, how's my John?""Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her.""How's my boy—my boy?What care I for the men, sailor?I'm not their mother—How's my boy—my boy?Tell me of him and no other!How's my boy—my boy?"Sydney Dobell

"Ho, sailor of the sea!

How's my boy—my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife,

And in what good ship sailed he?"

"My boy John—

He that went to sea—

What care I for the ship, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from seaAnd not know my John!I might as well have asked some landsmanYonder down in the town.There's not an ass in all the parishBut he knows my John.

"You come back from sea

And not know my John!

I might as well have asked some landsman

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish

But he knows my John.

"How's my boy—my boy?And unless you let me know,I'll swear you are no sailor,Blue jacket or no,Brass button or no, sailor,Anchor and crown or no!Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."—"Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"How's my boy—my boy?

And unless you let me know,

I'll swear you are no sailor,

Blue jacket or no,

Brass button or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no!

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."—

"Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor,About my own boy John?If I was loud as I am proudI'd sing him o'er the town!Why should I speak low, sailor?""That good ship went down."

"And why should I speak low, sailor,

About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud

I'd sing him o'er the town!

Why should I speak low, sailor?"

"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy—my boy?What care I for the ship, sailor,I never was aboard her.Be she afloat, or be she aground,Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,Her owners can afford her!I say, how's my John?""Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy—my boy?

What care I for the ship, sailor,

I never was aboard her.

Be she afloat, or be she aground,

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,

Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?"

"Every man on board went down,

Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy—my boy?What care I for the men, sailor?I'm not their mother—How's my boy—my boy?Tell me of him and no other!How's my boy—my boy?"Sydney Dobell

"How's my boy—my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother—

How's my boy—my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!

How's my boy—my boy?"

Sydney Dobell

CAM' YE BY?Cam' ye by the salmon fishers?Cam' ye by the roperee?Saw ye a sailor laddieWaiting on the coast for me?I ken fahr[34]I'm gyain,[35]I ken fahs[36]gyain wi' me;I ha'e a lad o' my ain,Ye daurna tack 'im fae[37]me.Stockings of blue silk,Shoes of patent leather,Kid to tie them up,And gold rings on his finger.Oh for six o'clock!Oh for seven I weary!Oh for eight o'clock!And then I'll see my dearie.

Cam' ye by the salmon fishers?Cam' ye by the roperee?Saw ye a sailor laddieWaiting on the coast for me?I ken fahr[34]I'm gyain,[35]I ken fahs[36]gyain wi' me;I ha'e a lad o' my ain,Ye daurna tack 'im fae[37]me.Stockings of blue silk,Shoes of patent leather,Kid to tie them up,And gold rings on his finger.Oh for six o'clock!Oh for seven I weary!Oh for eight o'clock!And then I'll see my dearie.

Cam' ye by the salmon fishers?Cam' ye by the roperee?Saw ye a sailor laddieWaiting on the coast for me?

Cam' ye by the salmon fishers?

Cam' ye by the roperee?

Saw ye a sailor laddie

Waiting on the coast for me?

I ken fahr[34]I'm gyain,[35]I ken fahs[36]gyain wi' me;I ha'e a lad o' my ain,Ye daurna tack 'im fae[37]me.

I ken fahr[34]I'm gyain,[35]

I ken fahs[36]gyain wi' me;

I ha'e a lad o' my ain,

Ye daurna tack 'im fae[37]me.

Stockings of blue silk,Shoes of patent leather,Kid to tie them up,And gold rings on his finger.

Stockings of blue silk,

Shoes of patent leather,

Kid to tie them up,

And gold rings on his finger.

Oh for six o'clock!Oh for seven I weary!Oh for eight o'clock!And then I'll see my dearie.

Oh for six o'clock!

Oh for seven I weary!

Oh for eight o'clock!

And then I'll see my dearie.

MY BOY TAMMY"Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?""I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,Meadow green and mountain grey,Courtin' o' this young thing just come frae her Mammy.""And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?""I gat her down in yonder howe,[38]Smiling on a broomy knowe,[39]Herding ae wee Lamb and Ewe for her poor Mammy.""What said ye to the bonny bairn, my boy Tammy?""I hae a house, it cost me dear,I've walth o' plenishen and gear,[40]Yese get it a', war't ten times mair, gin[41]ye will leave your Mammy."The smile gaed aff her bonny face—'I mauna leave my Mammy!She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claes,[42]She's been my comfort a' my days,My Father's death brought mony waes—I canna leave my Mammy.'""We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-hearted Lammy,We'll gie her meat, we'll gi'e her claes,We'll be her comfort a' her days:"The wee thing gi'es her hand, and says, "There, gang and ask my Mammy.""Has she been to kirk wi' thee, my boy Tammy?""She has been to kirk wi' me,And the tear was in her ee,But Oh! she's but a young thing just come frae her Mammy."Hector Macneill

"Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?""I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,Meadow green and mountain grey,Courtin' o' this young thing just come frae her Mammy.""And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?""I gat her down in yonder howe,[38]Smiling on a broomy knowe,[39]Herding ae wee Lamb and Ewe for her poor Mammy.""What said ye to the bonny bairn, my boy Tammy?""I hae a house, it cost me dear,I've walth o' plenishen and gear,[40]Yese get it a', war't ten times mair, gin[41]ye will leave your Mammy."The smile gaed aff her bonny face—'I mauna leave my Mammy!She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claes,[42]She's been my comfort a' my days,My Father's death brought mony waes—I canna leave my Mammy.'""We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-hearted Lammy,We'll gie her meat, we'll gi'e her claes,We'll be her comfort a' her days:"The wee thing gi'es her hand, and says, "There, gang and ask my Mammy.""Has she been to kirk wi' thee, my boy Tammy?""She has been to kirk wi' me,And the tear was in her ee,But Oh! she's but a young thing just come frae her Mammy."Hector Macneill

"Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?

Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?"

"I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,

Meadow green and mountain grey,

Courtin' o' this young thing just come frae her Mammy."

"And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?""I gat her down in yonder howe,[38]Smiling on a broomy knowe,[39]Herding ae wee Lamb and Ewe for her poor Mammy."

"And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?"

"I gat her down in yonder howe,[38]

Smiling on a broomy knowe,[39]

Herding ae wee Lamb and Ewe for her poor Mammy."

"What said ye to the bonny bairn, my boy Tammy?""I hae a house, it cost me dear,I've walth o' plenishen and gear,[40]Yese get it a', war't ten times mair, gin[41]ye will leave your Mammy.

"What said ye to the bonny bairn, my boy Tammy?"

"I hae a house, it cost me dear,

I've walth o' plenishen and gear,[40]

Yese get it a', war't ten times mair, gin[41]ye will leave your Mammy.

"The smile gaed aff her bonny face—'I mauna leave my Mammy!She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claes,[42]She's been my comfort a' my days,My Father's death brought mony waes—I canna leave my Mammy.'"

"The smile gaed aff her bonny face—'I mauna leave my Mammy!

She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claes,[42]

She's been my comfort a' my days,

My Father's death brought mony waes—I canna leave my Mammy.'"

"We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-hearted Lammy,We'll gie her meat, we'll gi'e her claes,We'll be her comfort a' her days:"The wee thing gi'es her hand, and says, "There, gang and ask my Mammy."

"We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-hearted Lammy,

We'll gie her meat, we'll gi'e her claes,

We'll be her comfort a' her days:"

The wee thing gi'es her hand, and says, "There, gang and ask my Mammy."

"Has she been to kirk wi' thee, my boy Tammy?""She has been to kirk wi' me,And the tear was in her ee,But Oh! she's but a young thing just come frae her Mammy."Hector Macneill

"Has she been to kirk wi' thee, my boy Tammy?"

"She has been to kirk wi' me,

And the tear was in her ee,

But Oh! she's but a young thing just come frae her Mammy."

Hector Macneill

ROSY APPLE, LEMON, OR PEARRosy apple, lemon, or pear,Bunch of roses she shall wear;Gold and silver by her side,I know who will be the bride.Take her by her lily-white hand,Lead her to the altar;Give her kisses,—one, two, three,—Mother's runaway daughter.

Rosy apple, lemon, or pear,Bunch of roses she shall wear;Gold and silver by her side,I know who will be the bride.Take her by her lily-white hand,Lead her to the altar;Give her kisses,—one, two, three,—Mother's runaway daughter.

Rosy apple, lemon, or pear,

Bunch of roses she shall wear;

Gold and silver by her side,

I know who will be the bride.

Take her by her lily-white hand,

Lead her to the altar;

Give her kisses,—one, two, three,—

Mother's runaway daughter.

IN PRAISE OF ISABEL PENNELLBy Saint Mary, my lady,Your mammy and your daddyBrought forth a goodly baby!My maiden Isabell,—Reflaring[43]rosabell,The flagrant camamell,The ruddy rosary,The sovereign rosemary,The pretty strawberry,The columbine, the nepte,[44]The ieloffer[45]well set,The proper violet,Ennewèd, your colourIs like the daisy flowerAfter the April shower!Star of the morrow gray,The blossom on the spray,The freshest flower of May;Maidenly demure,Of womanhood the lure,Wherefore I make you sure:It were an heavenly health,It were an endless wealth,A life for God himself,To hear this nightingale,Among the birdės smale,Warbling in the vale:—Dug, dug,Iug, iug,Good year and good luck,With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk!John Skelton

By Saint Mary, my lady,Your mammy and your daddyBrought forth a goodly baby!My maiden Isabell,—Reflaring[43]rosabell,The flagrant camamell,The ruddy rosary,The sovereign rosemary,The pretty strawberry,The columbine, the nepte,[44]The ieloffer[45]well set,The proper violet,Ennewèd, your colourIs like the daisy flowerAfter the April shower!Star of the morrow gray,The blossom on the spray,The freshest flower of May;Maidenly demure,Of womanhood the lure,Wherefore I make you sure:It were an heavenly health,It were an endless wealth,A life for God himself,To hear this nightingale,Among the birdės smale,Warbling in the vale:—Dug, dug,Iug, iug,Good year and good luck,With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk!John Skelton

By Saint Mary, my lady,Your mammy and your daddyBrought forth a goodly baby!

By Saint Mary, my lady,

Your mammy and your daddy

Brought forth a goodly baby!

My maiden Isabell,—Reflaring[43]rosabell,The flagrant camamell,

My maiden Isabell,—

Reflaring[43]rosabell,

The flagrant camamell,

The ruddy rosary,The sovereign rosemary,The pretty strawberry,

The ruddy rosary,

The sovereign rosemary,

The pretty strawberry,

The columbine, the nepte,[44]The ieloffer[45]well set,The proper violet,

The columbine, the nepte,[44]

The ieloffer[45]well set,

The proper violet,

Ennewèd, your colourIs like the daisy flowerAfter the April shower!

Ennewèd, your colour

Is like the daisy flower

After the April shower!

Star of the morrow gray,The blossom on the spray,The freshest flower of May;

Star of the morrow gray,

The blossom on the spray,

The freshest flower of May;

Maidenly demure,Of womanhood the lure,Wherefore I make you sure:

Maidenly demure,

Of womanhood the lure,

Wherefore I make you sure:

It were an heavenly health,It were an endless wealth,A life for God himself,

It were an heavenly health,

It were an endless wealth,

A life for God himself,

To hear this nightingale,Among the birdės smale,Warbling in the vale:—

To hear this nightingale,

Among the birdės smale,

Warbling in the vale:—

Dug, dug,Iug, iug,Good year and good luck,With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk!John Skelton

Dug, dug,

Iug, iug,

Good year and good luck,

With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk!

John Skelton

MY SWEET SWEETINGShe is so proper and so pure,Full stedfast, stabill and demure,There is none such, ye may be sure,As my swete sweting.In all thys world, as thynketh me,Is none so plesaunt to my e'e,That I am glad soo ofte to see,As my swete swetyng.When I behold my swetyng swete,Her face, her hands, her minion fete,They seme to me there is none so mete,As my swete swetyng.Above all other prayse must I,And love my pretty pygsnye,For none I fynd so womanlyAs my swete swetyng.

She is so proper and so pure,Full stedfast, stabill and demure,There is none such, ye may be sure,As my swete sweting.In all thys world, as thynketh me,Is none so plesaunt to my e'e,That I am glad soo ofte to see,As my swete swetyng.When I behold my swetyng swete,Her face, her hands, her minion fete,They seme to me there is none so mete,As my swete swetyng.Above all other prayse must I,And love my pretty pygsnye,For none I fynd so womanlyAs my swete swetyng.

She is so proper and so pure,Full stedfast, stabill and demure,There is none such, ye may be sure,As my swete sweting.

She is so proper and so pure,

Full stedfast, stabill and demure,

There is none such, ye may be sure,

As my swete sweting.

In all thys world, as thynketh me,Is none so plesaunt to my e'e,That I am glad soo ofte to see,As my swete swetyng.

In all thys world, as thynketh me,

Is none so plesaunt to my e'e,

That I am glad soo ofte to see,

As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete,Her face, her hands, her minion fete,They seme to me there is none so mete,As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete,

Her face, her hands, her minion fete,

They seme to me there is none so mete,

As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I,And love my pretty pygsnye,For none I fynd so womanlyAs my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I,

And love my pretty pygsnye,

For none I fynd so womanly

As my swete swetyng.

SWEET STAY-AT-HOMESweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,Thou knowest of no strange continent:Thou hast not felt thy bosom keepA gentle motion with the deep;Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,Where scent comes forth in every breeze.Thou hast not seen the rich grape growFor miles, as far as eyes can go;Thou hast not seen a summer's nightWhen maids could sew by a worm's light;Nor the North Sea in spring send outBright hues that like birds flit aboutIn solid cages of white ice—Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.Thou hast not seen black fingers pickWhite cotton when the bloom is thick,Nor heard black throats in harmony;Nor hast thou sat on stones that lieFlat on the earth, that once did riseTo hide proud kings from common eyes.Thou hast not seen plains full of bloomWhere green things had such little roomThey pleased the eye like fairer flowers—Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;For thou hast made more homely stuffNurture thy gentle self enough;I love thee for a heart that's kind—Not for the knowledge in thy mind.William H. Davies

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,Thou knowest of no strange continent:Thou hast not felt thy bosom keepA gentle motion with the deep;Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,Where scent comes forth in every breeze.Thou hast not seen the rich grape growFor miles, as far as eyes can go;Thou hast not seen a summer's nightWhen maids could sew by a worm's light;Nor the North Sea in spring send outBright hues that like birds flit aboutIn solid cages of white ice—Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.Thou hast not seen black fingers pickWhite cotton when the bloom is thick,Nor heard black throats in harmony;Nor hast thou sat on stones that lieFlat on the earth, that once did riseTo hide proud kings from common eyes.Thou hast not seen plains full of bloomWhere green things had such little roomThey pleased the eye like fairer flowers—Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;For thou hast made more homely stuffNurture thy gentle self enough;I love thee for a heart that's kind—Not for the knowledge in thy mind.William H. Davies

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,

Thou knowest of no strange continent:

Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep

A gentle motion with the deep;

Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,

Where scent comes forth in every breeze.

Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow

For miles, as far as eyes can go;

Thou hast not seen a summer's night

When maids could sew by a worm's light;

Nor the North Sea in spring send out

Bright hues that like birds flit about

In solid cages of white ice—

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.

Thou hast not seen black fingers pick

White cotton when the bloom is thick,

Nor heard black throats in harmony;

Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie

Flat on the earth, that once did rise

To hide proud kings from common eyes.

Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom

Where green things had such little room

They pleased the eye like fairer flowers—

Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.

Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,

Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;

For thou hast made more homely stuff

Nurture thy gentle self enough;

I love thee for a heart that's kind—

Not for the knowledge in thy mind.

William H. Davies

WAITINGRich in the waning light she satWhile the fierce rain on the window spat.The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,Shadows cloaked the narrow placeShe sat adream in. Then she'd lookIdly upon an idle book;Anon would rise and musing peerOut at the misty street and drear;Or with her loosened dark hair play,Hiding her fingers' snow away;And, singing softly, would sing onWhen the desire of song had gone."O lingering day!" her bosom sighed,"O laggard Time!" each motion cried.Last she took the lamp and stoodRich in its flood,And looked and looked again at whatHer longing fingers' zeal had wrought;And turning then did nothing say,Hiding her thoughts away.John Freeman

Rich in the waning light she satWhile the fierce rain on the window spat.The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,Shadows cloaked the narrow placeShe sat adream in. Then she'd lookIdly upon an idle book;Anon would rise and musing peerOut at the misty street and drear;Or with her loosened dark hair play,Hiding her fingers' snow away;And, singing softly, would sing onWhen the desire of song had gone."O lingering day!" her bosom sighed,"O laggard Time!" each motion cried.Last she took the lamp and stoodRich in its flood,And looked and looked again at whatHer longing fingers' zeal had wrought;And turning then did nothing say,Hiding her thoughts away.John Freeman

Rich in the waning light she sat

While the fierce rain on the window spat.

The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,

Shadows cloaked the narrow place

She sat adream in. Then she'd look

Idly upon an idle book;

Anon would rise and musing peer

Out at the misty street and drear;

Or with her loosened dark hair play,

Hiding her fingers' snow away;

And, singing softly, would sing on

When the desire of song had gone.

"O lingering day!" her bosom sighed,

"O laggard Time!" each motion cried.

Last she took the lamp and stood

Rich in its flood,

And looked and looked again at what

Her longing fingers' zeal had wrought;

And turning then did nothing say,

Hiding her thoughts away.

John Freeman

THE SICK CHILDChild.O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!O mother, mother, where am I now?Why is the room so gaunt and great?Why am I lying awake so late?Mother.Fear not at all: the night is still.Nothing is here that means you ill—Nothing but lamps the whole town through,And never a child awake but you.Child.Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,Some of the things are so great and near,Some are so small and far away,I have a fear that I cannot say.What have I done, and what do I fear,And why are you crying, mother dear?Mother.Out in the city, sounds begin.Thank the kind God, the carts come in!An hour or two more, and God is so kind,The day shall be blue in the window blind,Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.Robert Louis Stevenson

Child.O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!O mother, mother, where am I now?Why is the room so gaunt and great?Why am I lying awake so late?Mother.Fear not at all: the night is still.Nothing is here that means you ill—Nothing but lamps the whole town through,And never a child awake but you.Child.Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,Some of the things are so great and near,Some are so small and far away,I have a fear that I cannot say.What have I done, and what do I fear,And why are you crying, mother dear?Mother.Out in the city, sounds begin.Thank the kind God, the carts come in!An hour or two more, and God is so kind,The day shall be blue in the window blind,Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.Robert Louis Stevenson

Child.O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!O mother, mother, where am I now?Why is the room so gaunt and great?Why am I lying awake so late?

Child.O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!

O mother, mother, where am I now?

Why is the room so gaunt and great?

Why am I lying awake so late?

Mother.Fear not at all: the night is still.Nothing is here that means you ill—Nothing but lamps the whole town through,And never a child awake but you.

Mother.Fear not at all: the night is still.

Nothing is here that means you ill—

Nothing but lamps the whole town through,

And never a child awake but you.

Child.Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,Some of the things are so great and near,Some are so small and far away,I have a fear that I cannot say.What have I done, and what do I fear,And why are you crying, mother dear?

Child.Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,

Some of the things are so great and near,

Some are so small and far away,

I have a fear that I cannot say.

What have I done, and what do I fear,

And why are you crying, mother dear?

Mother.Out in the city, sounds begin.Thank the kind God, the carts come in!An hour or two more, and God is so kind,The day shall be blue in the window blind,Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.Robert Louis Stevenson

Mother.Out in the city, sounds begin.

Thank the kind God, the carts come in!

An hour or two more, and God is so kind,

The day shall be blue in the window blind,

Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,

And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.

Robert Louis Stevenson

STILLNESSWhen the words rustle no more,And the last work's done,When the bolt lies deep in the door,And Fire, our Sun,Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;When from the clock's last chime to the next chimeSilence beats his drum,And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother TimeWheeling and whispering come,She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,I am emptied of all my dreams:I only hear Earth turning, only seeEther's long bankless streams,And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.James Elroy Flecker

When the words rustle no more,And the last work's done,When the bolt lies deep in the door,And Fire, our Sun,Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;When from the clock's last chime to the next chimeSilence beats his drum,And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother TimeWheeling and whispering come,She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,I am emptied of all my dreams:I only hear Earth turning, only seeEther's long bankless streams,And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.James Elroy Flecker

When the words rustle no more,And the last work's done,When the bolt lies deep in the door,And Fire, our Sun,Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;

When the words rustle no more,

And the last work's done,

When the bolt lies deep in the door,

And Fire, our Sun,

Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;

When from the clock's last chime to the next chimeSilence beats his drum,And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother TimeWheeling and whispering come,She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:

When from the clock's last chime to the next chime

Silence beats his drum,

And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time

Wheeling and whispering come,

She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:

Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,I am emptied of all my dreams:I only hear Earth turning, only seeEther's long bankless streams,And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.James Elroy Flecker

Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,

I am emptied of all my dreams:

I only hear Earth turning, only see

Ether's long bankless streams,

And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.

James Elroy Flecker

LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER'S PICTUREO that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,"Grieve not, my child—chase all thy fears away!"...My Mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss,Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was. Where thou art goneAdieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished, I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived,By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe ofto-morroweven from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learnt at last submission to my lot.But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrappedIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fairThat memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm, that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit, or confectionery plum;The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall....William Cowper

O that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,"Grieve not, my child—chase all thy fears away!"...My Mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss,Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was. Where thou art goneAdieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished, I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived,By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe ofto-morroweven from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learnt at last submission to my lot.But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrappedIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fairThat memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm, that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit, or confectionery plum;The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall....William Cowper

O that those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,

"Grieve not, my child—chase all thy fears away!"...

My Mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,

Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss,

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—

Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

And, turning from my nursery window, drew

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such?—It was. Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

What ardently I wished, I long believed,

And, disappointed still, was still deceived,

By expectation every day beguiled,

Dupe ofto-morroweven from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learnt at last submission to my lot.

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day,

Drew me to school along the public way,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped,

'Tis now become a history little known,

That once we called the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair

That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionery plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall....

William Cowper

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