But not on a shell, she starts,
Archaic, for the sea.
But on the first-found weed
She scuds the glitters,
Noiselessly, like one more wave.

She too is discontent
And would have purple stuff upon her arms,
Tired of the salty harbors,
Eager for the brine and bellowing
Of the high interiors of the sea.

The wind speeds her,
Blowing upon her hands.
And watery back.
She touches the clouds, where she goes
In the circle of her traverse of the sea.

Yet this is meagre play
In the scrurry and water-shine,

But how many merry monthes be in the yeere?
 There are thirteen, I say;
The midsum m er moone is the merryest of all,
 Next to the merry month of May.

In May, when mayds beene fast weepand,
 Young men their hands done wringe,

*****

‘I'le . . pe . . . . .
 Over may noe man for villanie:’
‘I'le never eate nor drinke,’ Ro bin Hood sa[id],
 ‘Till I that cutted friar see.’

He builded his men in a brake of fearne,
 A litle from that nunery;
Sayes, If you heare my litle horne blow,
 Then looke you come to me.

A Picture by Leighton

But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow!
Let them once more absorb me! One look now
Will lap me round for ever, not to pass
Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond:
Hold me but safe again within the bond
Of one immortal look! All woe that was,
Forgotten, and all terror that may be,
Defied, — no past is mine, no future: look at me!

With footstep slow, in furry pall yclad,
His brows enwreath'd with holly never-sear,
Old Christmas comes, to close the wained year;
And ay the Shepherd's heart to make right glad;
Who, when his teeming flocks are homeward had,
To blazing hearth repairs, and nut-brown beer,
And views, well-pleas'd, the ruddy prattlers dear
Hug the grey mungrel; meanwhile maid and lad
Squabble for roasted crabs. — Thee, Sire, we hail,
Whether thine aged limbs thou dost enshroud,
In vest of snowy white, and hoary veil,

This Morn ere yet had rung the matin peal,
The cursed Merlin, with his potent spell,
Aggriev'd me sore, and from his wizard cell,
(First fixing on mine eyes a magic seal)
Millions of ghosts and shadowy shapes let steal;
Who, swarming round my couch, with horrid yell,
Chatter'd and moe'd, as though from deepest Hell
They had escap'd.—I oft, with fervent zeal,
Essay'd, and prayer, to mar th'Enchanter's Pow'r.
In vain; for thicker still the crew came on,
And now had weigh'd me down, but that the Day

Busy in study be thou, child,
And in the hall, meek and mild,
And at the table, merry and glad,
And at bed, soft and sad.

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow?
Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
 And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?
 Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bony bony bride?

Bus driver,
Tram driver,
Driver of a train:
They take us out,
And bring us back again.
Tram conductor,
Bus conductor,
Train guard too:
They look after us,
Tell us what to do.
Bus men, train men,
Tram men, and motor men:
For all you do for us
W E THANK YOU !

Bury the Dragon's Teeth!
Bury them deep and dark!
The incisors swart and stark,
The molars heavy and dark —
And the one white Fang underneath!

Bury the Hope Forlorn!
Never shudder to fling,
With its fellows dusky and worn,
The strong and beautiful thing,
(Pallid ivory and pearl!)
Into the horrible Pit —
Hurry it in, and hurl
All the rest over it!

Trample them, clod by clod,
Stamp them in dust amain!
The cuspids, cruent and red,
That the Monster, Freedom, shed
On the sacred, strong Slave-Sod —

" BURY me, " the bishop said,
" Close to my geranium bed;
Lay me near the gentle birch.
It is lonely in the church,
And its vaults are damp and chill!
Noble men sleep there, but still
House me in the friendly grass!
Let the linnets sing my mass! "

Dying Swithin had his whim
And the green sod covered him.

Then what holy celebrations
And what rapturous adorations,
Joy no worldly pen may paint —
Swithin had been made a saint!
Yet the monks forgot that he
Craved for blossom, bird and bee,