One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest: Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flowers Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment: Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees, My dazzled sight he oft deceives— Pours forth a song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS WILD. 29 He mocked, and treated with disdain, William Wordsworth. PIPING down the valleys wild, And he, laughing, said to me: "Pipe a song about a lamb." So I piped, with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again." So I piped: he wept to hear. แ "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and write, And I plucked a hollow reed; And I made a rural pen; And I stained the water clear; William Blake. THE LAMB. LITTLE Lamb, who made thee? Little lamb, who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, William Blake. VIRTUE. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, SUMMER MORNING. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave- Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. SUMMER MORNING. George Herbert. MORNING again breaks through the mines of heaven, The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh, The uncolored clouds wear what she doth refuse, For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use. II. No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower; The spider's woof with silvery dew is hung 31 As it was beaded ere the daylight hour: III. From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring The wild-bird choirs-burst of the woodland band, 66 Morning again is come to light the land; The great world's Comforter, the mighty Sun, Hath yoked his golden steeds, the glorious race to run." IV. Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks, Have from their green high city-gates rushed out, The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout; And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold." V. "Hark! hark! the lark" sings mid the silvery blue, Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow. |