Oh hearken when the echoes bring
Down the grey disastrous morn
Laughter and rallying!

III

Along the earth and up the sky
The Fowler spreads his net:
O soul, what pinions wild and shy
Are on thy shoulders set?
What wings of longing undeterred
Are native to thee, spirit bird?
What sky is thine behind the sky,
For refuge and for ecstasy?
Of all thy heaven of clear delight
Why is each heaven twain,

O soul! that when the lure is cast

Before thy heedless flight,

And thou art snared and taken fast

Within one sky of light,

Behold, the net is empty, the cast is vain,

And from thy circling in the other sky the lyric laughters rain!

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

SL

LITTLE BLUE PIGEON

LEEP, little pigeon, and fold your wings-
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;

Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

Away out yonder I see a star

Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling-
Calling and tinkling the night along.

In through the window a moonbeam comes-
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks; "Is he sleeping-
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"

Up from the sea there floats the sob

Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning,

Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.

But Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings-
Little blue pigeon, with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.

EUGENE FIELD

PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS WILD

IPING down the valleys wild,

PPiping songs of pleasant glee,

On a cloud I saw a child,
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.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"
So I sung the song again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write,
In a book that all may read."
So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen;

And I stained the water clear
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

WILLIAM BLAKE