I

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the

shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavement

grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

A

MARGARITAE SORORI

LATE lark twitters in the quiet skies;
And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, grey city

An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires

Shine, and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on.

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

The sun

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night—

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing.

My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,

Death.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

THE LOVE SONG OF HAR DYAL

A

LONE upon the housetops to the North

I turn and watch the lightning in the sky— The glamour of thy footsteps in the North. Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.

Below my feet the still bazaar is laid—
Far, far below the weary camels lie—

The camels and the
Come back to me,

captives of thy raid.

Beloved, or I die.

My father's wife is old and harsh with years
And drudge of all my father's house am I—
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.

RUDYARD KIPLING