IN THE WOOD. There is enough for every one, We might learn a lesson, all of us, Beneath the greenwood tree. Mary Howitt. IN THE WOOD. In the wood, where shadows are deepest Where the wild wood-strawberries cluster, I met to-day with a fairy, And I followed her where she led. Some magical words she uttered For the sky grew bluer and brighter, The cloudy walls of a palace. That was built in Fairy-land. And I stood in a strange enchantment; In my heart of hearts was the magic Of days that will come no more— The magic of joy departed, That Time can never restore. That never, ah, never, never, Never again can be. Shall I tell you what powerful fairy Built up this palace for me? I found at the root of a tree. Adelaide Anne Proctor. WHEN in the woods I wander all alone, (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, Weighing in thought the World's no happiness, I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, Since so plain joys the woody life can bless. Then live who may, where honeyed words prevail; I with the deer, and with the nightingale! Lord Thurlow. UNDER THE TREES. WHEN the summer days are bright and long, 'Tis sweet in the shady woods to lie, And gaze at the leaves, and the twinkling sky, SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. Drinking the while the rare, cool breeze, When winter comes, and the days are dim, Under the trees-under the trees! Summer or winter, day or night, The woods are an ever-new delight; They give us peace, and they make us strong, So, living or dying, I'll take mine ease Anonymous. SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. WHEN the wind blows In the sweet rose-tree, And the cow lows On the fragrant lea, And the stream flows All light and free, 'Tis not for me, 'tis not for thee; 'Tis not for any one here, I trow: The gentle wind bloweth, 11 O the Spring! the bountiful Spring! Where come the sheep? To the rich man's moor. Where cometh sleep? To the bed that's poor. Peasants must weep, And kings endure; This is a fate that none can cure: For all below! O the Spring! the bountiful Spring! Barry Cornwall. SONG. Now the lusty Spring is seen And enticing men to pull, LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. Yet the lusty Spring hath stayed; Blushing red and purest white Every woman, every maid. All love's emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not plucked, we die." Beaumont and Fletcher. LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and played, 13 |