I met a Lady in the meads, I set her on my pacing steed, I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. She found me roots of relish sweet, She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes, So kissed to sleep. And there we slumber'd on the moss, I saw pale kings, and princes too, I saw their starved lips in the gloom And this is why I sojourn here Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, 7. Keats XVI WINTER When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the Shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail ; When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl Tuwhoo! Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all around the wind doth blow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note W. Shakespeare XVII THE INCHCAPE ROCK No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, Without either sign or sound of their shock The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell, The sun in heaven was shining gay, The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen He felt the cheering power of spring, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float; The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.' Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away, He scour'd the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plunder'd store, So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 'Can'st hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore; Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.' They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: Cried they, 'It is the Inchcape Rock!' Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, R. Southey XVIII WRITTEN IN MARCH The cock is crowing, The green field sleeps in the sun; Are at work with the strongest ; |