The Children's Garland from the Best Poets E-Book

Various

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The Children's Garland from the Best Poets is a poignant anthology designed to introduce young readers to the rich tapestry of English poetry through the works of esteemed poets such as William Wordsworth, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Christina Rossetti. This curated collection marvelously aligns with the Romantic and Victorian literary movements, showcasing verses that blend whimsical imagination with moral depth. The book's approachable style includes simple yet captivating language, making it an ideal gateway for children to engage with poetic forms like nursery rhymes and narrative verse. The various authors included in this collection were driven by a desire to spark an early appreciation for literature in children. Many of the contributing poets were themselves parents and educators, keen on nurturing the moral and aesthetic sensibilities of the next generation. By selecting poems that resonate with themes of nature, childhood, and human experience, they intended to create a foundation that encourages creativity and emotional growth. This anthology is a must-read for parents, educators, and young poetry enthusiasts alike. It serves not only as a delightful introduction to the world of poetry but also as a timeless resource for fostering imagination and understanding. Whether read aloud or explored independently, The Children's Garland from the Best Poets promises to enchant and inspire.

Leseprobe

Various

The Children's Garland from the Best Poets

Published by Good Press, 2019

[email protected]

EAN 4064066176228

Table of Contents

The Children's Garland from the Best Poets

I

THE CHILD AND THE PIPER

II

ON MAY MORNING

III

THE APPROACH OF THE FAIRIES

IV

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

V

THE BROOK

VI

STARS

VII

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

VIII

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES

IX

THE FERRYMAN, VENUS, AND CUPID

X

SONG

XI

LUCY GRAY

XII

RAIN IN SUMMER

XIII

EPITAPH ON A HARE

XIV

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL

XV

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY

XVI

WINTER

XVII

THE INCHCAPE ROCK

XVIII

WRITTEN IN MARCH

XIX

LORD RANDAL

XX

JOHN BARLEYCORN

XXI

MARY-ANN'S CHILD

XXII

THE USEFUL PLOUGH

XXIII

A WREN'S NEST

XXIV

A FINE DAY

XXV

CASABIANCA

XXVI

SIGNS OF RAIN

XXVII

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX

XXVIII

THE RAINBOW

XXIX

THE RAVEN AND THE OAK

XXX

ODE TO THE CUCKOO

XXXI

ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE

XXXII

VIOLETS

XXXIII

THE PALMER

XXXIV

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

XXXV

THE SANDS O' DEE

XXXVI

THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE

XXXVII

A SEA DIRGE

XXXVIII

THE ANCIENT MARINER

XXXIX

SONG OF ARIEL

XL

HOW'S MY BOY?

XLI

THE SPANISH ARMADA

XLII

THE TAR FOR ALL WEATHERS

XLIII

THE FISHERMAN

XLIV

THE SAILOR

XLV

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

XLVI

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG

XLVII

ROSABELLE

XLVIII

THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT

XLIX

VERSES

L

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

LI

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

LII

THE BELEAGUERED CITY

LIII

JAFFAR

LIV

COLIN AND LUCY

LV

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY

LVI

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD

LVII

ROBIN REDBREAST

LVIII

THE OWL

LIX

HART LEAP WELL

LX

THE SUMMER SHOWER

LXI

THE MOUSE'S PETITION

LXII

THE GRASSHOPPER

LXIII

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME

LXIV

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH

LXV

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL

LXVI

EVENING

LXVII

THE PARROT

LXVIII

SONG

LXIX

THE BLIND BOY

LXX

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE

LXXI

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

LXXII

THE JOVIAL BEGGAR

LXXIII

BISHOP HATTO

LXXIV

THE OLD COURTIER

LXXV

JOHN GILPIN

LXXVI

THE MILKMAID

LXXVII

SIR SIDNEY SMITH

LXXVIII

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

LXXIX

THE TIGER

LXXX

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY

LXXXI

THE FAIRIES

LXXXII

THE SUFFOLK MIRACLE

LXXXIII

THE NIGHTINGALE

LXXXIV

ON A FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES

LXXXV

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH

LXXXVI

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM

LXXXVII

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

LXXXVIII

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

LXXXIX

NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR

XC

BOADICEA

XCI

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

XCII

LOVE AND GLORY

XCIII

AFTER BLENHEIM

XCIV

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

XCV

MAHMOUD

XCVI

AUTUMN

XCVII

THE RAVEN

XCVIII

THE NIX

XCIX

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

C

THE BEGGAR MAID

CI

THE WILD HUNTSMAN

CII

TO DAFFODILS

CIII

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

CIV

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN

CV

THE WITCHES' MEETING

CVI

ADELGITHA

CVII

THE COUNCIL OF HORSES

CVIII

ST. ROMUALD

CIX

LADY ALICE

CX

THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT

CXI

SPRING

CXII

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

CXIII

THE FOUNTAIN

CXIV

FAIR ROSAMUND

CXV

THE HITCHEN MAY-DAY SONG

CXVI

THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE

CXVII

LITTLE WHITE LILY

CXVIII

MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

CXIX

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

CXX

NONGTONGPAW

CXXI

POOR DOG TRAY

CXXII

THE FAITHFUL BIRD

CXXIII

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

CXXIV

THE SEA

CXXV

FIDELITY

CXXVI

THE FOX AND THE CAT

CXXVII

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY

CXXVIII

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST

CXXIX

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

CXXX

LULLABY FOR TITANIA

CXXXI

LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ELLINOR

CXXXII

QUEEN MAB

CXXXIII

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

CXXXIV

INCIDENT

CXXXV

KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS

CXXXVI

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL

CXXXVII

THE DÆMON LOVER

CXXXVIII

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM

CXXXIX

THE LADY TURNED SERVING-MAN

CXL

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED

CXLI

TO A WATER FOWL

CXLII

ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD

CXLIII

SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGN

CXLIV

THE NUN'S LAMENT FOR PHILIP SPARROW

CXLV

TO A BUTTERFLY

CXLVI

THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY

CXLVII

THE UNGRATEFUL CUPID

CXLVIII

THE KING OF THE CROCODILES

CXLIX

THE LION AND THE CUB

CL

THE SNAIL

CLI

THE COLUBRIAD

CLII

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRY-TREE

CLIII

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH

CLIV

SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE

CLV

THE THREE FISHERS

CLVI

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY

CLVII

THE FIRST SWALLOW

CLVIII

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

CLIX

THE THRUSH'S NEST

CLX

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

CLXI

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

CLXII

SONG

CLXIII

TIMOTHY

CLXIV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

CLXV

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS

CLXVI

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

CLXVII

THE WIDOW BIRD

CLXVIII

DORA

CLXIX

A WITCH

CLXX

NURSERY RHYMES

CLXXI

THE AGE OF CHILDREN HAPPIEST

CLXXII

THE NOBLE NATURE

CLXXIII

THE RAINBOW

INDEX OF WRITERS

Macmillan's Golden Treasury Series.

The Children's Garland from the Best Poets

Table of Contents

I

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THE CHILD AND THE PIPER

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Piping down the valleys wild,Piping 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 sang the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read.'So he vanish'd from my sight;And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.

W. Blake

II

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ON MAY MORNING

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Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flow'ry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspireMirth and youth and warm desire!Woods and groves are of thy dressing,Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

J. Milton

III

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THE APPROACH OF THE FAIRIES

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Now the hungry lion roars,And the wolf behowls the moon;Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,All with weary task foredone.Now the wasted brands do glow,Whilst the scritch owl, scritching loud,Puts the wretch that lies in woe,In remembrance of a shroud.Now it is the time of nightThat the graves, all gaping wide,Every one lets forth his sprite,In the churchway paths to glide:And we fairies, that do run,By the triple Hecate's team,From the presence of the sun,Following darkness like a dream,Now are frolic; not a mouseShall disturb this hallowed house:I am sent with broom before,To sweep the dust behind the door.

Through the house give glimmering light;By the dead and drowsy fire,Every elf and fairy sprite,Hop as light as bird from brier;And this ditty after me,Sing and dance it trippingly.First rehearse this song by rote,To each word a warbling note,Hand in hand, with fairy grace,We will sing, and bless this place.

W. Shakespeare

IV

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ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

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Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,The linnet, and thrush say 'I love, and I love!'In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong;What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song.But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,And singing and loving—all come back together.But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,The green fields below him, the blue sky above,That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he,'I love my Love, and my Love loves me.'

S. T. Coleridge

V

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THE BROOK

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I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my bank I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,

And draw them all along and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers,I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.

A. Tennyson

VI

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STARS

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They glide upon their endless way,For ever calm, for ever bright;No blind hurry, no delay,Mark the Daughters of the Night:They follow in the track of Day,In divine delight.

Shine on, sweet orbed Souls for aye,For ever calm, for ever bright:We ask not whither lies your way,Nor whence ye came, nor what your light.Be—still a dream throughout the day,A blessing through the night.

B. Cornwall

VII

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THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

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Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Come live with me and be my Love.

C. Marlowe

VIII

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THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES

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See the Kitten on the wall,Sporting with the leaves that fall,Withered leaves—one—two—and three—From the lofty elder tree!Through the calm and frosty airOf this morning bright and fair,Eddying round and round they sinkSoftly, slowly: one might thinkFrom the motions that are made,Every little leaf conveyedSylph or Fairy hither tending,To this lower world descending,Each invisible and mute,In his wavering parachute.—But the Kitten, how she starts,Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!First at one, and then its fellow,Just as light and just as yellow;There are many now—now one—Now they stop and there are none:What intenseness of desireIn her upward eye of fire!With a tiger-leap half-wayNow she meets the coming prey,Lets it go as fast, and thenHas it in her power again:Now she works with three or four,Like an Indian conjuror;Quick as he in feats of art,Far beyond in joy of heart.Were her antics played in the eyeOf a thousand standers-by,Clapping hands with shouts and stare,What would little Tabby careFor the plaudits of the crowd?Over happy to be proud,Over wealthy in the treasureOf her own exceeding pleasure!

W. Wordsworth

IX

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THE FERRYMAN, VENUS, AND CUPID

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As I a fare had lately past,And thought that side to ply,I heard one, as it were, in haste,A boat! a boat! to cry;Which as I was about to bring,And came to view my fraught,Thought I, what more than heavenly thingHath fortune hither brought?She, seeing mine eyes still on her were,Soon, smilingly, quoth she,Sirrah, look to your rudder there,Why look'st thou thus at me?And nimbly stepp'd into my boatWith her a little lad,Naked and blind, yet did I noteThat bow and shafts he had,And two wings to his shoulders fixt,Which stood like little sails,With far more various colours mixtThan be your peacocks' tails!I seeing this little dapper elfSuch arms as these to bear,Quoth I, thus softly to myself,What strange things have we here?I never saw the like, thought I,'Tis more than strange to me,To have a child have wings to fly,And yet want eyes to see.Sure this is some devised toy,Or it transform'd hath been,For such a thing, half bird, half boy,I think was never seen.And in my boat I turn'd about,And wistly view'd the lad,And clearly I saw his eyes were out,Though bow and shafts he had.As wistly she did me behold,How lik'st thou him? quoth she.Why, well, quoth I, the better should,Had he but eyes to see.How sayst thou, honest friend, quoth she,Wilt thou a 'prentice take?I think, in time, though blind he be,A ferryman he'll make.To guide my passage-boat, quoth I,His fine hands were not made;He hath been bred too wantonlyTo undertake my trade.Why, help him to a master, then,Quoth she, such youths be scant;It cannot be but there be menThat such a boy do want.Quoth I, when you your best have done,No better way you'll find,Than to a harper bind your son,Since most of them are blind.The lovely mother and the boyLaugh'd heartily thereat,As at some nimble jest or toy,To hear my homely chat.Quoth I, I pray you let me know,Came he thus first to light,Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow,Deprived of his sight?Nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born.'Tis strange, born blind! quoth I;I fear you put this as a scornOn my simplicity.Quoth she, thus blind I did him bear.Quoth I, if't be no lie,Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear,E'er practis'd archery.A man! quoth she, nay, there you miss,He's still a boy as now,Nor to be elder than he isThe gods will him allow.To be no elder than he is!Then sure he is some sprite,I straight reply'd. Again at thisThe goddess laugh'd outright.It is a mystery to me,An archer, and yet blind!Quoth I again, how can it be,That he his mark should find?The gods, quoth she, whose will it wasThat he should want his sight,That he in something should surpass,To recompense their spite,Gave him this gift, though at his gameHe still shot in the dark,That he should have so certain aim,As not to miss his mark.By this time we were come ashore,When me my fare she paid,But not a word she utter'd more,Nor had I her bewray'd.Of Venus nor of Cupid IBefore did never hear,But that a fisher coming byThen told me who they were.

M. Drayton

X

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SONG

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Under the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall we seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live in the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.

W. Shakespeare

XI

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LUCY GRAY

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Or Solitude

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.

'To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to lightYour mother through the snow.'

'That, Father, will I gladly do!'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!'

At this the Father raised his hook,And snapped a faggot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb;But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,'In heaven we all shall meet!'—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed;The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.

W. Wordsworth

XII

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RAIN IN SUMMER

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How beautiful is the rain!After the dust and the heat,In the broad and fiery street,In the narrow lane,How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,Like the tramp of hoofs!How it gushes and struggles outFrom the throat of the overflowing spout!Across the window-paneIt pours and pours;And swift and wide,With a muddy tide,Like a river down the gutter roarsThe rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looksAt the twisted brooks;He can feel the coolBreath of each little pool;His fevered brainGrows calm again,And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighbouring schoolCome the boys,With more than their wonted noiseAnd commotion;And down the wet streetsSail their mimic fleets,Till the treacherous poolEngulfs them in its whirlingAnd turbulent ocean.

In the country on every side,Where far and wide,Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hideStretches the plain,To the dry grass and the drier grainHow welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed landThe toilsome and patient oxen stand;Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,With their dilated nostrils spread,They silently inhaleThe clover-scented gale,And the vapours that ariseFrom the well-watered and smoking soil.For this rest in the furrow after toilTheir large and lustrous eyesSeem to thank the Lord,More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,From under the sheltering trees,The farmer seesHis pastures and his fields of grain,As they bend their topsTo the numberless beating dropsOf the incessant rain.He counts it as no sinThat he sees thereinOnly his own thrift and gain.

H. W. Longfellow

XIII

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EPITAPH ON A HARE

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Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursueNor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo!

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nurs'd with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,And milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippin's russet peel,And when his juicy salads failed,Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing himself around.

His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear,But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.

I kept him for his humours' sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut shade,He finds his long last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocksFrom which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney's box,Must soon partake his grave.

W. Cowper

XIV

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ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL

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Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)Awoke one night from a deep dream of peaceAnd saw within the moonlight in his room,Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,An angel writing in a book of gold:—Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,And to the Presence in the room he said,'What writest thou?'—The vision raised its head,And with a look made of all sweet accord,Answer'd, 'The names of those who love the Lord.''And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,But cheerly still; and said, 'I pray thee then,Write me as one that loves his fellow men.'

The angel wrote and vanished. The next nightIt came again with a great wakening light,And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'dAnd lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt

XV

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LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY

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Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,With anguish moist and fever dew;And on thy cheek a fading roseFast withereth too.

I met a Lady in the meads,Full beautiful, a fairy's child;Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,And nothing else saw all day long;For sideways would she lean and singA fairy's song.

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,And honey wild, and manna dew;And sure in language strange she said,I love thee true.

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,And there I dream'd, ah, woe betide,The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill-side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;Who cried 'La belle Dame sans mercyHath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloomWith horrid warning gaped wide,And I awoke and found me here,On the cold hill-side.

And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.

J. Keats

XVI

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WINTER

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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 owlTuwhoo!Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry noteWhile greasy Joan doth keel the pot.