Summer
Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead:
The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil,
Healthful and strong; full as the summer-rose
Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid,
Half naked, swelling on the sight, and all
Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek.
E'en stooping age is here; and infant hands
Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load
O'ercharged, amid the kind oppression roll.
Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row
Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,
They spread the breathing harvest to the sun,
That throws refreshful round a rural smell:
Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground,
And drive the dusky wave along the mead,
The russet hay-cock rises thick behind,
In order gay. While heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice
Of happy labour, love, and social glee.
poem by James Thomson
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Related quotes
Ride Cowboy Ride
Up in the morning at the break of day
You'll hear a big bearded cowboy at the chuck wagon say
"Gather 'round boys, the coffee's hot on the fire
There's a full day of branding, we're heating the iron
I want to smell that scorched hair and burning hide
The horses have grain boys, they're ready to ride
Roll up your bed rolls and jump in your boots
Daylight is a-wastin', boys, it's out of the shoots"
Come on and ride, cowboy, ride
Roll up your riatas and pull your sombreros down tight
We're going to ride, ride, ride where the trail will wind
You'd better drive, drive, drive or we'll leave you behind
Come on and ride, ride, ride, cowboy, ride
It's a beautiful morning and you've had a good rest
You ropers get ready to be at your best
Saddle them ponies and tighten the cinch (Yahoo!)
Pull on your gloves and take your hat off the fence
We'll take the cattle to market, and after they're sold
You can all let your hair down, get lazy or bold
Riding to town to find a lady or two
She'll take you by the arms and shake the dust off your boots
Come on and ride, cowboy, ride
Roll up your riatas and pull your sombreros down tight
We're going to ride, ride, ride where the trail will wind
You'd better drive, drive, drive or we'll leave you behind
Come on and ride, ride, ride, cowboy, ride
Come on and ride, cowboy, ride
Roll up your riatas and pull your sombreros down tight
We're going to ride, ride, ride where the trail will wind
You'd better drive, drive, drive or we'll leave you behind
Come on and ride, ride, ride, cowboy, ride
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Landrail
How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain
We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn
And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain
Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out
If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through
Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds
They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get
And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky
And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long
The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up
Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on
Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they weed the wheat
Discover where they lay
And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest
In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round
A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rejoice
(jon anderson)
Rejoice forward out this feeling
Ten true summers long
We go round and round and round and round
Until we pick it up again
Time flies, on and on it goes
Thru the setting sun
Carry round and round and round and round
Until it comes to carry you home
Rejoice forward out this feeling
The white eagle soars
He goes round and round and round
Until the early winds of change
Dawns new light conquering timeless ease
Spread the harvest breeze
Let our hour of passion
Gently hold our heads on high with you
Gently hold our heads on high
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Clouded Morning
The morning comes, and thickening clouds prevail,
Hanging like curtains all the horizon round,
Or overhead in heavy stillness sail;
So still is day, it seems like night profound;
Scarce by the city's din the air is stirred,
And dull and deadened comes its every sound;
The cock's shrill, piercing voice subdued is heard,
By the thick folds of muffling vapors drowned.
Dissolved in mists the hills and trees appear,
Their outlines lost and blended with the sky;
And well-known objects, that to all are near,
No longer seem familiar to the eye,
But with fantastic forms they mock the sight,
As when we grope amid the gloom of night.
poem by Jones Very
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The Mead Was Green
My heart doesn’t bleed
My eyes do not wet
For too long I’m in the parched mead
For too long and it’s late!
When I came the mead was green
I could sow in the fertile land
The river was flowing joyfully clean
Not losing its way in the sand!
But I sowed only venom and fire
They drove away the waiting rain
Lo there was no green that dreams aspire
Dark nights howled in pain!
I let it go on for too long
The river dried up like my tears
Blood took away the last bird’s song
Leaving mead of wasted years!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Eclogue the Third Abra
SCENE, a forest TIME, the Evening
In Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are seen,
In distant view along the level green,
While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,
And the tall forests cast a longer shade,
Amidst the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,
Emyra sung the pleasing cares of love.
Of Abra first began the tender strain,
Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain.
At morn she came those willing flocks to lead,
Where lilies rear them in the watery mead;
From early dawn the livelong hours she told,
Till late at silent ev'n she penned the fold.
Deep in the grove beneath the secret shade,
A various wreath of odorous flowers she made.
Gay-motleyed pinks and sweet jonquils she chose,
The violet-blue that on the moss-bank grows;
All-sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there;
The finished chaplet well-adorned her hair.
Great Abbas chanced that fated morn to stray,
By love conducted from the chase away;
Among the vocal vales he heard her song,
And sought the vales and echoing groves among.
At length he found and wooed the rural maid:
She knew the monarch, and with fear obeyed.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
The royal lover bore her from the plain,
Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain:
Oft as she went, she backward turned her view,
And bade that crook and bleating flock adieu.
Fair happy maid! to other scenes remove,
To richer scenes of golden power and love!
Go leave the simple pipe and shepherd's strain,
With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
Yet midst the blaze of courts she fixed her love
On the cool fountain or the shady grove;
Still with the shepherd's innocence her mind
To the sweet vale and flowery mead inclined,
And oft as spring renewed the plains with flowers,
Breathed his soft gales and led the fragrant hours,
With sure return she sought the sylvan scene,
The breezy mountains and the forests green.
Her maids around her moved, a duteous band!
Each bore a crook all-rural in her hand.
Some simple lay of flocks and herds they sung;
With joy the mountain and the forest rung.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
And oft the royal lover left the care
And thorns of state, attendant on the fair:
Oft to the shades and low-roofed cots retired,
Or sought the vale where first his heart was fired;
A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,
And thought of crowns and busy courts no more.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
Blest was the life that royal Abbas led:
Sweet was his love and innocent his bed.
What if in wealth the noble maid excel;
The simple shepherd girl can love as well.
Let those who rule on Persia's jewelled throne,
Be famed for love and gentlest love alone:
Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.
Oh happy days! the maids around her say,
Oh haste, profuse of blessings, haste away!
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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The old farm yard
I see a spade making holes
and shoots of peach trees
Appearing in rows in an orchard.
There’s a hot sun
that hangs above in a bright blue sky
and sweat flow in streams,
from under the old dark brown hat.
The old red Massi Ferguson tractors
machine has turned for a last time
and red dirt lies blown thick,
where it stands on the side against an old oak tree.
At the shed there’s a big silver tank
full of expensive diesoline
and I hear the boreholes
pump humming monotonous
and I see spill points in the distance
spraying water on the field
and the smell of wet ground
hangs like a blessing
in the air.
An old big Cock
raise its white wings
and crows angrily,
when the green John Deere tractor
with its trailer full of workers
stop in front of the homestead
Where it stands and scratches.
It’s great to eat country fare,
but the peace and tranquillity
on the old farm yard
me desire
to also live at such a place.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Merry-Go-Round
Merry-go-round, merry-go-round,
Up in the sky.
Merry-go-round, merry-go-round,
Soars me high!
Breeze rustles,
cloud's castles,
Roam round and round!
I shriek in false fear,
Seeing the thing near,
which I never have found.
Merry-go-round, merry-go-round,
Brings the fun to me,
Merry-go-round, merry-go-round,
Fills mind with glee!
Moving round, round,
Touching the ground,
Almost kisses the sky.
Merry-go-round, merry-go-round,
Takes me up in the high!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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The Reapers In Autumn
Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,
And unperceived, unfolds the spreading day;
Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand,
In fair array.
At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves;
While through their cheerful band the rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.
Behind, the master walks, builds up the shocks:
And, conscious, glancing oft on every side
His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandman! but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh think!
How good the God of harvest is to you,
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields;
While these unhappy partners of your kind
Wide hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,
And ask their humble dole. The various turns
Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want
What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give.
poem by James Thomson
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Scene Between May and June
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared e'en for play.
Was nought around but images of rest,
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest
From poppies breath'd, and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meatime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurl'd everywhere their water's sheen,
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds y-blent inclined all to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale above,
A sable, silent, solemn, forest stood,
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood;
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of black'ning pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.
A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky;
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures, always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smack'd of noyace or unrest,
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.
poem by James Thomson
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The Old Witch in the Copse
I am a Witch, and a kind old Witch,
There's many a one knows that--
Alone I live in my little dark house
With Pillycock, my cat.
A girl came running through the night,
When all the winds blew free:--
'O mother, change a young man's heart
That will not look on me.
O mother, brew a magic mead
To stir his heart so cold.'
'Just as you will, my dear,' said I;
'And I thank you for your gold.'
So here am I in the wattled copse
Where all the twigs are brown,
To find what I need to brew my mead
As the dark of night comes down.
Primroses in my old hands,
Sweet to smell and young,
And violets blue that spring in the grass
Wherever the larks have sung.
With celandines as heavenly crowns
Yellowy-gold and bright; All of these,
O all of these,
Shall bring her Love's delight.
But orchids growing snakey green
Speckled dark with blood,
And fallen leaves that curled and shrank
And rotted in the mud,
With blistering nettles burning harsh
And blinding thorns above;
All of these, O all of these
Shall bring the pains of Love.
Shall bring the pains of Love, my Puss,
That cease not night or day,
The bitter rage, nought can assuage
Till it bleeds the heart away.
Pillycock mine, my hands are full
My pot is on the fire.
Purr, my pet, this fool shall get
Her fool's desire.
poem by Frances Darwin Cornford
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To Simplicity
[Inscribed to Lady Duncannon.]
SWEET blushing Nymph, who loves to dwell
In the dark forest's silent gloom;
Who smiles within the Hermit's cell,
And sighs upon the rustic's tomb;
Who, pitying, sees the busy throng,
The slaves of fashion's giddy sway;
Who in a wild and artless song,
Warbles the feath'ry hours away.
Oft have I flown thy steps to trace,
In the low valley's still retreat,
Oft have I view'd thy blooming face,
In the small cottage, proudly neat!
I've seen thee, veil'd in vestal lawn,
In the cold cloyster's hallow'd shade;
I've seen thee, at the peep of dawn,
In simple, russet garb array'd.
I've seen thee, crowned with APRIL flow'rs,
Light bounding o'er the rural mead;
I've heard thee in sequester'd bow'rs
Sing to the SHEPHERD'S past'ral reed;
When pleasure led the nymphs along
In moonlight gambols o'er the green,
I've mark'd THEE, fairest of the throng,
With modest eye and timid mien.
No more my eager gaze shall trace
Thy varying footsteps, blithe and free;
For what art thou, but native grace,
Soft Beauty's child, SIMPLICITY?
'Tis thine in every path to dwell,
Where TRUTH and INNOCENCE are seen,
In cottage low, or Hermit's cell,
Or splendid dome, or rural green.
The spotless MIND, the brow serene,
'Tis THINE, enchanting Maid, to boast!
The sweet, benignant, humble mien,
And all that VIRTUE values most!
Thy blushes paint DUNCANNONS's cheek,
Thy light hand weaves her golden hair,
Around her form, THY charms I'll seek,
FOR ALL THE GRACES REVEL THERE!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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The Farmer's Bride
Three summers since I chose a maid,
Too young maybe-but more's to do
At harvest-time that a bide and woo.
When us was wed she turned afraid
Of love and me and all things human;
Like the shut of winter's day
Her smile went out, and `twadn't a woman-
More like a little frightened fay.
One night, in the Fall, she runned away.
"Out 'mong the sheep, her be," they said,
Should properly have been abed;
But sureenough she wadn't there
Lying awake with her wide brown stare.
So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down
We chased her, flying like a hare
Before out lanterns. To Church-Town
All in a shiver and a scare
We caught her, fetched her home at last
And turned the key upon her, fast.
She does the work about the hosue
As well as most, but like a mouse:
Happy enough to cheat and play
With birds and rabbits and such as they,
So long as men-folk keep away
"Not near, not near!" her eyes beseech
When one of us comes within reach.
The woman say that beasts in stall
Look round like children at her call.
I've hardly heard her speak at all.
Shy as a leveret, swift as he,
Straight and slight as a young larch tree,
Sweet as the first wild violets, she,
To her wild self. But what to me?
The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,
The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,
One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,
A magpie's spotted feathers lie
An the black earth spread white with rime,
The berries redden up to Christmas-time.
What's Christmas-time without there be
Some other in the house than we!
She sleeps up in the attic there
Alone, poor maid. `Tis but a stair
Betwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,
The soft young down of her, the brown,
The brown of her-her eyes, her hair, her hair!
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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My Cottage Home
My cottage home! my cottage home!
How beautiful it lies,
Amid its quiet loveliness,
Beneath our bright blue skies.
A stranger's eye might mark it not,
Nor deem that it was fair;—
To me it is a lovely spot,
For those I love are there.
In summer there are wild flowers round,
And the tall forest weaves
A drapery of light and shade,
With its green and pleasant leaves;
And thousand birds are pouring out,
To the gay and singing breeze,
From the wild joys of their leaping hearts,
A thousand melodies.
The shadowing of an oak's green boughs
Is flung the low roof o'er;
And clambering vines their blossoms hang
About the open door.
And round the harvest's ripening wealth
Waves in its yellow light;
And the feathery tassels of the maize
Bend gracefully and slight.
But were it thousand times more fair—
If o'er the fertile soil
Oppression shook her manacles,
And scourged the slave to toil—
To me the rudest desert wild
Were better for my home,
So never on its arid breeze
The voice of wrong might come.
But round my home, my cottage home,
The tyrant never treads,
And o'er the field's luxuriant wealth
No slave his sad tear sheds.
And were it not that I have learn'd
In other scenes to know
Of deeds of cruelty and wrong,
And of the oppress'd ones’ woe—
And were it not that still a tale
Is wafted on the air,
Telling of fearful injuries,
And anguish and despair;
I might, perchance, almost forget
The guilt and wrongs of earth,
And deem that brightness gleam'd, alone,
Around the household hearth.
But woe for man's dark cruelty!
His selfishness and pride!
For him the earth is drench'd with tears,
With human life-blood dyed.
In his own freedom glorying,
He lifts his voice on high,
While on his brother's shrinking form
His crushing fetters lie.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Stanzas
WHEN fragrant gales and summer show'rs
Call'd forth the sweetly scented flow'rs;
When ripen'd sheaves of golden grain,
Strew'd their rich treasures o'er the plain;
When the full grape did nectar yield,
In tepid drops of purple hue;
When the thick grove, and thirsty field,
Drank the soft show'r and bloom'd a-new;
O then my joyful heart did say,
"Sure this is Nature's Holy-day!"
But when the yellow leaf did fade,
And every gentle flow'r decay'd;
When whistling winds, and drenching rain,
Swept with rude force the naked plain;
When o'er the desolated scene,
I saw the drifted snow descend;
And sadness darken'd all the green,
And Nature's triumphs seem'd to end;
O! then, my mourning heart did say,
"Thus Youth shall vanish, Life decay."
When Beauty blooms, and Fortune smiles,
And wealth the easy breast beguiles;
When pleasure from her downy wings,
Her soft bewitching incense flings;
THEN, Friends look kindand round the heart
The brightest flames of passion move,
False Flatt'ry's soothing strains impart
The warmest Friendshipfondest Love;
But when capricious FORTUNE flies,
Then FRIENDSHIP fades;and PASSION dies.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Love Sonnet XXIX
Dearest, there is no part of us, but air
And earth are counterparts. Your fragrant eyes
Touching my own, some essence of the skies
Instil therein, and all your warm, brown hair
Smells of the sun’s slow passion, fine and fair.
I cannot touch your hands but I surprise
Some element of summer; and the sighs
Of stars from your red lips I seem to share.
O Love…Love…Love…Dearer than God to me.
Earth of the earth are we and light of light.
God-born, God-breathing, all our scented souls
In Death will glow, gladdening eternity.
So give me love…all love…this perfect night
As round our naked limbs its full fire rolls.
poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
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The Old Witch in the Copse
I am a Witch, and a kind old Witch,
There's many a one knows that--
Alone I live in my little dark house
With Pillycock, my cat.
A girl came running through the night,
When all the winds blew free:--
"O mother, change a young man's heart
That will not look on me.
O mother, brew a magic mead
To stir his heart so cold."
"Just as you will, my dear," said I;
"And I thank you for your gold."
So here am I in the wattled copse
Where all the twigs are brown,
To find what I need to brew my mead
As the dark of night comes down.
Primroses in my old hands,
Sweet to smell and young,
And violets blue that spring in the grass
Wherever the larks have sung.
With celandines as heavenly crowns
Yellowy-gold and bright; All of these,
O all of these,
Shall bring her Love's delight.
But orchids growing snakey green
Speckled dark with blood,
And fallen leaves that curled and shrank
And rotted in the mud,
With blistering nettles burning harsh
And blinding thorns above;
All of these, O all of these
Shall bring the pains of Love.
Shall bring the pains of Love, my Puss,
That cease not night or day,
The bitter rage, nought can assuage
Till it bleeds the heart away.
Pillycock mine, my hands are full
My pot is on the fire.
Purr, my pet, this fool shall get
Her fool's desire.
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Life Of The Leaf
Colouring the seasons up and down,
and all around with green, red and brown,
on the end of the fingers of trees,
we dance together in the breeze,
going to and fro, always in a flap and a flutter,
whilst on the ground we block the gutter,
back to the soil which gave us birth,
decomposing upon nature’s earth.
During the seasons of summer and spring,
we suckle upon the light the sun does bring,
giving our grand mother tree,
some of Mother Nature’s energy,
absorbing her warm and loving kiss,
whilst giving you oxygen from photosynthesis,
for you see the air that you breathe,
is our gift to you, which you gladly receive.
Once we’ve died and settled upon the grass,
where the wind did come to pass,
you show us great respect,
by bending knee in genuflect,
with a broom or rake in hand,
you return us to the soil and sand,
so once again we can feed,
our mother tree, so she can seed,
and give birth to the next generation,
of leaves, who then dance in life’s celebration.
poem by Dale Mullock
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The Naturalist's Summer-Evening Walk
To Thomas Pennant, Esquire.
... equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis
Ingenium.
Virg., Georg.
When day declining sheds a milder gleam,
What time the may-fly haunts the pool or stream;
When the still owl skims round the grassy mead,
What time the timorous hare limps forth to feed;
Then be the time to steal adown the vale,
And listen to the vagrant cuckoo's tale;
To hear the clamorous curlew call his mate,
Or the soft quail his tender pain relate;
To see the swallow sweep the dark'ning plain
Belated, to support her infant train;
To mark the swift in rapid giddy ring
Dash round the steeple, unsubdu'd of wing:
Amusive birds! -- say where your hid retreat
When the frost rages and the tempests beat;
Whence your return, by such nice instinct led,
When spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head?
Such baffled searches mock man's prying pride,
The God of Nature is your secret guide!
While deep'ning shades obscure the face of day
To yonder bench leaf-shelter'd let us stray,
'Till blended objects fail the swimming sight,
And all the fading landscape sinks in night;
To hear the drowsy dorr come brushing by
With buzzing wing, or the shrill cricket cry;
To see the feeding bat glance through the wood;
To catch the distant falling of the flood;
While o'er the cliff th'awakened churn-owl hung
Through the still gloom protracts his chattering song;"
While high in air, and pois'd upon his wings,
Unseen, the soft, enamour'd woodlark sings:
These, Nature's works, the curious mind employ,
Inspire a soothing melancholy joy:
As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain
Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping vein!
Each rural sight, each sound, each smell, combine;
The tinkling sheep-bell, or the breath of kine;
The new-mown hay that scents the swelling breeze,
Or cottage-chimney smoking through the trees.
The chilling night-dews fall: away, retire;
For see, the glow-worm lights her amorous fire!
Thus, ere night's veil had half obscur'd the sky,
Th'impatient damsel hung her lamp on high:
True to the signal, by love's meteor led,
Leander hasten'd to his Hero's bed.
I am , & c.
poem by Gilbert White
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Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 XIV. Fly, Some Kind Haringer, To Grasmere-Dale
FLY, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child--
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild--
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.
poem by William Wordsworth
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