I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, I wind about, and in and out, And here and there a foamy flake With many a silvery water-break And draw them all along, and flow I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, I murmur under moon and stars I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, Alfred Tennyson A BOY'S SONG Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hazel bank is steepest, Why the boys should drive away But this I know, I love to play James Hogg GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind. Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. "Is this, is this your joy? Say, heart, is there aught like this Speed slackens now, I float Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall. Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there. SONG Henry Charles Beeching The year's at the spring, The hill-side's dew-pearled; The snail's on the thorn; All's right with the world! Robert Browning THE COMING OF SPRING There's something in the air There's something, too, that's new In the color of the blue That's in the morning sky, And though on plain and hill There's something seems to say And all this changing tint, And to-morrow or to-day And the next thing, in the woods, The catkins in their hoods Of fur and silk will stand, A sturdy little band. And the tassels soft and fine So, silently but swift, The long days gain and gain, Once more, and yet once more, We see the bloom of birth Make young again the earth. EARLY SPRING Once more the Heavenly Power And domes the red-plowed hills With loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too. Opens a door in Heaven; From skies of glass A Jacob's ladder falls On greening grass, And o'er the mountain-walls Young angels pass. Before them fleets the shower, And burst the buds, And shine the level lands, And flash the floods; The stars are from their hands Flung through the woods, Nora Perry |