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IN THE WOOD.

There is enough for every one,
And they lovingly agree;
We might learn a lesson, all of us,
Beneath the greenwood tree.

Mary Howitt.

IN THE WOOD.

In the wood, where shadows are deepest
From the branches overhead,

Where the wild wood-strawberries cluster,
And the softest moss is spread,

I met to-day with a fairy,

And I followed her where she led.

Some magical words she uttered
I alone could understand,
For the sky grew bluer and brighter,
While there rose on either hand

The cloudy walls of a palace.

That was built in Fairy-land.

And I stood in a strange enchantment;
I had known it all before:

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?
It was only a little white Violet
I found at the root of a tree.

Adelaide Anne Proctor.

WHEN in the woods I wander all alone,

The woods, that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a Prince's throne, My toil by day, my canopy by night (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, These lights shall light us to old Age's gate, While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait); Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,

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,
And the little birds pipe a merry song,

'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,
Under the trees-under the trees!

When winter comes, and the days are dim,
And the wind is singing a mournful hyınu,
'Tis sweet in the faded woods to stray,
And tread the dead leaves into the clay,
Thinking of all life's mysteries,
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,
Such wonderful balms to them belong;
So, living or dying, I'll take mine ease
Under the trees-under the trees!

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;

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'Tis not for any one here, I trow:
The gentle wind bloweth,
The happy cow loweth,
The merry stream floweth,
For all below!

O the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on every thing.

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:
Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow;
She bringeth the bright hours,
She weaveth the sweet flowers,
She dresseth her bowers,

For all below!

O the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on every thing.
Barry Cornwall.

SONG.

Now the lusty Spring is seen
Golden yellow, gaudy blue.
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow

And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines, of sweet honey full:

All love's emblems, and all cry,
"Ladies, if not plucked, we die."

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

Yet the lusty Spring hath stayed;
Blushing red and purest white
Daintily to love invite
Every woman, every maid.
Cherries kissing as they grow,

And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,

Winding gently to the waist:

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,

While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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
Enjoys the air it breathes.

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The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:

But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

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