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LITTLE Lamb, who made thee?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
Little lamb, God bless thee;
SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Then chiefly lives.
MORNING again breaks through the mines of heaven, And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky, Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh, And catch her scattered gems of orient dye, The pearlèd ruby which her pathway strews; Argent and amber, now thrown useless by. The uncolored clouds wear what she doth refuse, For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.
No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower;
As it was beaded ere the daylight hour:
Or ere the yellow-brooms, or gorses rude,
From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring
The wild-bird choirs-burst of the woodland band,
Morning again is come to light the land;
The great world's Comforter, the mighty Sun,
Hath yoked his golden steeds, the glorious race to run.”
Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks,
Have from their green high city-gates rushed out,
No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled:
The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout; Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold, And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold.”
“Hark! hark! the lark" sings mid the silvery blue, Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow.