"Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,

And I will show you ferlies three.

"O see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.

"And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.

"And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the Road to fair Elfland,
Where you and I this night maun gae.

"But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;

For speak ye word in Elflyn-land,

Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie."

O, they rade on, and farther on,

And they waded rivers abune the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,
They waded thro red blude to the knee;
For a' the blude that's shed on the earth
Rins through the springs o' that countrie.

Syne they came to a garden green,

And she pu'd an apple frae a tree: "Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;

It will give thee the tongue that can never lee."

"My tongue is my ain," true Thomas he said;

A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!

I neither dought to buy or sell

At fair or tryst where I might be.

"I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!"

"Now haud thy peace, Thomas," she said, 'For as I say, so must it be.".

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green;
And till seven years were gane and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.

Anonymous

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
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 cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads.

Full beautiful-a faery's child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

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.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

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 wept and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'dah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried “La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake

And no birds sing.

John Keats

O

NIAMH

H who is she, and what is she?
A beauty born eternally

Of shimmering moonshine, sunset flame,
And rose-red heart of dawn;

None knows the secret ways she came
Whither she journeys on.

I follow her, I follow her

By haunted pools with dreams astir,
And over blue unwearied tides

Of shadow-waves, where sleep

Old loves, old hates, whose doom derides Vows we forgot to keep.

I send my cry, I send my cry
Adown the arches of the sky,
Along the pathway of the stars,
Through quiet and through stress;
I beat against the saffron bars
That guard her loveliness.

And low I hear, oh, low I hear,
Her cruel laughter, fluting clear,
I see far-off the drifted gold
Of wind-blown flying hair;

I stand without in dark and cold

And she is - Where? Where? Where?

Ethna Carbery

LA SOURCE ENCHANTÉE

''ERRAIS dans la montagne un jour de chaleur

Jgrande.

Une source s'offrit, claire, parmi les houx. Comme les chevaliers dont parle la legende Pour boire dans ma main je me mis à genoux. 'Quelqu'une qui passait un troupeau dans la lande

Me crie, mais hélas! trop tard: "Malheur à vous ! "

J'avais bu, sans savoir, l'eau de Broceliande,
Ma lèvre en a gardé l'impérissable goût,

Et je vais, depuis lors, indifférent aux choses
Qui font les hommes gais ou qui les font moroses.
La source fée en moi luit sans les arbres verts;
Je suis le prisonnier de son eau diaphane,
Et je ne sais plus rien de l'immense univers
Que le reflêt changeant des yeux de Viviane.
Anatole Le Braz

KUBLA KHAN

'N Xanadu did Kubla Khan

decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.