TH THE BELLS OF YOUTH HE Bells of Youth are ringing in the gateways of the South: The bannerets of green are now unfurled: Spring has risen with a laugh, a wild-rose in her mouth, And is singing, singing, singing thro' the world. The Bells of Youth are ringing in all the silent places, The primrose and the celandine are out: Children run a-laughing with joy upon their faces, The west wind follows after with a shout. The Bells of Youth are ringing from the forests to the mountains, From the meadows to the moorlands, hark their ringing! Ten thousand thousand splashing rills and ferndappled fountains Are flinging wide the Song of Youth and onward flowing, singing! The Bells of Youth are ringing in the gate-ways of the South: The bannerets of green are now unfurled: Spring has risen with a laugh, a wild-rose in her mouth, And is singing, singing, singing thro' the world. Fiona Macleod LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, If this belief from heaven be sent, William Wordsworth UP THE TABLES TURNED P! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; The sun, above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread, Books! 't is a dull and endless strife: And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! She has a mind of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart William Wordsworth TO THE CUCKOO BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, Though babbling only to the Vale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; O blessed Bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, faery place, That is fit home for Thee! William Wordsworth I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host, of golden daffodils; Continuous as the stars that shine Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed and gazed- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: |