Poems

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Roberts Brothers, 1881 - 727 ˹
 

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˹ 150 - Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we...
˹ 165 - THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's, no rain left in heaven : I've said my " seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; My birthday lessons are done ; The lambs play always, they know no better ; They are only one times one.
˹ 152 - Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit...
˹ 148 - Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee. Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be scene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo!
˹ 148 - Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, " And why should this thing be ? What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Enderby...
˹ 150 - With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
˹ 152 - I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!
˹ 146 - Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. " Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby.'" Men say it was a stolen tyde The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall.
˹ 527 - So take Joy home, And make a place in thy great heart for her, And give her time to grow, and cherish her; Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, When thou art working in the furrows; ay, Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. It is a comely fashion to be glad, Joy is the grace we say to God.
˹ 38 - Whose lips drawn human breath ! By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, By that one nature which doth hold us kin, By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine To draw us sinners in, By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, 1 pray Thee visit me.

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