S Scarlett's Song ING a song of scarlet poppies in the corn, Sing a song of scarlet hips upon the brier, Sing a song of Scarlett when the frosts begin, Nora Chesson. The Death of Puck FEAR that Puck is dead-it is so long Of that sweet elfin crew that made their nest Dead and for ever, like the antique throng Tell me, thou hopping Robin, hast thou met Whom they call Puck, where woodland bells are wet? Tell me, thou Wood-Mouse, hast thou seen an elf II The Robin gave three hops, and chirped, and said: We found him lying on his mushroom bed— And then the Wood-Mouse said: "We made the Mole The Squirrel made with sticks a little cross; T Eugene Lee-Hamilton. A Song of England HERE is a song of England that none shall ever sing; So sweet it is and fleet it is That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing, And regal as her mountains, And radiant as the fountains Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling Against the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England, Could more than seem to dream of it, Or catch one flying gleam of it, Above the seas of England that never cease to sing. There is a song of England that only lovers know; Oh, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of snow, So full of hidden honey, So like a flight of butterflies where rose and lily blow Along the lanes of England, the leafy lanes of England; When flowers are at their vespers And full of little whispers, The boys and girls of England shall sing it as they go. There is a song of England that only love may sing, And seaward with the sea-mew it spreads a whiter wing, Above the tryst of lovers, Above the kiss and whisper that led the lovely Spring Through all the glades of England, the ferny glades of England Until the way enwound her With sprays of May, and crowned her With stars of frosty blossom in a merry morris-ring. There is a song of England that haunts her hours of rest; The calm of it and balm of it Are breathed from every hedgerow that blushes to the West: From the cottage doors that nightly Cast their welcome out so brightly On the lanes where laughing children are lifted and caressed By the tenderest hands in England, hard and blistered hands of England; And from the restful sighing Of the sleepers that are lying With the arms of God around them on the night's contented breast. There is a song of England that wanders on the wind; So sad it is and glad it is That men who hear it madden and their eyes are wet and blind, For the lowlands and the highlands Of the unforgotten islands, For the Islands of the Blessed and the rest they cannot find As they grope in dreams to England and the love they left in England; Little feet that danced to meet them And the lips that used to greet them, And the watcher at the window in the home they left behind. There is a song of England that thrills the beating blood With burning cries and yearning Tides of hidden aspiration hardly known or understood; Aspirations of the creature Tow'rds the unity of Nature; Sudden chivalries revealing whence the longing is renewed In the men that live for England, live and love and die for England: By the light of their desire They shall blindly blunder higher, To a wider, grander Kingdom and a deeper, nobler Good. There is a song of England that only God can hear; It soars above the choral stars that sing the Golden Till even the cloudy shadows That wander o'er her meadows In silent purple harmonies declare His glory there, Along the hills of England, the billowy hills of England; While heaven rolls and ranges Through all the myriad changes That mirror God in music to the mortal eye and ear. There is a song of England that none shall ever sing; That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing, And regal as her mountains, And radiant as the fountains Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling Against the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England, Could more than seem to dream of it, Or catch one flying gleam of it, Above the seas of England that never cease to sing. Alfred Noyes. The Beauty of England LEARNT to love that England. Very oft, Before the day was born, or otherwise Through secret windings of the afternoons, I threw my hunters off and plunged myself Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag Will take the waters, shivering with the fear And passion of the course. And when, at last |