HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

OH, to be in England

Ο

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England-now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the

swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's

edge

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice

over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

ROBERT BROWNING

A CHANTED CALENDAR

F

IRST came the primrose,
On the bank high,

Like a maiden looking forth
From the window of a tower
When the battle rolls below,
So look'd she,

And saw the storms go by.

Then came the wind-flower
In the valley left behind,
As a wounded maiden, pale
With purple streaks of woe,
When the battle has roll'd by
Wanders to and fro,
So totter'd she,

Dishevell'd in the wind.

Then came the daisies,

On the first of May,

Like a banner'd show's advance

While the crowd runs by the way,

With ten thousand flowers about them

they came trooping

Through the fields.

As a happy people come,

So came they,

As a happy people come

When the war has roll'd away.

With dances and tabor, pipe and drum,

And all make holiday.

Then came the cowslip,

Like a dancer in the Fair,

She spread her little mat of green,
And on it danced she,

With a fillet bound about her brow,
A fillet round her happy brow,
A golden fillet round her brow,
And rubies in her hair.

SYDNEY DOBELL

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

NDER the greenwood tree

UNDE

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun

And love to lie i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE