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Come we to summer, to the summer we will come,

For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,

And the crow is on the oak-a-building of her nest,

And love is burning diamonds in my true lover’s breast;

She sits beneath the whitethorn-a-plaiting of her hair,

And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;

I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,

And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.


The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,

The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,

And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest

In the whitethorn bush were I will lean upon my lover’s breast;

I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear

That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;

I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away

Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.




Now, joy is born of parents poor,

And pleasure of our richer kind;

Though pleasure’s free, he cannot sing

As sweet a song as joy confined.


Pleasure’s a Moth, that sleeps by day

And dances by false glare at night;

But Joy’s a Butterfly, that loves

To spread its wings in Nature’s light.


Joy’s like a Bee that gently sucks

Away on blossoms its sweet hour;

But pleasure’s like a greedy Wasp

That plums and cherries would devour.


Joy’s like a Lark that lives alone,

Whose ties are very strong, though few;

But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,

Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.


Joy from her heart doth sing at home,

With little care if others hear;

But pleasure then is cold and dumb,

And sings and laughs with strangers near.

In vision of the dark night

I have dreamed of joy departed-

But a walking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.


Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with ray

Turned back upon the past?


That holy dream-that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding.

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.


What though that light, thro’ storm and night,

So trembled from afar-

What could there be more purely bright

In Truth’s day-star?

A gift of Silence, sweet!

You may not ever hear:

To lay down at your unobservant feet,

Is all the gift I bear.


I have no song to sing,

That you should heed to know:

I have no lilies, in full hands, to fling

Across the path you go.


I cast my flowers away,

Blossoms unmeet for you!

The garland I have gathered in my day:

my rosemary and rue.


I watch you pass and pass,

Serene and cold: I lay

My lips upon your trodden, daisied  grass,

And turn my life away.


Yea, for I cast you, sweet!

This one gift, you shall take:

like ointment, on your unobservant feet,

My silence, for your sake.

Who shall sing simple ditty about the Willow,

Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray

That dandles high the dainty bird that flutters there to trill

Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.


Bravest, too, of the trees!—none to match your daring,–

First of greens to greet the Spring and lead in leafy sheen,–

Aye, and you’re the last–almost into winter wearing

Still the leaf of loyalty–still the badge of green.


Ah, my lovely willow–let the water lilt your graces,–

They alone with limped kisses lave your leaves above,

Flashing back your silvan beauty, and in shady places

Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love.

Hark, I hear a robin calling!

List, the wind is from the south!

And the orchard-bloom is falling

Sweet as kisses on the mouth.


In the dreamy vale of beeches

Fair and faint is woven mist,

And the river’s orient reaches

Are the palest amethyst.


Every limpid brook is singing

On the lure of April days;

Every piney glen is ringing

With the maddest roundelays.


Come and let us seek together

Springtime lore of daffodils,

Giving to the golden weather

Greeting on the sun-warm hills.


Ours shall be the moonrise stealing

Through the birches ivory-white;

Ours shall be the mystic healing

Of the velvet-footed night.


Ours shall be the gypsy winding

Of the path with violets blue,

Ours at last the wizard finding

Of the land where dreams come true.


Come, brothers, share the fellowship

We celebrate to-night;

There’s grace of song on every lip

And every heart is light!

But first, before our mentor chimes

The hour of jubilee,

Let’s drink a health to good old times,

And good times yet to be!

Clink, clink, clink!

Merrily let us drink!

There’s tore of wealth

And more of health

In every glass we think

Clink, clink, clink!

To fellowship we drink!

And from the bowl!

No genial soul

In such an hour can shrink.


And you, oh, friends from west and east

And other foreign parts,

Come share the rapture of our feast,

The love of loyal hearts;

And in the wassail that suspends

All matters burthensome,

We’ll drink a health to good old friends

And good friends yet to come.

Clink, clink, clink!

To fellowship we drink!

And from the bowl!

No genial soul

In such an hour will shrink.

Clink, clink, clink!

Merrily let us drink!

There’s fellowship

In every sip

Of friendship’s brew, we think.


O my Luve’s like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve’s like the melodie

That’s sweetly play’d in tune.


As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry:


Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ shall run.


And fare thee well, my only Luve

And fare thee well, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

At the bottom of my garden

There’s a hedgehog and a frog

And a lot of creepy-crawlies

Living underneath a log,

There’s a baby daddy long legs

And an easy-going snail

And a family of woodlice

All are on my nature trail.


There are caterpillars waiting

For their time to come to fly,

There are worms turning the hearth over

As ladybirds fly by,

Birds will visit, cats will visit

But they always chose their time

And I’ve even seen a fox visit

This wild garden of mine.


Squirrels come to nick my nuts

And busy bees come buzzing

And when the night time come buzzing

And when the night time comes

Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,

My garden mice are very shy

And I’ve seen bats that growl

And in my garden I have seen

A very wise old owl.


My garden is a lovely place

There’s always something happening,

There’s this constant search for food

And then there’s all flowering,

When you have a garden

You will never be alone

And I believe we all deserve

A garden of our own.



Music I heard with you was more than music,

And bread I broke with you was more than bread;

Now that I am without you, all is desolate;

All that was once so beautiful is dead.


Your hands once touched this table and the silver,

And I have seen your fingers hold the glass.

These things do not remember you, beloved,

And yet your touch upon them will not pass.


For it was in my heart you moved among them,

And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;

And in my heart they will remember always,-

They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.