5 Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died - the bliss! So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute Is still "Rejoice!" - his word which brought rejoicing indeed. So is Pheidippides happy forever, then noble strong man Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well, He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to end gloriously once to shout, thereafter be mute: "Athens is saved!" - Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. 10 10 HELEN HUNT JACKSON AMERICA, 1831-1885 A Song of Clover I wonder what the Clover thinks, Waltzer with Buttercups at night; Peer of the gayest and the best; - Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks? No one! unless the Bob-o'-links! 10 15 20 5 10 15 LEWIS CARROLL ENGLAND, 1852-1898 A Song of Love Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest? Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest? What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove? 'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low And the name of the secret is Love! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? That stirs the vexed soul with an aching - a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? Whence the music that fills all our being — that thrills Around us, beneath, and above? 'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes · But the name of the secret is Love! For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight? 'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though 'tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, 5 10 For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! 15 ANDREW LANG ENGLAND, 1844 Scythe Song Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, Sings to the blades of the grass below? 10 Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE White Butterflies Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, Small white wings that we scarce can see, Some fly light as a laugh of glee, All to the haven where each would be, Fly! |