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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.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON

AMERICA, 1831-1885

A Song of Clover

I wonder what the Clover thinks,
Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links,
Lover of Daisies slim and white,

A SONG OF CLOVER

Waltzer with Buttercups at night;
Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees,
Serving to them wine-dregs and lees,
Left by the Royal Humming Birds,
Who sip and pay with fine-spun words;
Fellow with all the lowliest,

Peer of the gayest and the best;
Comrade of winds, beloved of sun,
Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one;
Prophet of Good-Luck mystery
By sign of four which few may see;
Symbol of Nature's magic zone,
One out of three, and three in one;
Emblem of comfort in the speech
Which poor men's babies early reach;
Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills,
Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills,
Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,
Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;
Sweet in its every living breath,
Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!
Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks?

No one! unless the Bob-o'-links!

"SAXE HOLM."

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LEWIS CARROLL

AMERICA, 1832-1890

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

SCYTHE SONG

But 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, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?

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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
And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love,

For I feel it is Love,

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For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

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ANDREW LANG

ENGLAND, 1844

Scythe Song

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks you know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe

Sings to the blades of the grass below?

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Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying;
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush'tis the lullaby Time is singing-
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass;
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!

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ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
ENGLAND, 1837-

White Butterflies

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,
Frail, pale wings for the wind to try,

Small white wings that we scarce can see,
Fly!

Some fly light as a laugh of glee,
Some fly soft as a long, low sigh;

All to the haven where each would be,
Fly!