Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

 The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me,
Yes!, that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we,
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

The Send-off by Wilfred Owen

        Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
        To the siding-shed,
        And lined the train with faces grimly gay.

        Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
        As men's are, dead.

        Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
        Stood staring hard,
        Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
        Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
        Winked to the guard.

        So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
        They were not ours:
        We never heard to which front these were sent.

        Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
        Who gave them flowers.

        Shall they return to beatings of great bells
        In wild trainloads?
        A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
        May creep back, silent, to still village wells
        Up half-known roads.

Arms and the Boy by Wilfred Owen

        Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
        How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
        Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;
        And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.

        Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads
        Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads.
        Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,
        Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

        For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
        There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
        And God will grow no talons at his heels,
        Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.

Apologia pro Poemate Meo by Wilfred Owen

        I, too, saw God through mud--
            The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
            War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
            And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

        Merry it was to laugh there--
            Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
            For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
            Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

        I, too, have dropped off fear--
            Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
            And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear
            Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;

        And witnessed exultation--
            Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
            Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
            Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.

        I have made fellowships--
            Untold of happy lovers in old song.
            For love is not the binding of fair lips
            With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,

        By Joy, whose ribbon slips,--
            But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
            Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
            Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

        I have perceived much beauty
            In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
            Heard music in the silentness of duty;
            Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

        Nevertheless, except you share
            With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
            Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,
            And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

        You shall not hear their mirth:
            You shall not come to think them well content
            By any jest of mine. These men are worth
            Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.


        November 1917.

Dulce et Decorum est by Wilfred Owen

        Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
        Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
        Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
        And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
        Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
        But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
        Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
        Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

        Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
        Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
        But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
        And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
        Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
        As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

        In all my dreams before my helpless sight
        He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

        If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
        Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
        And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
        His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
        If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
        Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
        Bitter as the cud
        Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
        My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
        To children ardent for some desperate glory,
        The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
        Pro patria mori.

Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen

        What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
        Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
        Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
        Can patter out their hasty orisons.
        No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
        Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
        The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
        And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

        What candles may be held to speed them all?
        Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
        Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
        The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
        Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
        And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

The Chimney-Sweeps of Cheltenham by Alfred Noyes

    When hawthorn buds are creaming white,
        And the red foolscap all stuck with may,
    Then lasses walk with eyes alight,
        And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

    For the chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham town,
        Sooty of face as a swallow of wing,
    Come whistling, singing, dancing down
        With white teeth flashing as they sing.

    And Jack-in-the green, by a clown in blue,
        Walks like a two-legged bush of may,
    With the little wee lads that wriggled up the flue
        Ere Cheltenham town cried "dancing day."

    For brooms were short and the chimneys tall,
        And the gipsies caught 'em these blackbirds cheap,
    So Cheltenham bought them, spry and small,
        And shoved them up in the dark to sweep.

    For Cheltenham town was cruel of old,
        But she has been gathering garlands gay,
    And the little wee lads are in green and gold,
        For it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

    And red as a rose, and blue as the sky,
        With teeth as white as their faces are black,
    The master-sweeps go dancing by,
        With a gridiron painted on every back.

    But when they are ranged in the market-place,
        The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon,
    And cozens a penny for her sweet face
        To keep their golden throats in tune.

    Then, hushing the riot of that mad throng,
        And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May,
    A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song,
        Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;

    And the sooty faces, they try to recall....
        As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....
    But nobody knows that singer at all
        Or the curious old-time air he sings:--

    Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
        And where did you win you these may-coats so fine;
    For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils,
        But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?

    Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old England
        When the may was more than may, very long ago:
    As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady,
        Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.

    It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.
        It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away,
    Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies,
        Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.

    Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops,
        Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.
    Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her,
        All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.

    Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,
        Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,
    Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,
        Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."--

    But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
        And why are you singing of a May that is fled?--
    O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,
        And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.

    And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful
        That shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,
    And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
        I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

                                                 I
   The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
   The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
   The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
   And the highwayman came riding—
                     Riding—riding—
   The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II
    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
                      His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

                                                 III
    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
    And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

                                                 IV
    And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he loved the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

                                                 V
    "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
                      Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

                                                 VI
    He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
                      (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
 
                                        PART TWO

                                                 I
    He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
    And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
    When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A red-coat troop came marching—
                      Marching—marching—
    King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II
    They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
    There was death at every window;
                      And hell at one dark window;
    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

                                                 III
    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
    They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
    "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
                      She heard the dead man say—
    Look for me by moonlight;
                      Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
 
                                                 IV
    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
                      Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

                                                 V
    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
                      Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

                                                 VI
        Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came riding,
                      Riding, riding!
    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

                                                 VII
    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
                      Her musket shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

                                                 VIII
    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
    How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

                                                 IX
    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
    Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
    When they shot him down on the highway,
                      Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

                  *           *           *           *           *           *

                                                 X
    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    A highwayman comes riding—
                      Riding—riding—
    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
 
                                                 XI
    Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
    He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

From the Upland to the Sea by William Morris

    Glad at heart of everything,
    Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
    Then the white house shall we leave,
    Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,
    Through the garth, and go our ways,
    Wandering down among the meads
    Till our very joyance needs
    Rest at last; till we shall come
    To that Sun-god's lonely home,
    Lonely on the hill-side grey,
    Whence the sheep have gone away;
    Lonely till the feast-time is,
    When with prayer and praise of bliss,
    Thither comes the country side.
    There awhile shall we abide,
    Sitting low down in the porch
    By that image with the torch:
    Thy one white hand laid upon
    The black pillar that was won
    From the far-off Indian mine;
    And my hand nigh touching thine,
    But not touching; and thy gown
    Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
    From thy bosom and thy brow.
    There the south-west wind shall blow
    Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
    As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
    Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
    For the very depth of bliss;
    Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.
    Then desire of the great sea
    Nigh enow, but all unheard,
    In the hearts of us is stirred,
    And we rise, we twain at last,
    And the daffodils downcast,
    Feel thy feet and we are gone
    From the lonely Sun-Crowned one.
    Then the meads fade at our back,
    And the spring day 'gins to lack
    That fresh hope that once it had;
    But we twain grow yet more glad,
    And apart no more may go
    When the grassy slope and low
    Dieth in the shingly sand:
    Then we wander hand in hand
    By the edges of the sea,
    And I weary more for thee
    Than if far apart we were,
    With a space of desert drear
    'Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!
    Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!

The Reapers' Song by Susanna Moodie

    The harvest is nodding on valley and plain,
        To the scythe and the sickle its treasures must yield;
    Through sunshine and shower we have tended the grain;
        'Tis ripe to our hand!--to the field--to the field!
    If the sun on our labours too warmly should smile,
    Why a horn of good ale shall the long hours beguile.
    Then, a largess! a largess!--kind stranger, we pray,
    We have toiled through the heat of the long summer day!

    With his garland of poppies red August is here,
        And the forest is losing its first tender green;
    Pale Autumn will reap the last fruits of the year,
        And Winter's white mantle will cover the scene.
    To the field!--to the field! whilst the Summer is ours
    We will reap her ripe corn--we will cull her bright flowers.
    Then, a largess! a largess! kind stranger, we pray,
    For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day.

    Ere the first blush of morning is red in the skies,
        Ere the lark plumes his wing, or the dew drops are dry,
    Ere the sun walks abroad, must the harvestman rise,
        With stout heart, unwearied, the sickle to ply:
    He exults in his strength, when the ale-horn is crown'd,
    And the reapers' glad shouts swell the echoes around.
    Then, a largess! a largess!--kind stranger, we pray,
    For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day!

Winter. Calling Up His Legions. by Susanna Moodie

    WINTER.

    Awake--arise! all my stormy powers,
    The earth, the fair earth, again is ours!
    At my stern approach, pale Autumn flings down
    In the dust her broken and faded crown;
    At my glance the terrified mourner flies,
    And the earth is filled with her doleful cries.
    Awake!--for the season of flowers is o'er,--
    My white banner unfurl on each northern shore!
    Ye have slumbered long in my icy chain--
    Ye are free to travel the land and main.
    Spirits of frost! quit your mountains of snow--
    Will ye longer suffer the streams to flow?
    Up, up, and away from your rocky caves
    And herald me over the pathless waves!

        He ceased, and rose from his craggy throne
    And girt around him his icy zone;
    And his meteor-eye grew wildly bright
    As he threw his glance o'er those realms of night.
    He sent forth his voice with a mighty sound,
    And the snows of ages were scattered around;
    And the hollow murmurs that shook the sky
    Told to the monarch, his band was nigh.

    THE WIND FROST.

        I come o'er the hills of the frozen North,
    To call to the battle thy armies forth:
    I have swept the shores of the Baltic sea,
    And the billows have felt my mastery;
    They resisted my power, but strove in vain--
    I have curbed their might with my crystal chain.
    I roused the northwind in his stormy cave,
    Together we passed over land and wave;
    I sharpened his breath and gave him power
    To crush and destroy every herb and flower;
    He obeyed my voice, and is rending now
    The sallow leaves from the groaning bough;
    And he shouts aloud in his wild disdain,
    As he whirls them down to the frozen plain:
    Those beautiful leaves to which Spring gave birth
    Are scattered abroad on the face of the earth.
    I have visited many a creek and bay,
    And curdled the streams in my stormy way;
    I have chilled into hail the genial shower:--
    All this I have done to increase thy power.


    THE RIME FROST.

        I stood by the stream in the deep midnight.
    The moon through the fog shed a misty light;
    I arrested the vapours that floated by,
    And wove them in garlands and hung them on high;
    I bound the trees in a feathery zone,
    And turned the soft dews of heaven to stone;
    I spangled with gems every leaf and spray,
    As onward I passed on my noiseless way;
    And I came to thee when my work was done,
    To see how they shone in the morning sun!


    THE NORTH WIND.

        I have borne the clouds on my restless wings,
    And my sullen voice through the desert rings;
    I sent through the forest a rushing blast,
    And the foliage fled as I onward passed
    From the desolate regions of woe and death,
    In adamant bound by my freezing breath:
    From the crystal mountains where silence reigns,
    And nature sleeps on the sterile plains,
    I have brought the snow from thy mighty store
    To whiten and cover each northern shore.


    THE EAST WIND.

        I woke like a giant refreshed with sleep,
    And lifted the waves of the troubled deep;
    I clouded the heavens with vapours dark,
    And rolled the tide o'er the foundering bark,
    Then mocked in hoarse murmurs the hollow cry
    Of the drowning wretch in his agony:
    I have leagued with the North to assert thy right
    On the land and the wave both by day and by night!


    THE SNOW.

        I heard thy summons and hastened fast,
    And floated hither before the blast,
    To wave thy white banner o'er tower and town,
    O'er the level plain and the mountain brown.
    I have crowned the woods with a spotless wreath,
    And loaded the avalanche with death;
    I have wrapped the earth in a winding sheet,
    And Nature lies dead beneath my feet.


    CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

        All hail, mighty monarch! our tasks are o'er;
    Thy power is confessed on each northern shore;
    From the rock's stern brow to the rolling sea
    The spirits of earth have bowed to thee.
    In the cradle of Nature the young Spring lies
    With the slumber of death on her azure eyes;
    And we wander at will through the wide domain,
    Which in beauty and verdure shall flourish again,
    When she bursts from her shroud like a sun-beam forth
    'To chase us back to the frozen North!'

        With darkness and storms for thy panoply,
    Stern Winter, what power may contend with thee?
    Thy sceptre commands both the wind and the tide,
    And thy empire extends over regions wide;
    With thy star-gemmed crown and eagle wings,
    The strongest of nature's potent kings!
    But thy power for a season alone is lent,
    Thou art but a ministering spirit sent
    By the mighty Creator of thine and thee,
    Who fills with his presence immensity!

Winter by Susanna Moodie

    Majestic King of storms! around
        Thy wan and hoary brow
    A spotless diadem is bound
        Of everlasting snow:
    Time, which dissolves all earthly things,
    O'er thee hath vainly waved his wings!

    The sun, with his refulgent beams,
        Thaws not thy icy zone;
    Lord of ten thousand frozen streams,
        That sleep around thy throne,
    Whose crystal barriers may defy
    The genial warmth of summer's sky.

    What human foot shall dare intrude
        Beyond the howling waste,
    Or view the untrodden solitude,
        Where thy dark home is placed;
    In those far realms of death where light
    Shrieks from thy glance and all is night?

    The earth has felt thine iron tread,
        The streams have ceased to flow,
    The leaves beneath thy feet lie dead,
        And keen the north winds blow:
    Nature lies in her winding sheet
    Of dazzling snow, and blinding sleet.

    Thy voice has chained the troubled deep;
        Within thy mighty hand,
    The restless world of waters sleep
        On Greenland's barren strand.
    Thy stormy heralds, loud and shrill,
    Have bid the foaming waves lie still.

    Where lately many a gallant prow
        Spurned back the whitening spray,
    An icy desert glitters now,
        Beneath the moon's wan ray:
    Full many a fathom deep below
    The dark imprisoned waters flow.

    How gloriously above thee gleam
        The planetary train,
    And the pale moon with clearer beam
        Chequers the frost-bound plain;
    The sparkling diadem of night
    Circles thy brow with tenfold light.

    I love thee not--yet when I raise
        To heaven my wondering eyes,
    I feel transported at the blaze
        Of beauty in the skies,
    And laud the power that, e'en to thee,
    Hath given such pomp and majesty!

    I turn and shrink before the blast
        That sweeps the leafless tree,
    Careering on the tempest past,
        Thy snowy wreath I see;
    But Spring will come in beauty forth
    And chase thee to the frozen north!

The Spirit of the Spring by Susanna Moodie

    The spirit of the shower,
        Of the sunshine and the breeze,
    Of the dewy twilight hour,
    Of the bud and opening flower,
        My soul delighted sees.
    Stern winter's robe of gray,
        Beneath thy balmy sigh,
    Like mist-wreaths melt away,
    When the rosy laughing day
        Lifts up his golden eye.--

    Spirit of ethereal birth,
        Thy azure banner floats,
    In lucid folds, o'er air and earth,
    And budding woods pour forth their mirth
        In rapture-breathing notes.
    I see upon the fleecy cloud
        The spreading of thy wings;
    The hills and vales rejoice aloud,
    And Nature, starting from her shroud,
        To meet her bridegroom springs.

    Spirit of the rainbow zone,
        Of the fresh and breezy morn,--
    Spirit of climes where joy alone
    For ever hovers round thy throne,
        On wings of light upborne,
    Eternal youth is in thy train
        With rapture-beaming eyes,
    And Beauty, with her magic chain,
    And Hope, that laughs at present pain,
        Points up to cloudless skies.

    Spirit of love, of life, and light!
        Each year we hail thy birth--
    The day-star from the grave of night
    That set to rise in skies more bright,--
        To bless the sons of earth
    With leaf--and bud--and perfumed flower,
        Still deck the barren sod;
    In thee we trace a higher power,
    In thee we claim a brighter dower,
        The day-spring of our God!--

The Old Home Calls by L. M. Montgomery

Come back to me, little dancing feet that roam the wide world o'er,
I long for the lilt of your flying steps in my silent rooms once more;
Come back to me, little voices gay with laughter and with song,
Come back, little hearts beating high with hopes, I have missed and mourned you long.
My roses bloom in my garden walks all sweet and wet with the dew,
My lights shine down on the long hill road the waning twilights through,
The swallows flutter about my eaves as in the years of old,
And close about me their steadfast arms the lisping pine trees fold.
But I weary for you at morn and eve, O children of my love,
Come back to me from your pilgrim ways, from the seas and plains ye rove,
Come over the meadows and up the lane to my door set open wide,
And sit ye down where the red light shines from my welcoming fire-side.
I keep for you all your childhood dreams, your gladness and delights,
The joy of days in the sun and rain, the sleep of care-free nights;
All the sweet faiths ye have lost and sought again shall be your own,
Darlings, come to my empty heart–I am old and still and alone!

The Old Man's Grave by L. M. Montgomery

Make it where the winds may sweep
Through the pine boughs soft and deep,
And the murmur of the sea
Come across the orient lea,
And the falling raindrops sing
Gently to his slumbering.
Make it where the meadows wide
Greenly lie on every side,
Harvest fields he reaped and trod,
Westering slopes of clover sod,
Orchard lands where bloom and blow
Trees he planted long ago.
Make it where the starshine dim
May be always close to him,
And the sunrise glory spread
Lavishly around his bed,
And the dewy grasses creep
Tenderly above his sleep.
Since these things to him were dear
Through full many a well-spent year,
It is surely meet their grace
Should be on his resting-place,
And the murmur of the sea
Be his dirge eternally.

Off to the Fishing Ground by L. M. Montgomery

There's a piping wind from a sunrise shore
Blowing over a silver sea,
There's a joyous voice in the lapsing tide
That calls enticingly;
The mist of dawn has taken flight
To the dim horizon's bound,
And with wide sails set and eager hearts
We're off to the fishing ground.
Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings
Like a great sea-harp afar!
We whistle its wild notes back to it
As we cross the harbour bar.
Behind us there are the homes we love
And hearts that are fond and true,
And before us beckons a strong young day
On leagues of glorious blue.

Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out,
A song of the orient sea,
We are the heirs of its tingling strife,
Its courage and liberty!
Sing as the white sails cream and fill,
And the foam in our wake is long,
Sing till the headlands black and grim
Echo us back our song!
Oh, 'tis a glad and heartsome thing
To wake ere the night be done
And steer the course that our fathers steered
In the path of the rising sun.
The wind and welkin and wave are ours
Wherever our bourne is found,
And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep
When we're off to the fishing ground!