"
* * * * *
LEWIS CARROLL
ENGLAND, 1832-1898
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 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?
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,
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!
* * * * *
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?
Scythes that swing in the glass 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!
* * * * *
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!
* * * * *
RUDYARD KIPLING
ENGLAND, 1865-
RECESSIONAL
A VICTORIAN ODE
God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line--
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies--
The captains and the kings depart--
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
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