NIGHT

WILLIAM BLAKE

HE sun descending in the west,

THE

The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight;
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are cover'd warm,

They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

THE SHEPHERD

WILLIAM BLAKE

OW sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;

He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their shepherd is nigh.

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN REDBREAST

SAMUEL ROGERS

READ lightly here, for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hush'd around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone or leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves;
Gone to the world where birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or schoolboy's giant form is seen;
But love, and joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing!

TO THE CUCKOO

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice :
O cuckoo shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far-off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listen'd to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways,
In bush, and tree, and sky.