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THE MERRY-GO-ROUND

THE merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, the merry-go-round at Fowey! They whirl around, they gallop around, man, woman, and girl, and boy;

They circle on wooden horses, white, black, brown, and bay,

To a loud monotonous tune that hath a trumpet bray.

All is dark where the circus stands on the

narrow quay,

Save for its own yellow lamps, that illumine it brilliantly:

Painted purple and red, it pours a broad strong glow

Over an old-world house, with a pillar'd place below;

For the floor of the building rests on bandy columns small,

And the bulging pile may, tottering, suddenly bury all.

But there upon wooden benches, hunch'd in the summer night,

Sit wrinkled sires of the village arow, whose hair is white;

They sit like the mummies of men, with a glare upon them cast

From a rushing flame of the living, like their own mad past;

They are watching the merry-make, and their face is very grave;

Over all are the silent stars! beyond, the cold gray wave.

And while I gaze on the galloping horses circling round,

The men caracoling up and down to a weird, monotonous sound,

I pass into a bewilderment, and marvel why

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The merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, the merry-go-round at Fowey! They whirl around, they gallop around, man, woman, and girl, and boy.

LAMENT

I AM lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,

Tho' I move within the gloom, love.
Breathe within the gloom!

Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,

Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the gray world, darling,
What is the gray world,

Where the worm lies curl'd, darling,
The deathworm lies curl'd?
They tell me of the spring, dear!
Do I want the spring?

Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
O my little child!

For the hallowing of thy smile, love,
The rainbow of thy smile,
Gleaming for a while, love,
Gleaming to beguile,
Replunged me in the cold, dear,
Leaves me in the cold.
And I feel so very old, dear,
Very, very old!

Would they put me out of pain, dear,
Out of all my pain,

Since I may not live again, dear,
Never live again!

I am lying in the grave, love,
In thy little grave,

Yet I hear the wind rave, love,
And the wild wave!

I would lie asleep, darling,
With thee lie asleep,
Unhearing the world weep, darling,
Little children weep!

O my little child!

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Mine sings with him :

If a low strain of music sails
Among melodious hills and dales,
When a white lamb or kitten leaps,
Or star, or vernal flower peeps,
When rainbow dews are pulsing joy,
Or sunny waves, or leaflets toy,
Then he who sleeps

Softly wakes within my heart;
With a kiss from him I start;
He lays his head upon my breast,
Tho' I may not see my guest,
Dear bosom-guest!

In all that's pure and fair and good,
I feel the spring-time of thy blood,
Hear thy whisper'd accents flow
To lighten woe,

Feel them blend,

Although I fail to comprehend.
And if one woundeth with harsh word,
Or deed, a child, or beast, or bird,
It seems to strike weak Innocence
Through him, who hath for his defence
Thunder of the All-loving Sire,
And mine, to whom He gave the fire.

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When comes the reaper with his scythe,
And reaps and nothing leaves,
Oh, then it is that Death is blithe,
And sups among the sheaves.
Death! Death!

Lower the coffin and slip the cord:
Death is master of clown and lord.

When logs about the house are stack'd,

And next year's hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are crack'd, And faggots blaze and spit ; Death sits down in the ingle-nook,

Sits down and doth not speak :

But he puts his arm round the maid that's

warm,

And she tingles in the cheek.

Death Death!

Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down.

MOTHER-SONG

WHITE little hands!

Pink little feet!

Dimpled all over,

Sweet, sweet, sweet! What dost thou wail for? The unknown? the unseen? The ills that are coming,

The joys that have been?

Cling to me closer,

Closer and closer,
Till the pain that is purer

Hath banish'd the grosser.
Drain, drain at the stream, love,
Thy hunger is freeing,
That was born in a dream, love,
Along with thy being!

Little fingers that feel

For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal

For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries, Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, Lies soft on thine eyes.

AGATHA

SHE wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with the fallen shower;
She leans her face against the buds,

She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.

She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone,

As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own, And almost dreads to feel.

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone;
The joy she fear'd is at her side,

Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown, The thrush's ringing note hath died;

But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss,

And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days,

Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widow'd on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow,

To hearth where love hath ceas'd to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane,

With grief too fix'd for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

THE HAYMAKERS' SONG
HERE's to him that grows it,
Drink, lads, drink!

That lays it in and mows it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
To him that mows and makes it,
That scatters it and shakes it,
That turns, and teds, and rakes it,
Clink, jugs, clink!

Now here's to him that stacks it,
Drink, lads, drink!
That thrashes and that tacks it,
Clink, jugs, clink!

That cuts it out for eating,

When March-dropp'd lambs are bleating, And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting, Drink, lads, drink!

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