BUNCHES OF GRAPES

“Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy;
“Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine;
“A junket of cream and a cranberry tart
    For me,” says Jane.

“Love-in-a-mist,” says Timothy;
“Primroses pale,” says Elaine;
“A nosegay of pinks and mignonette
    For me,” says Jane.

“Chariots of gold,” says Timothy;
“Silvery wings,” says Elaine;
“A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay
    For me,” says Jane.

JOHN MOULDY

I spied John Mouldy in his cellar,
  Deep down twenty steps of stone;
In the dusk he sat a-smiling,
    Smiling there alone.

He read no book, he snuffed no candle;
  The rats ran in, the rats ran out;
And far and near, the drip of water
    Went whispering about.

The dusk was still, with dew a-falling,
  I saw the Dog Star bleak and grim,
I saw a slim brown rat of Norway
    Creep over him.

I spied John Mouldy in his cellar,
  Deep down twenty steps of stone;
In the dusk he sat a-smiling,
    Smiling there alone.

THE FLY

How large unto the tiny fly
  Must little things appear!—­
A rosebud like a feather bed,
  Its prickle like a spear;

A dewdrop like a looking-glass,
  A hair like golden wire;
The smallest grain of mustard-seed
  As fierce as coals of fire;

A loaf of bread, a lofty hill;
  A wasp, a cruel leopard;
And specks of salt as bright to see
  As lambkins to a shepherd.

SONG

O for a moon to light me home! 
  O for a lanthorn green! 
For those sweet stars the Pleiades,
That glitter in the darkling trees;
  O for a lovelorn taper!  O
  For a lanthorn green!

O for a frock of tartan! 
  O for clear, wild grey eyes! 
For fingers light as violets,
’Neath branches that the blackbird frets;
  O for a thistly meadow!  O
  For clear, wild grey eyes!

O for a heart like almond boughs! 
  O for sweet thoughts like rain! 
O for first-love like fields of grey
Shut April-buds at break of day! 
  O for a sleep like music! 
  Dreams still as rain!

I SAW THREE WITCHES

    I saw three witches
    That bowed down like barley,
And straddled their brooms ’neath a louring sky,
    And, mounting a storm-cloud,
    Aloft on its margin,
Stood black in the silver as up they did fly.

    I saw three witches
    That mocked the poor sparrows
They carried in cages of wicker along,
    Till a hawk from his eyrie
    Swooped down like an arrow,
Smote on the cages, and ended their song.

    I saw three witches
    That sailed in a shallop,
All turning their heads with a snickering smile,
    Till a bank of green osiers
    Concealed their grim faces,
Though I heard them lamenting for many a mile.