4th Pupil.—Morris wrote:
“To me the world’s an open book
Of sweet and pleasant poetry;
I read it in the running book
That sings its way toward the sea.
It whispers in the leaves of trees,
The swelling grain, the waving grass,
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze,
That crisps the wavelets as they pass.
“The flowers below, the stars above,