Walter Crane.
"WHAT MAKES THE WORLD?"
What makes the world, Sweetheart, reply?
A space of lawn, a strip of sky,
The bread and wine of fellowship,
The cup of life for love to sip,
A glass of dreams in Hope's blue eye
So let the days and hours go by,
Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny,
With feathered heel shall fancy trip—
What makes the world?
The wealth that never in the grip
Of blighting greed shall heedless slip,—
When bought and sold is liberty,
With worth of life and love gone by—
What makes the world?
Walter Crane.
"O FONS BANDUSIÆ."
O babbling Spring, than glass more clear,
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,
To-morrow shall a kid be thine
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,—
Sure sign!—of loves and battles near.
Child of the race that butt and rear!
Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling Spring!