My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold— Some vault that oft hath flung its black And wingèd panels fluttering back Triumphant o’er the crested palls Of her grand family funerals; Some sepulchre remote, alone, Against whose portal she had thrown, In childhood many an idle stone; Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne’er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin, It was the dead who groaned within.
E. A. Poe.
[ SPRING]
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye, birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street, these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring! the sweet Spring!