I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where. But I cannot tell from where

Come with me, under my coat, And we will drink our fill Of the milk of the white goat, Or wine, if it be thy will; And we will talk until

I heard a bird at dawn Singing sweetly on a tree, That the dew was on the lawn, And the wind was on the lea; But I didn’t listen to him,

I will sing no more songs: the pri… Through forty long years of good r… And no one cared even as much as t… For the song or the singer, so her… If a person should think I compla…

A sparrow hopped about the street, And he was not a bit afraid; He flew between a horse’s feet, And ate his supper undismayed: I think myself the horse knew well

I saw the Devil walking down the… Behind our house., There was a he… Strapped tightly on his shoulders,… Sizzled when it hit him. He pi… Up from the ground and put it in h…

I was frightened, for a wind Crept along the grass to say Something that was in my mind Yesterday— Something that I did not know

An old man sat beneath a tree Alone; So still was he That, if he had been carved in sto… He could not be

I thought I heard Him calling. D… A sound, a little sound? My curio… Is dinned with flying noises, and… Goes—whisper, whisper, whisper sil… Till all its whispers spread into…

A little girl and a big ugly man Went down the road. The girl was… And asking to go home, but when sh… He hit her on the head and sent he… And called her a young imp, and sa…

In the winter time we go Walking in the fields of snow; Where there is no grass at all; Where the top of every wall, Every fence, and every tree,

And then I wakened up in such a f… I thought I heard a movement in t… But did not dare to look; I snugg… Down underneath the bedclothes—the… Of a tremendous voice said, ‘Sit…

The leaves are fresh after the rai… The air is cool and clear, The sun is shining warm again, The sparrows hopping in the lane Are brisk and full of cheer.

I am the maker, The builder, the breaker, The eagle-winged helper, The speedy forsaker! The lance and the lyre,

Every Sunday there’s a throng Of pretty girls, who trot along In a pious, breathless state (They are nearly always late) To the Chapel, where they pray