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Out on the Lawn I Lie in Bed*

Out on the lawn I lie in bed, Vega conspicuous overhead In the windless nights of June; Forests of green have done complete The day’s activity; my feet Point to the rising moon.

Now North and South and East

and West Those I love lie down to rest; The moon looks on them all: The healers and the brilliant talkers, The eccentrics and the silent walkers, The dumpy and the tall.

To gravity attentive, she Can notice nothing here; though we Whom hunger cannot move, From gardens where we feel, secure Look up, and with a sigh endure The tyrannies of love:

And, gentle, do not care to know, Where Poland draws her Eastern

bow, What violence is done; Nor ask what doubtful act allows Our freedom in this English house, Our picnics in the sun.

  • W.H. Auden

*by kind permission of W. H. Auden

When Will My May Come

When will my May come, that I may

embrace thee? When will the hour be of my soules


If thou wilt come and dwell with me

at home; My sheepcote shall be strowed with

new green rushes; We’ll haunt the trembling prickets as

they roam


About the fields, along the hawthorn

bushes; I have a piebald cur to hunt the hare: So we will live with dainty forest


And when it pleaseth thee to walk

abroad, (Abroad into the fields to take fresh

aire:) The meads with Flora’s treasures shall

be strowed, (The mantled meadows and the fields

so fair.) And by a silver well (with golden

sands) I’ll sit me down, and wash thine iv’ry


But if thou wilt not pitie my

complaint, My tears, nor vowes, nor oathes,

made to thy Beautie: What shall I do? But languish, die,

or faint, Since thou doth scorne my tears, and

soule’s duetie: And tears contemned, vowes, and

oathes must fail: For when tears cannot, nothing can


  • Richard Barnfield

Fair and Fair

Fair and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be; The fairest shepherd on our green, A love for any lady. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be; Thy love is fair for thee alone, And for no other lady. My love is fair, my love is gay, As fresh as bin the flowers in May; And of my love my roundelay,

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