Pennant

Come up here, bard, bard,

Come up here, soul, soul,

Come up here, dear little child,

To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless light.

 Child

Father what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?

And what does it say to me all the while?

 Father

Nothing my babe you see in the sky,

And nothing at all to you it says—but look you my babe,

Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the money-shops opening,

And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with goods;

These, ah these, how valued and toil'd for these!

How envied by all the earth!

 Poet

Fresh and rosy red the sun is mounting high,

On floats the sea in distant blue careering through its channels,

On floats the wind over the breast of the sea setting in toward land,

The great steady wind from west to west-by-south.

 Prev. P 15/131 next