Morning! Wake up! Awaken! All the boughs Are rippling on the air across the green. The youngest birds are singing to the house. Blood of the world!--and is the country clean? Disturb the precinct. Cool it with a shout. Sing as you trundle down to light the fire. Turn the encumbering shadows tumbling out. And fill the chambers with a new desire. Life is no good, unless the morning brings White happiness and quick delight of day. These half-inanimate domestic things Must all be useful, or must go away. Coffee, be fragrant. Porridge in my plate, Increase the vigour to fulfil my fate. VII The fresh air moves like water round a boat. The white clouds wander. Let us wander too. The whining, wavering plover flap and float. That crow is flying after that cuckoo. Look! Look!... They're gone. What are the great trees calling? Just come a little farther, by that edge Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge. Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand. Lie down and press your heart against the ground. Let us both listen till we understand, Each through the other, every natural sound.... I can't hear anything to-day, can you, But, far and near: 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'? VIII The everlasting grass--how bright, how cool! The day has gone too suddenly, too soon. There's something white and shiny in that pool-- Throw in a stone, and you will hit the moon. Listen, the church-bell ringing! Do not say We must go back to-morrow to our work. We'll tell them we are dead: we died to-day. We're lazy. We're too happy. We will shirk. We're cows. We're kettles. We'll be anything Except the manikins of time and fear. We'll start away to-morrow wandering, And nobody will notice in a year.... Now the great sun is slipping under ground. Grip firmly!--How the earth is whirling round! IX Be staid; be careful; and be not too free. Temptation to enjoy your liberty May rise against you, break into a crime, And smash the habit of employing Time. It serves no purpose that the careful clock Mark the appointment, the officious train Hurry to keep it, if the minutes mock Loud in your ear: 'Late. Late. Late. Late again.' Week-end is very well on Saturday: On Monday it's a different affair-- A little episode, a trivial stay In some oblivious spot somehow, somewhere. On Sunday night we hardly laugh or speak: Week-end begins to merge itself in Week. X