This dear English land! This happy England, loud with brooks and birds, Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees, And bloomed from hill to dell: but whose best flowers Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest floods The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart; Whose forests stronger than her native oaks Are living men; and whose unfathomed lakes, Forever calm, the unforgotten dead In quiet grave-yards willowed seemly round, O'er which To-day bends sad, and sees his face. Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old Through unremembered years, around whose base The ever-surging peoples roll and roar Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas That only wash them whiter; and whose mountains, Souls that from this mere footing of the earth Lift their great virtues through all clouds of Fate Up to the very heavens, and make them rise To keep the gods above us! AMERICA Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye Who north or south, or east or western land, Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth, Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God For God; O ye who in eternal youth Speak with a living and creative flood This universal English, and do stand Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand Heroic utterance--parted, yet a whole, Far, yet unsevered,--children brave and free Of the great Mother tongue, and ye shall be Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's soul, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream. AMY'S SONG OF THE WILLOW From 'Balder' The years they come, and the years they go, Like winds that blow from sea to sea; From dark to dark they come and go, All in the dew-fall and the rain. Down by the stream there be two sweet willows, --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- One hale, one blighted, two wedded willows, All in the dew-fall and the rain. She is blighted, the fair young willow; --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- She hears the spring-blood beat in the bark; She hears the spring-leaf bud on the bough; But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow, All in the dew-fall and the rain. The stream runs sparkling under the willow, --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- The summer rose-leaves drop in the stream; The winter oak-leaves drop in the stream; But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow, All in the dew-fall and the rain. Sometimes the wind lifts the bright stream to her, --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- The false stream sinks, and her tears fall faster; Because she touched it her tears fall faster; Over the stream her tears fall faster, All in the sunshine or the rain.