There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the gray-eyed people Who happen up the hill. Ay, ’tis a curious fancy— But all the good I know Was taught me out of two gray eyes A long time ago. _Version Y_ There shall be dishes a-plenty, And something to take off the chill Of as many gray-eyed people As are willing to climb the hill. ’Tis truly an odd fancy, But everything good that I know I learned out of two gray eyes Many years ago. _Version Z_ And when those gray-eyed people Have entered in the gate, We’ll pass the cheering mug around, And also pass the plate. It may sound rather funny, But I was helped a lot By someone who had gray eyes When I was a little tot. SET III Read each version carefully and try to think how it would sound if it were read aloud. Which version is the poorest poetry, and which is the best poetry? =Best= .... =Middle= .... =Poorest= .... _Version X_ Music, when faint voices cease, Continues in the memory— Odours, when the violets fade, Linger where their smell was made. _Version Y_ Music lives in the memory, Though the songster’s voice is done. Sweet odours haunt the nose, Though the violets that waked them are gone. _Version Z_ Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory— Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. SET IV Read each version carefully and try to think how it would sound if it were read aloud. Which version is the poorest poetry, and which is the best poetry? =Best= .... =Middle= .... =Poorest= .... _Version X_ No rosebud yet has e’er been seen, Or flower in tropic lands, To equal these, more beauteous e’en— A baby’s hands. _Version Y_ No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world— A baby’s hands. _Version Z_ No flower that grows, In this or any other lands, Compares with these, of daintiest rose— A baby’s hands.