REPEAT that, repeat, Cuckoo, bird, and open ear wells, heart-springs, delight- fully sweet, With a ballad, with a ballad, a rebound Off trundled timber and scoops of the hillside ground, hollow hollow hollow ground: The whole landscape flushes on a sudden at a sound. _67 On a piece of music_ How all's to one thing wrought! _See facsimile, after p. 92_. (Transcriber's note: The facsimile of the handwritten poem is omitted from this text version. It is freely available online from the Internet Archive.) _68_ 'The child is father to the man.' How can he be? The words are wild. Suck any sense from that who can: 'The child is father to the man.' No; what the poet did write ran, 'The man is father to the child.' 'The child is father to the man!' How _can_ he be? The words are wild. _69_ THE shepherd's brow fronting forked lightning, owns The horror and the havoc and the glory Of it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven--a story Of just, majestical, and giant groans. But man--we, scaffold of score brittle bones; Who breathe, from groundlong babyhood to hoary Age gasp; whose breath is our _memento mori_-- What bass is _our_ viol for tragic tones? He! Hand to mouth he lives, and voids with shame; And, blazoned in however bold the name, Man Jack the man is, just; his mate a hussy. And I that die these deaths, that feed this flame, That ... in smooth spoons spy life's masque mirrored: tame My tempests there, my fire and fever fussy. _70 To his Watch_ MORTAL my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart Warm beat with cold beat company, shall I Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie The ruins of, rifled, once a world of art? The telling time our task is; time's some part, Not all, but we were framed to fail and die-- One spell and well that one. There, ah thereby Is comfort's carol of all or woe's worst smart. Field-flown the departed day no morning brings Saying 'This was yours' with her, but new one, worse. And then that last and shortest . . . _71_ STRIKE, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail May's beauty massacre and wisped wild clouds grow Out on the giant air; tell Summer No, Bid joy back, have at the harvest, keep Hope pale. _72 Epithalamion_ HARK, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood, Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave, That leans along the loins of hills, where a candycoloured, where a gluegold-brown Marbled river, boisterously beautiful, between Roots and rocks is danced and dandled, all in froth and water- blowballs, down. We are there, when we hear a shout That the hanging honeysuck, the dogeared hazels in the cover Makes dither, makes hover And the riot of a rout Of, it must be, boys from the town Bathing: it is summer's sovereign good.