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The Hayloft The grass grew shoulder high, Till the shining scythes went far and wide, And cut it down to dry. The green and sweetly smelling crops, They led the waggons home, And they piled them here in mountain tops, For mountaineers to roam. Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, Mount Eagle and Mount High, The mice that in these mountains dwell, No happier than I! O what joy to clamber there, O what a place for play, With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, The happy hills of hay.
We have no time to stand and stare?— No time to stand beneath the boughs, And stare as long as sheep and cows: No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass: No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night: No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance: No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began? A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
Does your burden seem too great? Are you fighting uphill battles, Struggling with a hostile fate? The milestone at the turning point May be a few steps round the bend. Courage!…This may be the spot Where joys return and troubles end.
The Happy ChildW H Davies (1871 - 1940)I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick But not one like the child did pick I heard the packhounds in green park But no dog like the child heard bark. I heard this day bird after bird But not one like the child has heard A hundred butterflies saw I But not one like the child saw fly I saw the horse roll in grass But no horse like the child saw pass My world this day has lovely been But not like what the child has seen
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