English | PoetryNook

Prison in Windsor Castle

So cruel prison how could betide, alas,
As proud Windsor, Where I in lust and joy
With a king's son my childish years did pass
In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy?
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour;
The large green courts where we were wont to hove
With eyes cast up unto the maidens' tower,
And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love;
The stately sails, the ladies bright of hue,
The dances short, long tales of great delight,
With words and looks that tigers could but rue,
Where each of us did plead the other's right;

Lullaby

Sleep , little baby, sleep and rest,
The moon hangs low in the crimson west;
As the Christ-child slept at Mary's breast,
Sleep, little baby, sleep!

Hush, little baby, hush and dream
Of golden boats on a silver stream,
And let my love creep in between.
Hush, little baby, hush!

Rest, little baby, rest and sleep,
Far in the fields are the little white sheep.
Safe in my arms in slumber deep
Rest, little baby, rest!

Dark Wings

Sing while you may, O bird upon the tree!
Although on high, wide-winged above the day
Chill evening broadens to immensity;
Sing while you may.

On thee, wide-hovering too, intent to slay,
The hawk's slant pinion buoys him terribly:
Thus near the end is of thy happy lay.

The day and thou and miserable me
Dark wings shall cover up and hide away
Where no song stirs of bird or memory;
Sing while you may.

All you that are to mirth Inclin'd

All you that are to mirth Inclin'd
consider well and bare in mind
What our Good God hath for us don
in sending his beloved sonne
for to redeeme our sowles from thrall
who is the saviour of us all.

Let all your songs and praises bee
Unto his heavenly majestie
And evermore amongst your mirth
remember christ our saviours birth

The twenty fift Day of December
Good cause have we for to remember
In bethlem upon that morne
there was our blest messias borne

That night before the happie tyde
the spotlesse virgin and her guide

Kissing of My Dame

Sing jigmijole the pudding-bowl,
The table and the frame,
My master he did cudgel me
For kissing of my dame.

Song

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
—Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind's soft song,
—And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,
—The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
—And every wistful waiting star.

Shady, Shady

Shady, shady the wood in front of the Hall:
At midsummer full of calm shadows.
The south wind follows summer's train:
With its eddying puffs it blows open my coat.
I am free from ties and can live a life of retirement.
When I rise from sleep, I play with books and harp.
The lettuce in the garden still grows moist:
Of last year's grain there is always plenty left.
Self-support should maintain strict limits:
More than enough is not what I want.
I grind millet and make good wine:
When the wine is heated, I pour it out for myself.