The Acorn
An acorn swung
On an oak-tree bough;
So long it had hung,
It would fain fall now
To the kindly earth,
That its germ within
Might burst into birth,
And its life begin.
And the autumn came
With its burning hand,
And each leaf grew a flame,
And each bough a brand.
And a worm came up
And began to eat
Though the hard, dry cup
To the acorn sweet.
And the acorn thought,
“I shall soon see now
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poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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All's Well
Watchman, watchman, what of the night,
What of the night to tell?
The heavens are dark, and never a light
But the far-off flicker of Hell.
But the steed is in the stall,
Unsleeping;
And the warder on the wall,
Watch-keeping;
And the granary is stored,
And ready gun and sword.
In the name of the Lord,
All's Well!
Watchman, watchman, what of the night,
What of the night to tell?
The wind blows fierce, and the foam flies white,
And the waters moan and swell.
But the foes to haven keep,
Safe hiding;
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poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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The Home of My Heart
Not here in the populous town,
In the playhouse or mart,
Not here in the ways gray and brown,
Bnt afar on the green-swelling down,
Is the home of my heart.
There the hillside slopes down to a dell
Whence a streamlet has start;
There are woods and sweet grass on the swell,
And the south winds and west know it well:
‘Tis the home of my heart.
There’s a cottage o’ershadowed by leaves
Growing fairer than art,
Where under the low sloping eaves -
No false hand the swallow bereaves:
‘Tis the home of my heart.
And there as you gaze down the lea,
Where the trees stand apart,
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poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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The Chantry Of The Cherubim
O CHANTRY of the Cherubim,
Down-looking on the stream!
Beneath thy boughs the day grows dim;
Through windows comes the gleam;
A thousand raptures fill the air,
Beyond delight, beyond despair.
I will not name one flower that clings
In cluster at my feet!
I will not hail one bird that sings
Its anthem loud or sweet!
This is the floor of Heaven, and these
The angels that God’s ear do please.
I walk as one unclothed of flesh,
I wash my spirit clean;
I see old miracles afresh,
And wonders yet unseen.
I will not leave Thee till Thou give
Some word whereby my soul may live!
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poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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