The Echoing Green

William Blake

1757 to 1827

Poem Image
Track 1

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Old John, with white hair,
The birds of the bush,
On the echoing green.’
Till the little ones, weary,
And our sports have an end.
On the darkening green.
And make happy the skies;
Sitting under the oak,
The merry bells ring
No more can be merry:
And soon they all say,
To welcome the Spring;
On the echoing green.
And sport no more seen
To the bells’ cheerful sound;
Are ready for rest,
‘Such, such were the joys
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
In our youth-time were seen
Like birds in their nest,
Sing louder around
Does laugh away care,
The skylark and thrush,
When we all—girls and boys—
The sun does arise,
While our sports shall be seen
The sun does descend,

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