Robin Hood

John Keats

John Keats portrait

1795 to 1821

Poem Image
Track 1

Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. You can also use the up (↑) and down (↓) arrows to move a line one place at a time, or the top (⇑) and bottom (⇓) arrows to move a line directly to the top or bottom. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.

Easy Mode - Auto check enabled
Thrumming on an empty can
Sleeping in the underwood!
Past the heath and up the hill;
She would weep that her wild bees
Under the down-trodden pall
Idling in the "grenè shawe;
Let us two a burden try.
Never one, of all the clan,
On the fairest time of June
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Honour to tight little John,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Some old hunting ditty, while
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to maid Marian,
He doth his green way beguile
Though their days have hurried by
Down beside the pasture Trent;
Can't be got without hard money!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
For he left the merry tale
You may go, with sun or moon,
Messenger for spicy ale.
There is no mid-forest laugh,
And their hours are old and gray,
And the horse he rode upon!
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Have rotted on the briny seas;
And if Marian should have
And their minutes buried all
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Sang not to her—strange! that honey
Honour to the woods unshorn!
No, the bugle sounds no more,
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Where lone Echo gives the half
Silent is the ivory shrill
Sounded tempests to the feast
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Little John, or Robin bold;
Once again her forest days,
So it is: yet let us sing,
Many times have winter's shears,
Or the polar ray to right you;
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
Honour to the old bow-string!
To fair hostess Merriment,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
All are gone away and past!
And the twanging bow no more;
Or the seven stars to light you,
And if Robin should be cast
She would weep, and he would craze:
Sudden from his turfed grave,
No! those days are gone away,
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
But you never may behold
Of the leaves of many years:

🎉 Congratulations! 🎉

You've successfully reconstructed the poem! Your understanding of poetry and attention to detail is impressive.

Poet portrait