Robin Hood
John Keats
1795 to 1821
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. 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. Take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Never one, of all the clan,
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Or the polar ray to right you;
On the fairest time of June
She would weep, and he would craze:
Honour to maid Marian,
And if Marian should have
Where lone Echo gives the half
And if Robin should be cast
Or the seven stars to light you,
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Many times have winter's shears,
No, the bugle sounds no more,
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
No! those days are gone away,
Messenger for spicy ale.
All are gone away and past!
And their hours are old and gray,
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Past the heath and up the hill;
To fair hostess Merriment,
Gone, the merry morris din;
So it is: yet let us sing,
Of the leaves of many years:
And their minutes buried all
Sleeping in the underwood!
Some old hunting ditty, while
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Though their days have hurried by
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Once again her forest days,
And the twanging bow no more;
Honour to the old bow-string!
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
For he left the merry tale
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Sudden from his turfed grave,
Silent is the ivory shrill
Little John, or Robin bold;
Idling in the "grenè shawe;"
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
He doth his green way beguile
Can't be got without hard money!
She would weep that her wild bees
Honour to the bugle-horn!
And the horse he rode upon!
You may go, with sun or moon,
Let us two a burden try.
But you never may behold
Honour to tight little John,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Have rotted on the briny seas;
Sang not to her—strange! that honey
Thrumming on an empty can
Under the down-trodden pall
Down beside the pasture Trent;
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Frozen North, and chilling East,