Poem 3: THE ECHOING GREEN
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| | The sun does arise, | |
| | And make happy the skies; | |
| | The merry bells ring | |
| | To welcome the Spring; | |
| | The skylark and thrush, | |
| | The birds of the bush, | |
| | Sing louder around | |
| | To the bells' cheerful sound; | |
| | While our sports shall be seen | |
| | On the echoing green. | |
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| | Old John, with white hair, | |
| | Does laugh away care, | |
| | Sitting under the oak, | |
| | Among the old folk. | |
| | They laugh at our play, | |
| | And soon they all say, | |
| | 'Such, such were the joys | |
| | When we all—girls and boys - | |
| | In our youth-time were seen | |
| | On the echoing green.' | |
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| | Till the little ones, weary, | |
| | No more can be merry: | |
| | The sun does descend, | |
| | And our sports have an end. | |
| | Round the laps of their mothers | |
| | Many sisters and brothers, | |
| | Like birds in their nest, | |
| | Are ready for rest, | |
| | And sport no more seen | |
| | On the darkening green. | |
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