When smoke stood up from Ludlow, And mist blew off from Teme, And blithe afield to ploughing Against the morning beam I strode beside my team,

You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover’s say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smil…

Oh stay at home, my lad, and ploug… The land and not the sea, And leave the soldiers at their dr… And all about the idle hill Shepherd your sheep with me.

The street sounds to the soldiers’… And out we troop to see: A single redcoat turns his head, He turns and looks at me. My man, from sky to sky’s so far,

From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I. Now—for a breath I tarry

Be still, my soul, be still; the a… Earth and high heaven are fixt of… Think rather,—call to thought, if… The days when we had rest, O soul… Men loved unkindness then, but lig…

This time of year a twelvemonth pa… When Fred and I would meet, We needs must jangle, till at last We fought and I was beat. So then the summer fields about,

Home is the sailor, home from sea: Her far-borne canvas furled The ship pours shining on the quay The plunder of the world. Home is the hunter from the hill:

The time you won your town the rac… We chaired you through the market-… Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-h… To-day, the road all runners come,

Leave your home behind, lad, And reach your friends your hand, And go, and luck go with you While Ludlow tower shall stand. Oh, come you home of Sunday

Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be

The stinging nettle only Will still be found to stand: The numberless, the lonely, The thronger of the land, The leaf that hurts the hand.

'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found.

If by chance your eye offend you, Pluck it out, lad, and be sound: 'Twill hurt, but here are salves t… And many a balsam grows on ground. And if your hand or foot offend yo…

Tell me not here, it needs not say… What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainte…