ALL THINGS WAIT UPON THEE 



INNOCENT eyes not ours 



And made to look on flowers, 

 Eyes of small birds, and insects small ; 



Morn after summer morn 



The sweet rose on her thorn 

 Opens her bosom to them all. 



The last and least of things, 



That soar on quivering wings, 

 Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight, 



Have just as clear a right 

 To their appointed portion of delight 



As Queens and Kings. 



CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. 



ARIEL'S SONG 



(From " The Tempest ") 



WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I : 

 In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 

 There I couch when owls do cry. 

 On the bat's back I do fly 

 After summer merrily. 

 Merrily, merrily shall I live now 

 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 

 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



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