THE BOURNE—SONG.
155
THE BOURNE.
UNDERNEATH the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers:
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers:
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.
Youth and health will be but vain,
Beauty reckoned of no worth:
There a very little girth
Can hold round what once the earth
Seemed too narrow to contain.
Beauty reckoned of no worth:
There a very little girth
Can hold round what once the earth
Seemed too narrow to contain.
SONG.
OH what comes over the sea,
Shoals and quicksands past;
And what comes home to me,
Sailing slow, sailing fast?
Shoals and quicksands past;
And what comes home to me,
Sailing slow, sailing fast?
A wind comes over the sea
With a moan in its blast;
But nothing comes home to me,
Sailing slow, sailing fast.
With a moan in its blast;
But nothing comes home to me,
Sailing slow, sailing fast.
Let me be, let me be,
For my lot is cast:
Land or sea all's one to me,
And sail it slow or fast.
For my lot is cast:
Land or sea all's one to me,
And sail it slow or fast.
