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