Robin Hood
John Keats
1795 to 1821
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No! those days are gone away,
And their are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, in forest drear.
On the fairest time of
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in "grenè shawe;"
All are gone away and past!
if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that wild bees
Sang not to her—strange! that honey
Can't got without hard money!
So it is: yet us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have by
Let us two a burden try.