Robin Hood
John Keats
1795 to 1821
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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Never one, of all the clan,
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Have rotted on the briny seas;
Though their days have hurried by
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Idling in the "grenè shawe;"
On the fairest time of June
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Let us two a burden try.
Past the heath and up the hill;
All are gone away and past!
And their minutes buried all
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Honour to the archer keen!
No! those days are gone away,
Honour to the Lincoln green!
And the twanging bow no more;
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Honour to maid Marian,
Or the polar ray to right you;
Honour to tight little John,
Under the down-trodden pall
Down beside the pasture Trent;
Once again her forest days,
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Many times have winter's shears,
To fair hostess Merriment,
Sudden from his turfed grave,
He doth his green way beguile
She would weep, and he would craze:
Sounded tempests to the feast
Messenger for spicy ale.
For he left the merry tale
Sleeping in the underwood!
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
And the horse he rode upon!
Silent is the ivory shrill
Some old hunting ditty, while
Can't be got without hard money!
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And their hours are old and gray,
Sang not to her—strange! that honey
Thrumming on an empty can
Or the seven stars to light you,
You may go, with sun or moon,
She would weep that her wild bees
Of the leaves of many years:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
So it is: yet let us sing,
But you never may behold
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Gone, the merry morris din;
And if Marian should have
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
Where lone Echo gives the half
And if Robin should be cast
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Little John, or Robin bold;
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.