ENGLAND, 1844- SCYTHE SONG Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks you know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the grass below? Scythes that swing in the glass and clover, Something, still, they say as they pass; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? _Hush, ah hush_, the Scythes are saying, _Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; Hush_, they say to the grasses swaying; _Hush_, they sing to the clover deep! _Hush_--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- _Hush, and heed not, for all things pass;_ _Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging_ Over the clover, over the grass! * * * * * ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE ENGLAND, 1837- WHITE BUTTERFLIES Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, Small white wings that we scarce can see, Fly! Some fly light as a laugh of glee, Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; All to the haven where each would be, Fly! * * * * * RUDYARD KIPLING ENGLAND, 1865- RECESSIONAL A VICTORIAN ODE God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold