Winken, Blinken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,
Sailed off on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.

“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in the beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!”
Said Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long,
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—
Never afeard are we”;
So cried the stars to the fisherman three:
Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam—
Then down from the skies came a wooden shoe
Bringing the fishermen home;
T’was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought t’was a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea—
But I shall name you the fisherman three:
Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

Winken and Blinken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoes that sailed the skies
Is the wee one’s trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while your mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fisherman three:
Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

— Mother Goose, Winken, Blinken, and Nod

Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.

As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, and ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
Green groweth  .  .  .  etc.

As the holly groweth green,
With ivy all alone,
When flowerys cannot be seen
And green-wood leaves be gone,
ut supra

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make:
From all other only
To her I me betake.
ut supra

Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my specïal,
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.

Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly. 

— King Henry VIII, Green Groweth the Holly

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

In Hilding’s garden, green and fair,
Protected by his fostering care,
Two rare and stately plants were growing,
Unequaled grace and beauty showing.

The one a sturdy oak tree grew,
With lance-like stem so straight and true,
Its crown in northern tempests shaking
Like helmet plume in battle quaking.

The other like a rose sprang forth
When tardy winter leaves the north,
And spring, which in the buds lies dreaming,
Still waits with gems to set them gleaming.

Around the earth the storm-king raves,
The wrestling oak its anger braves;
The sun dissolves frost’s mantle hoary,
The buds reveal their hidden glory.

So they grew up in joy and glee,
And Fridthjof was the young oak tree;
Unfolding in the vale serenely,
The rose was Ingeborg the queenly.

Saw you those two by light of day
You seem in Freyja’s house to stay,
Where bride-pairs, golden-haired, were swinging,
Their way on rosy pinions winging.

But seeing them by moonlight pale
Round dancing in the leafy vale,
You’d think: The elf-king now advances,
And leads his queen in fairy dances.

How joyful ’twas, how lovely too,
When firs[ he learned his futhorc through;
No kings had e’er such honor brought them
As when to Ingeborg he taught them.

How joyously his boat would glide
With those two o’er the dark blue tide:
While he the driving sail was veering,
Her small white hands gave hearty cheering.

No bird’s nest found so high a spot,
That he for her could find it not;
The eagle’s nest from clouds he sundered,
And eggs and young he deftly plundered.

However swift, there ran no brook,
But o’er it Ingeborg he took;
How sweet when roaring torrents frighten,
To feel her soft arms round him tighten.

The first; spring flowers by sunshine fed,
The earliest berries turning red,
The first of autumn’s golden treasure,
He proffered her with eager pleasure.

********************

But quickly sped are childhood’s days,—
There stands a youth whose ardent gaze
With pleading and with hope is laden,
And there, with budding charms, a maiden.

Young Fridthjof followed oft the chase,
Which led to many a fearful place;
With neither spear nor lance defended,
The wild bear’s life he quickly ended.

When, struggling, met they breast to breast,
The hunter won, though hardly pressed,
And brought the bearskin home; such prizes,
Think you, a maiden e’er despises?

For woman values courage rare;
The brave alone deserves the fair,
Each one the other’s grace completing,
As brow and helmet fitly meeting.

And when in winter evenings long,
By firelight reading, in a song,
Of fair abodes in radiant heaven

To every god and goddess given,

He thought: “Of gold is Ing’borg’s hair,
A net for rose and lily fair:
Like Freyja’s bounteous golden tresses,
A wheat-field which the breeze caresses.

Fair Idun’s beauteous bosom beats
Beneath the green silk’s safe retreats,—
I know a silk whose sheen encloses
Light; fairies two, with buds of roses.

And Frigg’s mild eyes are blue and clear
As heaven, when no clouds appear,—
But I know eyes beside whose sparkles
A light, blue spring day quickly darkles.

And Gerd’s fair cheeks, why praise them so?
The northern-lights, on new fall’n snow,—
I know of cheeks whose rosy warnings
Portray at once two ruddy mornings.

I know a heart affection-crowned
Like Nanna’s, though not so renowned
And Nanna’s love, in song and story,
is justly reckoned Balder’s glory.

For oh, what joy when death appears,
To have a faithful maiden’s tears!
To prove a love so strong and tender,
With Hel’s grim shades I’d gladly wander.”

Meanwhile the princess gayly wove
In cloth, blue wave and greenest grove;
And as she sang a hero’s story,
She also wove a hero’s glory.

For soon there grew in snow-white wool
Bright shields from off the golden spool,
Here, red prevail the battle lances,
There, silver-stiffened armor glances.

Anon her fingers deftly trace
A hero,—see, ’tis Fridthjof’s face;
And though at first almost affrighted,
She blushes, smiles and is delighted.

The birch tree’s stem where Fridthjof went
Showed I and F in beauty blent;
As grew those runes in one, delighted,
So too those hearts in one united.

When Day invests the upper air,
The world-king with the golden hair,
When men to action urge each other,
They think alone of one another.

When Night pervades the upper air,
The world-queen with the raven hair,
When stars in silence greet each other,
They dream alone of one another.

“Thou Earth, who in the spring-time fair,
Bedeck’st with flowers thine emerald hair,
Give me the best; in wreaths I’ll wind them,
And round my Fridthjof’s brow will bind them.”

“Thou sea, who mak’st thy dark caves bright
With myriad pearls’ refulgent light,
Give me the best; I’ll weave the clearest
A necklace for my Ing’borg dearest.”

“Thou ornament of Odin’s throne,
Eye of the world, O golden sun,
Wert thou but mine, thy blazing splendor
I’d give a shield to my defender.”

“Thou guide in Odin’s house at night,
Thou pale moon with thy lovely light,
Were thou but mine, thy pearly lustre
‘Mid Ing’borg’s golden hair should cluster.”

But Hilding said: “My foster-son,
Your reason is by love outrun;
The norns are partial in bestowing
The blood that in her veins is flowing.

To Odin high, where bright stars shine,
Ascendeth her ancestral line;
No hope may son of Thorstein nourish,
For like with like alone can flourish.”

But Fridthjof smiled: “My race,” he said,
“Goes down unto the valiant dead;
The forest-king I slew, and merit
Thereby, the honor kings inherit.

“The free-born man will never yield,
He owns the world’s unconquered field;
For fate can bind what she has broken,
And hope is crowned with kingly token.

“All power is noble; Thor presides
In Thrudvang, where all strength abides;
There worth, and not descent, is leader,—
The sword is e’er a valiant pleader.

“I’d fight the world for my sweet bride,
Yea, though the thunder-god defied.
Be glad and brave, my lily, never
Shah mortal dare our lives to sever.”

— Esaias Tegne’r, Fridthjof and Ingeborg

Have you forgotten yet?…
For the world’s events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you’re a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the past is just the same–and War’s a bloody game…
Have you forgotten yet?…
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz–
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench–
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, ‘Is it all going to happen again?’

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack–
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads–those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

Have you forgotten yet?…
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you’ll never forget.

— Siegfried Sassoon, Aftermath