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<h1>FLY LEAVES</h1>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center">C. S. CALVERLEY,<br/></p>
<h2><SPAN name="page1"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>MORNING.</h2>
<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Tis</span> the hour
when white-horsed Day<br/>
Chases Night her mares away;<br/>
When the Gates of Dawn (they say)<br/>
Phœbus opes:<br/>
And I gather that the Queen<br/>
May be uniformly seen,<br/>
Should the weather be serene,<br/>
On the slopes.</p>
<p class="poetry">When the ploughman, as he goes<br/>
Leathern-gaitered o’er the snows,<br/>
From his hat and from his nose<br/>
Knocks the ice;<br/>
<SPAN name="page2"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>And the
panes are frosted o’er,<br/>
And the lawn is crisp and hoar,<br/>
As has been observed before<br/>
Once or twice.</p>
<p class="poetry">When arrayed in breastplate red<br/>
Sings the robin, for his bread,<br/>
On the elmtree that hath shed<br/>
Every leaf;<br/>
While, within, the frost benumbs<br/>
The still sleepy schoolboy’s thumbs,<br/>
And in consequence his sums<br/>
Come to grief.</p>
<p class="poetry">But when breakfast-time hath come,<br/>
And he’s crunching crust and crumb,<br/>
He’ll no longer look a glum<br/>
Little dunce;<br/>
<SPAN name="page3"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>But be brisk
as bees that settle<br/>
On a summer rose’s petal:<br/>
Wherefore, Polly, put the kettle<br/>
On at once.</p>
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