The Echoing Green

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the spring;
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing aloud on the echoing green.

Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
‘How happy, we are on the echoing green.’

Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many children sing,
‘Thank you for our play
And for happy day
Thank you for our joy
And for all old ones,
And for ever, on echoing green.’

• William Blake