Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
For always roaming with a hungry heart.
The bearing and the training of a child Is woman's wisdom.
For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.