Tick, The Clock is Chiming

Tick, the clocks are chiming,
Tock the clocks fall down,
Tick the time is passing
As the forest turns to town.
Tick, the fairies beckon,
Tock the moonlight wanes,
Tick, your time is running
And the child, down the lane.
Where does she go? You ask her;
The child only skips.
The child does not answer,
But she laughs and runs and trips.
Watch, the fairies mock you,
Watch, they take her hand,
And she will follow happily
To the far off fairy land.

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The Eighth Son of Seven

The first son is heir to the seventh son’s throne
Barren and black though it be
The second to all that is gardened and grown
Though half of it’s washed out to sea
The third son receives a wonderful wife
Though she’s fifty years older than he
The fourth, perhaps, to a tedious life
As a merchant, or maker of keys
The fifth joins the army, an officer born
And he might win a medal or three
The sixth son often is treated with scorn
For nothing he does comes free
The seventh has magical seeds to be sown
And wonderful sights to see
But the eighth is neither remembered nor known
A horrible thing to be.

In His Eyes

O eye, like glass, unmoving,
Though once ye stormed, and bright!
Why giveth ye now nothing?
Where gone your childish light?
O eye that stares, and steadfast,
What living death contain?
What silence now ensnares you
Where once did tempest reign?