When May has come, and all around The dandelions dot the ground, Then out into the woods I go, And take my arrows and my bow. Of hickory my bow is made, Deep in a darksome forest glade Cut from a sapling slim and tall, And feathered are my arrows all. And sometimes I am Robin Hood, That olden archer brave and good; And sometimes I'm an Indian sly, Who waits to shoot the passers-by. So up and down the woods I roam Till sunset bids me hurry home Before the pathway through the glen Is peopled by the shadow-men. And when at night my bow unstrung, Is close beside my quiver hung, To bed I slip and slumber well, And dream that I am William Tell.
English Poetry - http://eng-poetry.ru/english/index.php. E-mail email@example.com