Page:Keats, poems published in 1820 (Robertson, 1909).djvu/161

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133
POEMS.

ROBIN HOOD.


TO A FRIEND.


No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.10


No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;