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

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 * ROBIN HOOD.
 * 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.

No, the bugle sounds no more,

And the twanging bow no more;
 * }