Eight songs for upper voices and piano

Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
[Ding-dong.]1
Hark! now I hear them, - ding-dong bell.

There is a garden in her face,
  Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place,
  Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow, which none may buy
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
  Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
  They look like rosebuds filled with snow.
Yet them no peer nor prince can buy
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
  Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
  All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Now is the month of maying,
When merry lads are playing, fa la,
Each with his bonny lass
Upon the greeny grass. Fa la.

The Spring, clad all in gladness,
Doth laugh at Winter's sadness, fa la,
And to the bagpipe's sound
The nymphs tread out their ground. Fa la

Fie then! why sit we musing,
Youth's sweet delight refusing? Fa la.
Say dainty nymphs, and speak,
Shall we play barley-break? Fa la.

How jubilant the summer sky,
when turtle doves and cuckoos cry,
And when in wild and leafy wood
the song of nightingale is heard.

We wander in the shady grove,
and where red berries are we rove;
The ousel pipes his music low
and finches drum upon the bough.

Beside the blackcap vine we stay
on tender moss where shadows play
And flitting by, the cuckoo's brood
go babbling through the leafy wood.

It is time, O ye leaves,
O ye leaves, on the treetops of morning!
Laugh down the trees,
that pastures may wake!

It is time, O ye streams,
O ye streams, on the hilltops of morning!
Run down the hills,
That the valleys may wake!

It is time, O ye bells,
O ye bells, in the grey spire of morning!
Run down the spire,
That the hamlet may wake!

I stood on the mountain side,
while the sun was setting;
Thrown o'er all the woods
I saw evening's gold and netting.

Clouds of heav'n above the field
dewy hung, and weeping;
Lull'd by eveningtolling bells
gentle earth lay sleeping.

Said I, "O my heart, be still",
still with silent Nature
And prepare thyself to rest
with each earthborn creature.

And the little blossoms then
closed their eyes in slumber
And the still brook sang to sleep wavelets,
wavelets without number.

Dewy larks sought joyfully 
low nests in the clover
and in glens the stag and doe slept
for day was over.

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells' cheerful sound;
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green. 

Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
"Such, such were the joys
When we all--girls and boys -
In our youth-time were seen
On the echoing green."

Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry:
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green.

There is but one May in the year,
And sometimes May is wet and cold;
There is but one May in the year
before the year grows old.

Yet though it be the chilliest May
With least of sun and most of show'rs,
Its wind and dew, its night and day,
Bring up the flow'rs.