Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.98

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	RIng ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, And leaue your wonted labors for this day: This day is holy; doe ye write it dovvne, that ye for euer it remember may. This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight, With Barnaby the bright, >From whence declining daily by degrees, He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, When once the Crab behind his back he sees. But for this time it ill ordained was, To chose the longest day in all the yeare, And shortest night, when longest fitter weare. Yet neuer day so long, but late would passe. Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away, And bonefiers make all day, And daunce about them, and about them sing: that all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required