THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE, VOLUME 1

By Various

Edited by Burton Egbert Stevenson

THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE, VOLUME 1

By Various

Edited by Burton Egbert Stevenson

Contents of Volume I of the two volume setThis includes contents of Volumes 1 through 4 of our Etext editions. 

 PART I

 POEMS OF YOUTH AND AGE

 The Human Seasons John Keats

 THE BABY

 "Only a Baby Small" Matthias Barr Only Harriet Prescott Spofford Infant Joy William Blake Baby George Macdonald To a New-Born Baby Girl Grace Hazard Conkling To Little Renee William Aspenwall Bradley A Rhyme of One Frederick Locker-Lampson To a New-Born Child Cosmo Monkhouse Baby May William Cox Bennett Alice Herbert Bashford Songs for Fragoletta Richard Le Gallienne Choosing a Name Mary Lamb Weighing the Baby Ethel Lynn Beers Etude Realiste Algernon Charles Swinburne Little Feet Elizabeth Akers The Babie Jeremiah Eames Rankin Little Hands Laurence Binyon Bartholomew Norman Gale The Storm-Child May Byron "On Parent Knees" William Jones "Philip, My King" Dinah Maria Mulock Craik The King of the Cradle Joseph Ashby-Sterry The Firstborn John Arthur Goodchild No Baby in the House Clara Dolliver Our Wee White Rose Gerald Massey Into the World and Out Sarah M. P. Piatt "Baby Sleeps" Samuel Hinds Baby Bell Thomas Bailey Aldrich

 IN THE NURSERY

 Mother Goose's Melodies Unknown Jack and Jill Unknown The Queen of Hearts Unknown Little Bo-Peep Unknown Mary's Lamb Sarah Josepha Hale The Star Jane Taylor "Sing a Song of Sixpence" Unknown Simple Simon Unknown A Pleasant Ship Unknown "I Had a Little Husband" Unknown "When I Was a Bachelor" Unknown "Johnny Shall Have a New Bonnet" Unknown The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse Christina Rossetti Robin Redbreast Unknown Solomon Grundy Unknown "Merry Are the Bells" Unknown "When Good King Arthur Ruled This Land" Unknown The Bells of London Unknown "The Owl and the Eel and the Warming Pan" Laura E. Richards The Cow Ann Taylor The Lamb William Blake Little Raindrops Unknown "Moon, So Round and Yellow" Matthias Barr The House That Jack Built Unknown Old Mother Hubbard Unknown The Death and Burial of Cock Robin Unknown Baby-Land George Cooper The First Tooth William Brighty Rands Baby's Breakfast Emilie Poulsson The Moon Eliza Lee Follen Baby at Play Unknown The Difference Laura E. Richards Foot Soldiers John Banister Tabb Tom Thumb's Alphabet Unknown Grammar in Rhyme Unknown Days of the Month Unknown The Garden Year Sara Coleridge Riddles Unknown Proverbs Unknown Kind Hearts Unknown Weather Wisdom Unknown Old Superstitions Unknown

 THE ROAD TO SLUMBERLAND

 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod Eugene Field The Sugar-Plum Tree Eugene Field When the Sleepy Man Comes Charles G. D. Roberts Auld Daddy Darkness James Ferguson Willie Winkle William Miller The Sandman Margaret Thomson Janvier The Dustman Frederick Edward Weatherly Sephestia's Lullaby Robert Greene "Golden Slumbers Kiss Your Eyes" Thomas Dekker "Sleep, Baby, Sleep" George Wither Mother's Song Unknown A Lullaby Richard Rowlands A Cradle Hymn Isaac Watts Cradle Song William Blake Lullaby Carolina Nairne Lullaby of an Infant Chief Walter Scott Good-Night Jane Taylor "Lullaby, O Lullaby" William Cox Bennett Lullaby Alfred Tennyson The Cottager to Her Infant Dorothy Wordsworth Trot, Trot! Mary F. Butts Holy Innocents Christina Georgina Rossetti Lullaby Josiah Gilbert Holland Cradle Song Josiah Gilbert Holland An Irish Lullaby Alfred Perceval Graves Cradle Song Josephine Preston Peabody Mother-Song from "Prince Lucifer" Alfred Austin Kentucky Babe Richard Henry Buck Minnie and Winnie Alfred Tennyson Bed-Time Song Emilie Poulsson Tucking the Baby In Curtis May "Jenny Wi' the Airn Teeth" Alexander Anderson Cuddle Doon Alexander Anderson Bedtime Francis Robert St. Clair Erskine

 THE DUTY OF CHILDREN

 Happy Thought Robert Louis Stevenson Whole Duty of Children Robert Louis Stevenson Politeness Elizabeth Turner Rules of Behavior Unknown Little Fred Unknown The Lovable Child Emilie Poulsson Good and Bad Children Robert Louis Stevenson Rebecca's After-Thought Elizabeth Turner Kindness to Animals Unknown A Rule for Birds' Nesters Unknown "Sing on, Blithe Bird" William Motherwell "I Like Little Pussy" Jane Taylor Little Things Julia Fletcher Carney The Little Gentleman Unknown The Crust of Bread Unknown "How Doth the Little Busy Bee" Isaac Watts The Brown Thrush Lucy Larcom The Sluggard Isaac Watts The Violet Jane Taylor Dirty Jim Jane Taylor The Pin Ann Taylor Jane and Eliza Ann Taylor Meddlesome Matty Ann Taylor Contented John Jane Taylor Friends Abbie Farwell Brown Anger Charles and Mary Lamb "There Was a Little Girl" H. W. Longfellow The Reformation of Godfrey Gore William Brighty Rands The Best Firm Walter G. Doty A Little Page's Song William Alexander Percy How the Little Kite Learned to Fly Unknown The Butterfly and the Bee William Lisle Bowles The Butterfly Adelaide O'Keefe Morning Jane Taylor Buttercups and Daisies Mary Howitt The Ant and the Cricket Unknown After Wings Sarah M. B. Piatt Deeds of Kindness Epes Sargent The Lion and the Mouse Jeffreys Taylor The Boy and the Wolf John Hookham Frere The Story of Augustus, Who Would Not Have Any Soup Heinrich Hoffman The Story of Little Suck-A-Thumb Heinrich Hoffman Written in a Little Lady's Little Album Frederick William Faber My Lady Wind Unknown To a Child William Wordsworth A Farewell Charles Kingsley

 RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD

 Reeds of Innocence William Blake The Wonderful World William Brighty Rands The World's Music Gabriel Setoun A Boy's Song James Hogg Going Down Hill On a Bicycle Henry Charles Beeching Playgrounds Laurence Alma-Tadema "Who Has Seen the Wind?" Christina Georgina Rossetti The Wind's Song Gabriel Setoun The Piper on the Hill Dora Sigerson Shorter The Wind and the Moon George Macdonald Child's Song in Spring Edith Nesbit Baby Seed Song Edith Nesbit Little Dandelion Helen Barron Bostwick Little White Lily George Macdonald Wishing William Allingham In the Garden Ernest Crosby The Gladness of Nature William Cullen Bryant Glad Day W. Graham Robertson The Tiger William Blake Answer to a Child's Question Samuel Taylor Coleridge How the Leaves Came Down Susan Coolidge A Legend of the Northland Phoebe Cary The Cricket's Story Emma Huntington Nason The Singing-Lesson Jean Ingelow Chanticleer Katherine Tynan "What Does Little Birdie Say?" Alfred Tennyson Nurse's Song William Blake Jack Frost Gabriel Setoun October's Party George Cooper The Shepherd William Blake Nikolina Celia Thaxter Little Gustava Celia Thaxter Prince Tatters Laura E. Richards The Little Black Boy William Blake The Blind Boy Colley Cibber Bunches of Grapes Walter de la Mare My Shadow Robert Louis Stevenson The Land of Counterpane Robert Louis Stevenson The Land of Story-Books Robert Louis Stevenson The Gardener Robert Louis Stevenson Foreign Lands Robert Louis Stevenson My Bed is a Boat Robert Louis Stevenson The Peddler's Caravan William Brighty Rands Mr. Coggs Edward Verrall Lucas The Building of the Nest Margaret Sangster "There was a Jolly Miller" Isaac Bickerstaff One and One Mary Mapes Dodge A Nursery Song Laura E. Richards A Mortifying Mistake Anna Maria Pratt The Raggedy Man James Whitcomb Riley The Man in the Moon James Whitcomb Riley Little Orphant Annie James Whitcomb Riley Our Hired Girl James Whitcomb Riley See'n Things Eugene Field The Duel Eugene Field Holy Thursday William Blake A Story for a Child Bayard Taylor The Spider and the Fly Mary Howitt The Captain's Daughter James Thomas Fields The Nightingale and the Glow-Worm William Cowper Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable George Macdonald The Courtship, Merry Marriage, and Picnic Dinner of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren Unknown The Babes in the Wood Unknown God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop Robert Southey The Pied Piper of Hamelin Robert Browning

 THE GLAD EVANGEL

 A Carol Unknown "God Rest You Merry Gentlemen" Unknown 'O Little Town of Bethlehem" Phillips Brooks A Christmas Hymn Alfred Domett "While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night" Nahum Tate Christmas Carols Edmund Hamilton Sears The Angels William Drummond The Burning Babe Robert Southwell Tryste Noel Louise Imogen Guiney Christmas Carol Unknown "Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning" Reginald Heber Christmas Bells Henry Wadsworth Longfellow A Christmas Carol Gilbert Keith Chesterton The House of Christmas Gilbert Keith Chesterton The Feast of the Snow Gilbert Keith Chesterton Mary's Baby Shaemas OSheel Gates and Doors Joyce Kilmer The Three Kings Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Lullaby in Bethlehem Henry Howarth Bashford A Child's Song of Christmas Marjorie L. C. Pickthall Jest 'Fore Christmas Eugene Field A Visit from St. Nicholas Clement Clarke Moore Ceremonies for Christmas Robert Herrick On the Morning of Christ's Nativity John Milton

 FAIRYLAND

 The Fairy Book Norman Gale Fairy Songs William Shakespeare Queen Mab Ben Jonson The Elf and the Dormouse Oliver Herford "Oh! Where Do Fairies Hide Their Heads?" Thomas Haynes Bayly Fairy Song Leigh Hunt Dream Song Richard Middleton Fairy Song John Keats Queen Mab Thomas Hood The Fairies of the Caldon-Low Mary Howitt The Fairies William Allingham The Fairy Thrall Mary C. G. Byron Farewell to the Fairies Richard Corbet The Fairy Folk Robert Bird The Fairy Book Abbie Farwell Brown The Visitor Patrick R. Chalmers The Little Elf John Kendrick Bangs The Satyrs and the Moon Herbert S. Gorman

 THE CHILDREN

 The Children Charles Monroe Dickinson The Children's Hour Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Laus Infantium William Canton The Desire Katherine Tynan A Child's Laughter Algernon Charles Swinburne Seven Years Old Algernon Charles Swinburne Creep Afore Ye Gang James Ballantine Castles in the Air James Ballantine Under My Window Thomas Westwood Little Bell Thomas Westwood The Barefoot Boy John Greenleaf Whittier The Heritage James Russell Lowell Letty's Globe Charles Tennyson Turner Dove's Nest Joseph Russell Taylor The Oracle Arthur Davison Ficke To a Little Girl Helen Parry Eden To a Little Girl Gustav Kobbe A Parental Ode to My Son Thomas Hood A New Poet William Canton To Laura W-, Two Years Old Nathaniel Parker Willis To Rose Sara Teasdale To Charlotte Pulteney Ambrose Philips The Picture of Little T. C. In a Prospect of Flowers Andrew Marvell To Hartley Coleridge William Wordsworth To a Child of Quality Matthew Prior Ex Ore Infantium Francis Thompson Obituary Thomas William Parsons The Child's Heritage John G. Neihardt A Girl of Pompeii Edward Sandford Martin On the Picture of a "Child Tired of Play" Nathaniel Parker Willis The Reverie of Poor Susan William Wordsworth Children's Song Ford Madox Hueffer The Mitherless Bairn William Thom The Cry of the Children Elizabeth Barrett Browning The Shadow-Child Harriet Monroe Mother Wept Joseph Skipsey Duty Ralph Waldo Emerson Lucy Gray William Wordsworth In the Children's Hospital Alfred Tennyson "If I Were Dead" Coventry Patmore The Toys Coventry Patmore A Song of Twilight Unknown Little Boy Blue Eugene Field The Discoverer Edmund Clarence Stedman A Chrysalis Mary Emily Bradley Mater Dolorosa William Barnes The Little Ghost Katherine Tynan Motherhood Josephine Daskam Bacon The Mother's Prayer Dora Sigerson Shorter Da Leetla Boy Thomas Augustin Daly On the Moor Gale Young Rice Epitaph of Dionysia Unknown For Charlie's Sake John Williamson Palmer "Are the Children at Home?" Margaret Sangster The Morning-Glory Maria White Lowell She Came and Went James Russell Lowell The First Snow-fall James Russell Lowell "We Are Seven" William Wordsworth My Child John Pierpont The Child's Wish Granted George Parsons Lathrop Challenge Kenton Foster Murray Tired Mothers May Riley Smith My Daughter Louise Homer Greene "I Am Lonely" George Eliot Sonnets from "Mimma Bella" Eugene Lee-Hamilton Rose-Marie of the Angels Adelaide Crapsey

 MAIDENHOOD

 Maidenhood Henry Wadsworth Longfellow To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time Robert Herrick To Mistress Margaret Hussey John Skelton On Her Coming To London Edmund Waller "O, Saw Ye Bonny Lesley" Robert Burns To a Young Lady William Cowper Ruth Thomas Hood The Solitary Reaper William Wordsworth The Three Cottage Girls William Wordsworth Blackmwore Maidens William Barnes A Portrait Elizabeth Barrett Browning To a Child of Fancy Lewis Morris Daisy Francis Thompson To Petronilla, Who Has Put Up Her Hair Henry Howarth Bashford The Gipsy Girl Henry Alford Fanny Anne Reeve Aldrich Somebody's Child Louise Chandler Moulton Emilia Sarah N. Cleghorn To a Greek Girl Austin Dobson "Chamber Scene" Nathaniel Parker Willis "Ah, Be Not False" Richard Watson Gilder A Life-Lesson James Whitcomb Riley

 THE MAN

 The Breaking Margaret Steele Anderson The Flight of Youth Richard Henry Stoddard "Days of My Youth" St. George Tucker Ave Atque Vale Rosamund Marriott Watson To Youth Walter Savage Landor Stanzas Written on the Road Between Florence and Pisa George Gordon Byron Stanzas for Music George Gordon Byron "When As a Lad" Isabel Ecclestone Mackay "Around the Child" Walter Savage Landor Aladdin James Russell Lowell The Quest Ellen Mackey Hutchinson Cortissoz My Birth-Day Thomas Moore Sonnet on His having Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three John Milton On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year George Gordon Byron Growing Gray Austin Dobson The One White Hair Walter Savage Landor Ballade of Middle Age Andrew Lang Middle Age Rudolph Chambers Lehmann To Critics Walter Learned The Rainbow William Wordsworth Leavetaking William Watson Equinoctial Adeline D. T. Whitney "Before the Beginning of Years" Algernon Charles Swinburne Man Henry Vaughan The Pulley George Herbert Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood William Wordsworth

 THE WOMAN

 Woman Eaton Stannard Barrett Woman From the Sanskrit of Calidasa Simplex Munditiis Ben Jonson Delight in Disorder Robert Herrick A Praise of His Lady John Heywood On a Certain Lady at Court Alexander Pope Perfect Woman William Wordsworth The Solitary-Hearted Hartley Coleridge Of Those Who Walk Alone Richard Burton "She Walks in Beauty" George Gordon Byron Preludes from "The Angel in The House" Coventry Patmore A Health Edward Coote Pinkney Our Sister Horatio Nelson Powers From Life Brian Hooker The Rose of the World William Butler Yeats Dawn of Womanhood Harold Monro The Shepherdess Alice Meynell A Portrait Brian Hooker The Wife Theodosia Garrison "Trusty, Dusky, Vivid, True" Robert Louis Stevenson The Shrine Digby Mackworth Dolben The Voice Norman Gale Mother Theresa Helburn Ad Matrem Julian Fane C. L. M John Masefield

 STEPPING WESTWARD

 Stepping Westward William Wordsworth A Farewell to Arms George Peele The World Francis Bacon "When That I Was and a Little Tiny Boy" William Shakespeare Of the Last Verses in the Book Edmund Waller A Lament Chidiock Tichborne To-morrow John Collins Late Wisdom George Crabbe Youth and Age Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Old Man's Comforts Robert Southey To Age Walter Savage Lander Late Leaves Walter Savage Lander Years Walter Savage Lander The River of Life Thomas Campbell "Long Time a Child" Hartley Coleridge The World I am Passing Through Lydia Maria Child Terminus Ralph Waldo Emerson Rabbi Ben Ezra Robert Browning Human Life Audrey Thomas de Vere Young and Old Charles Kingsley The Isle of the Long Ago Benjamin Franklin Taylor Growing Old Matthew Arnold Past John Galsworthy Twilight A. Mary F. Robinson Youth and Age George Arnold Forty Years On Edward Ernest Bowen Dregs Ernest Dowson The Paradox of Time Austin Dobson Age William Winter Omnia Sonmia Rosamund Marriott Watson The Year's End Timothy Cole An Old Man's Song Richard Le Gallienne Songs of Seven Jean Ingelow Auspex James Russell Lowell

 LOOKING BACKWARD

 The Retreat Henry Vaughan A Superscription Dante Gabriel Rossetti The Child in the Garden Henry Van Dyke Castles in the Air Thomas Love Peacock Sometimes Thomas S. Jones, Jr The Little Ghosts Thomas S. Jones, Jr My Other Me Grace Denio Litchfield A Shadow Boat Arlo Bates A Lad That is Gone Robert Louis Stevenson Carcassonne John R. Thompson Childhood John Banister Tabb The Wastrel Reginald Wright Kauffman Troia Fuit Reginald Wright Kauffman Temple Garlands A. Mary F. Robinson Time Long Past Percy Bysshe Shelley "I Remember, I Remember" Thomas Hood My Lost Youth Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Voice of the Western Wind" Edmund Clarence Stedman "Langsyne, When Life Was Bonnie" Alexander Anderson The Shoogy-Shoo Winthrop Packard Babylon Viola Taylor The Road of Remembrance Lizette Woodworth Reese The Triumph of Forgotten Things Edith M. Thomas In the Twilight James Russell Lowell An Immorality Ezra Pound Three Seasons Christina Georgina Rossetti The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb The Light of Other Days Thomas Moore "Tears, Idle Tears" Alfred Tennyson The Pet Name Elizabeth Barrett Browning Threescore and Ten Richard Henry Stoddard Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney Alone by the Hearth George Arnold The Old Man Dreams Oliver Wendell Holmes The Garret William Makepeace Thackeray Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers The Bucket Samuel Woodworth The Grape-Vine Swing William Gilmore Simms The Old Swimmin'-Hole James Whitcomb Riley Forty Years Ago Unknown Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English "Break, Break, Break" Alfred Tennyson

 PART II

 POEMS OF LOVE

 Eros Ralph Waldo Emerson

 "NOW WHAT IS LOVE"

 "Now What is Love" Walter Raleigh Wooing Song, "Love is the Blossom where there blows" Giles Fletcher Rosalind's Madrigal, "Love in My bosom" Thomas Lodge Song, "Love is a sickness full of woes" Samuel Daniel Love's Perjuries William Shakespeare Venus' Runaway Ben Jonson What is Love John Fletcher Love's Emblems John Fletcher The Power of Love John Fletcher Advice to a Lover Unknown Love's Horoscope Richard Crashaw "Ah, how Sweet it is to Love" John Dryden Song, "Love still has something of the sea" Charles Sedley The Vine James Thomson Song, "Fain would I change that Note" Unknown Cupid Stung Thomas Moore Cupid Drowned Leigh Hunt Song, "Oh! say not woman's love is bought" Isaac Pocock "In the Days of Old" Thomas Love Peacock Song, "How delicious is the winning" Thomas Campbell Stanzas, "Could love for ever" George Gordon Byron "They Speak o' Wiles" William Thom "Love will Find Out the Way" Unknown A Woman's Shortcomings Elizabeth Barrett Browning "Love hath a Language" Helen Selina Sheridan Song, "O, let the solid ground" Alfred Tennyson Amaturus William Johnson-Cory The Surface and the Depths Lewis Morris A Ballad of Dreamland Algernon Charles Swinburne Endymion Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Fate Susan Marr Spalding "Give all to Love" Ralph Waldo Emerson "O, Love is not a Summer Mood" Richard Watson Gilder "When will Love Come" Pakenham Beatty "Awake, My Heart" Robert Bridges The Secret George Edward Woodberry The Rose of Stars George Edward Woodberry Song of Eros from "Agathon" George Edward Woodberry Love is Strong Richard Burton "Love once was like an April Dawn" Robert Underwood Johnson The Garden of Shadow Ernest Dowson The Call Reginald Wright Kauffman The Highway Louise Driscoll Song, "Take it, love" Richard Le Gallienne "Never Give all the Heart" William Butler Yeats Song, "I came to the door of the house of love" Alfred Noyes "Child, Child" Sara Teasdale Wisdom Ford Madox Hueffer Epilogue from "Emblems of Love" Lascelles Abercrombie On Hampstead Heath Wilfrid Wilson Gibson Once on a Time Kendall Banning

 IN PRAISE OF HER

 First Song from "Astrophel and Stella" Philip Sidney Silvia William Shakespeare Cupid and Campaspe John Lyly Apollo's Song from "Midas" John Lyly "Fair is my Love for April's in her Face" Robert Greene Samela Robert Greene Damelus' Song of His Diaphenia Henry Constable Madrigal, "My Love in her attire doth show her wit" Unknown On Chloris Walking in the Snow William Strode "There is a Lady Sweet and Kind" Unknown Cherry-Ripe Thomas Campion Amarillis Thomas Campion Elizabeth of Bohemia Henry Wotton Her Triumph Ben Jonson Of Phillis William Drummond A Welcome William Browne The Complete Lover William Browne Rubies and Pearls Robert Herrick Upon Julia's Clothes Robert Herrick To Cynthia on Concealment of her Beauty Francis Kynaston Song, "Ask me no more where Jove bestows" Thomas Carew A Devout Lover Thomas Randolph On a Girdle Edmund Waller Castara William Habington To Amarantha that She would Dishevel her Hair Richard Lovelace Chloe Divine Thomas D'Urfey My Peggy Allan Ramsay Song, "O ruddier than the cherry" John Gay "Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love" George Lyttleton The Fair Thief Charles Wyndham Amoret Mark Akenside Song, "The shape alone let others Prize" Mark Akenside Kate of Aberdeen John Cunningham Song, "Who has robbed the ocean cave" John Shaw Chloe Robert Burns "O Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet" Robert Burns The Lover's Choice Thomas Bedingfield Rondeau Redouble John Payne "My Love She's but a Lassie yet" James Hogg Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane Robert Tannahill Margaret and Dora Thomas Campbell Dagonet's Canzonet Ernest Rhys Stanzas for Music, "There be none of Beauty's daughters" George Gordon Byron "Flowers I would Bring" Aubrey Thomas de Vere "It is not Beauty I Demand" George Darley Song, "She is not fair to outward view" Hartley Coleridge Song, "A violet in her lovely hair" Charles Swain Eileen Aroon Gerald Griffin Annie Laurie Unknown To Helen Edgar Allan Poe "A Voice by the Cedar Tree" Alfred Tennyson Song, "Nay, but you, who do not love her" Robert Browning The Henchman John Green1eaf Whittier Lovely Mary Donnelly William Allingham Love in the Valley George Meredith Marian George Meredith Praise of My Lady William Morris Madonna Mia Algernon Charles Swinburne "Meet we no Angels, Pansie" Thomas Ashe To Daphne Walter Besant "Girl of the Red Mouth" Martin MacDermott The Daughter of Mendoza Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar "If She be made of White and Red" Herbert P. Horne The Lover's Song Edward Rowland Sill "When First I Saw Her" George Edward Woodberry My April Lady Henry Van Dyke The Milkmaid Austin Dobson Song, "This peach is pink with such a pink" Norman Gale In February Henry Simpson "Love, I Marvel What You Are" Trumbull Stickney Ballade of My Lady's Beauty Joyce Kilmer Ursula Robert Underwood Johnson Villanelle of His Lady's Treasures Ernest Dowson Song, "Love, by that loosened hair" Bliss Carman Song, "O, like a queen's her happy tread" William Watson Any Lover, Any Lass Richard Middleton Songs Ascending Witter Bynner Song, "'Oh! Love, ' they said, 'is King of Kings'" Rupert Brooke Song, "How do I love you" Irene Rutherford McLeod To. . . . In Church Alan Seeger After Two Years Richard Aldington Praise Seumas O'Sullivan

 PLAINTS AND PROTESTATIONS

 "Forget not Yet" Thomas Wyatt Fawnia Robert Greene The Passionate Shepherd to His Love Christopher Marlowe The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd Walter Raleigh "Wrong not, Sweet Empress of My Heart" Walter Raleigh To His Coy Love Michael Drayton Her Sacred Bower Thomas Campion To Lesbia Thomas Campion "Love me or Not" Thomas Campion "There is None, O None but You" Thomas Campion Of Corinna's Singing Thomas Campion "Were my Heart as some Men's are" Thomas Campion "Kind are her Answers" Thomas Campion To Celia Ben Jonson Song, "O, do not wanton with those eyes" Ben Jonson Song, "Go and catch a falling star" John Donne The Message John Donne Song, "Ladies, though to your conquering eyes" George Etherege To a Lady Asking Him how Long He would Love Her" George Etherege To Aenone Robert Herrick To Anthea, who may Command him Anything Robert Herrick The Bracelet: To Julia Robert Herrick To the Western Wind Robert Herrick To my Inconstant Mistress Thomas Carew Persuasions to Enjoy Thomas Carew Mediocrity in Love Rejected Thomas Carew The Message Thomas Heywood "How Can the Heart forget Her" Francis Davison To Roses in the Bosom of Castara William Habington To Flavia Edmund Waller "Love not Me for Comely Grace" Unknown "When, Dearest, I but Think of Thee" Suckling or Felltham A Doubt of Martyrdom John Suckling To Chloe William Cartwright I'll Never Love Thee More James Graham To Althea, from Prison Richard Lovelace Why I Love Her Alexander Brome To his Coy Mistress Andrew Marvell A Deposition from Beauty Thomas Stanley "Love in thy Youth, Fair Maid" Unknown To Celia Charles Cotton To Celia Charles Sedley A Song, "My dear mistress Has a Heart" John Wilmot Love and Life John Wilmot Constancy John Wilmot Song, "Too late, alas, I must Confess" John Wilmot Song, "Come, Celia, let's agree at last" John Sheffield The Enchantment Thomas Otway Song, "Only tell her that I love" John Cutts "False though She be" William Congreve To Silvia Anne Finch "Why, Lovely Charmer" Unknown Against Indifference Charles Webbe A Song to Amoret Henry Vaughan The Lass of Richmond Hill James Upton Song, "Let my voice ring out and over the earth" James Thomson Gifts James Thomson Amynta Gilbert Elliot "O Nancy! wilt Thou go with Me" Thomas Percy Cavalier's Song Robert Cunninghame-Graham "My Heart is a Lute" Anne Barnard Song, "Had I a heart for falsehood framed" Richard Brinsley Sheridan Meeting George Crabbe "O Were my Love you Lilac Fair" Robert Burns "Bonnie Wee Thing" Robert Burns Rose Aylmer Walter Savage Landor "Take back the Virgin Page" Thomas Moore "Believe me, if all Those Endearing Young Charms" Thomas Moore The Nun Leigh Hunt Only of Thee and Me Louis Untermeyer To-- Percy Bysshe Shelley From the Arabic Percy Bysshe Shelley The Wandering Knight's Song John Gibson Lockhart Song, "Love's on the highroad" Dana Burnett The Secret Love A. E. The Flower of Beauty George Darley My Share of the World Alice Furlong Song, "A lake and a fairy boat" Thomas Hood "Smile and Never Heed Me" Charles Swain Are They not all Ministering Spirits Robert Stephen Hawker Maiden Eyes Gerald Griffin Hallowed Places Alice Freeman Palmer The Lady's "Yes" Elizabeth Barrett Browning Song, "It is the miller's daughter" Alfred Tennyson Lilian Alfred Tennyson Bugle Song, from "The Princess" Alfred Tennyson Ronsard to His Mistress William Makepeace Thackeray "When You are Old" William Butler Yeats Song, "You'll love me yet, and I can tarry" Robert Browning Love in a Life Robert Browning Life in a Love Robert Browning The Welcome Thomas Osborne Davis Urania Matthew Arnold Three Shadows Dante Gabriel Rossetti Since we Parted Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton A Match Algernon Charles Swinburne A Ballad of Life Algernon Charles Swinburne A Leave-Taking Algernon Charles Swinburne A Lyric Algernon Charles Swinburne Maureen John Todhunter A Love Symphony Arthur O'Shaughnessy Love on the Mountain Thomas Boyd Kate Temple's Song Mortimer Collins My Queen Unknown "Darling, Tell me Yes" John Godfrey Saxe "Do I Love Thee" John Godfrey Saxe "O World, be Nobler" Laurence Binyon "In the Dark, in the Dew" Mary Newmarch Prescott Nanny Francis Davis A Trifle Henry Timrod Romance Robert Louis Stevenson "Or Ever the Knightly Years were Gone" William Ernest Henley Rus in Urbe Clement Scott My Road Oliver Opdyke A White Rose John Boyle O'Reilly "Some Day of Days" Nora Perry The Telephone Robert Frost Where Love is Amelia Josephine Burr That Day You Came Lizette Woodworth Reese Amantium Irae Ernest Dowson In a Rose Garden John Bennett "God Bless You, Dear, To-day" John Bennett To-day Benjamin R. C. Low To Arcady Charles Buxton Going Wild Wishes Ethel M. Hewitt "Because of You" Sophia Almon Hensley Then Rose Terry Cooke The Missive Edmund Gosse Plymouth Harbor Mrs. Ernest Radford The Serf's Secret William Vaughn Moody "O, Inexpressible as Sweet" George Edward Woodberry The Cyclamen Arlo Bates The West-Country Lover Alice Brown "Be Ye in Love with April-Tide" Clinton Scollard Unity Alfred Noyes The Queen William Winter A Lover's Envy Henry Van Dyke Star Song Robert Underwood Johnson "My Heart Shall be Thy Garden" Alice Meynell At Night Alice Meynell Song, "Song is so old" Hermann Hagedorn "All Last Night" Lascelles Abercrombie The Last Word Frederic Lawrence Knowles "Heart of my Heart" Unknown My Laddie Amelie Rives The Shaded Pool Norman Gale Good-Night S. Weir Mitchell The Mystic Witter Bynner "I Am the Wind" Zoe Akins "I Love my Life, But not Too Well" Harriet Monroe "This is my Love for You" Grace Fallow Norton

 MY LADY'S LIPS

 Lips and Eyes Thomas Middleton The Kiss Ben Jonson "Take, O Take Those Lips Away" John Fletcher A Stolen Kiss George Wither Song, "My Love bound me with a kiss" Unknown To Electra Robert Herrick "Come, Chloe, and Give Me Sweet Kisses" Charles Hanbury Williams A Riddle William Cowper To a Kiss John Wolcot Song, "Often I have heard it said" Walter Savage Landor The First Kiss of Love George Gordon Byron "Jenny Kissed Me" Leigh Hunt "I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden" Percy Bysshe Shelley Love's Philosophy Percy Bysshe Shelley Song, "The moth's kiss, first" Robert Browning Summum Bonum Robert Browning The First Kiss Theodore Watts-Dunton To My Love John Godfrey Saxe To Lesbia John Godfrey Saxe Make Believe Alice Cary Kissing's No Sin Unknown To Anne William Maxwell Song, "There is many a love in the land, my love" Joaquin Miller Phyllis and Corydon Arthur Colton

 AT HER WINDOW

 "Hark, Hark, the Lark" William Shakespeare "Sleep, Angry Beauty" Thomas Campion Matin Song Nathaniel Field The Night-Piece: To Julia Robert Herrick Morning William D'Avenant Matin Song Thomas Heywood The Rose Richard Lovelace Song, "See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes" William Congreve Mary Morison Robert Burns Wake, Lady Joanna Baillie The Sleeping Beauty Samuel Rogers "The Young May Moon" Thomas Moore "Row Gently Here" Thomas Moore Morning Serenade Madison Cawein Serenade Aubrey Thomas De Vere Lines to an Indian Air Percy Bysshe Shelley Good-Night Percy Bysshe Shelley Serenade George Darley Serenade Thomas Hood Serenade Edward Coote Pinkney Serenade Henry Timrod Serenade Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Come into the Garden, Maud" Alfred Tennyson At Her Window Frederick Locker-Lampson Bedouin Song Bayard Taylor Night and Love Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton Nocturne Thomas Bailey Aldrich Palabras Carinosas Thomas Bailey Aldrich Serenade Oscar Wilde The Little Red Lark Alfred Perceval Graves Serenade Richard Middleton

 THE COMEDY OF LOVE

 A Lover's Lullaby George Gascoigne Phillida and Corydon Nicholas Breton "Crabbed Age and Youth" William Shakespeare "It Was a Lover and His Lass" William Shakespeare "I Loved a Lass" George Wither To Chloris Charles Sedley Song, "The merchant, to secure his Treasure" Matthew Prior Pious Selinda William Congreve Fair Hebe John West A Maiden's Ideal of a Husband Henry Carey "Phillada Flouts Me" Unknown "When Molly Smiles" Unknown Contentions Unknown "I Asked My Fair, One Happy Day" Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Exchange Samuel Taylor Coleridge "Comin' Through the Rye" Robert Burns "Green Grow the Rashes, O" Robert Burns Defiance Walter Savage Landor Of Clementina Walter Savage Landor "The Time I've Lost in Wooing" Thomas Moore Dear Fanny Thomas Moore A Certain Young Lady Washington Irving "Where Be You Going, You Devon Maid" John Keats Love in a Cottage Nathaniel Parker Willis Song of the Milkmaid from "Queen Mary" Alfred Tennyson "Wouldn't You Like to Know" John Godfrey Saxe "Sing Heigh-ho" Charles Kingsley The Golden Fish George Arnold The Courtin' James Russell Lowell L'Eau Dormante Thomas Bailey Aldrich A Primrose Dame Gleeson White If James Jeffrey Roche Don't James Jeffrey Roche An Irish Love-Song Robert Underwood Johnson Growing Old Walter Learned Time's Revenge Walter Learned In Explanation Walter Learned Omnia Vincit Alfred Cochrane A Pastoral Norman Gale A Rose Arlo Bates "Wooed and Married and A'" Alexander Ross "Owre the Moor Amang the Heather" Jean Glover Marriage and the Care O't Robert Lochore The Women Folk James Hogg "Love is Like a Dizziness" James Hogg "Behave Yoursel' before Folk" Alexander Rodger Rory O'More; or, Good Omens Samuel Lover Ask and Have Samuel Lover Kitty of Coleraine Charles Dawson Shanly The Plaidie Charles Sibley Kitty Neil John Francis Waller "The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' Mine" Edwin Waugh The Ould Plaid Shawl Francis A. Fahy Little Mary Cassidy Francis A. Fahy The Road Patrick R. Chalmers Twickenham Ferry Theophile Marzials

 THE HUMOR OF LOVE

 Song, "I prithee send me back my Heart" John Suckling A Ballad Upon a Wedding John Suckling To Chloe Jealous Matthew Prior Jack and Joan Thomas Campion Phillis and Corydon Richard Greene Sally in Our Alley Henry Carey The Country Wedding Unknown "O Merry may the Maid be" John Clerk The Lass o' Gowrie Carolina Nairne The Constant Swain and Virtuous Maid Unknown When the Kye Comes Hame James Hogg The Low-Backed Car Samuel Lover The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan Samuel Ferguson Muckle-Mouth Meg Robert Browning Muckle-Mou'd Meg James Ballantine Glenlogie Unknown Lochinvar Walter Scott Jock of Hazeldean Walter Scott Candor Henry Cuyler Bunner "Do you Remember" Thomas Haynes Bayly Because Edward Fitzgerald Love and Age Thomas Love Peacock To Helen Winthrop Mackworth Praed At the Church Gate William Makepeace Thackeray Mabel, in New Hampshire James Thomas Fields Toujours Amour Edmund Clarence Stedman The Doorstep Edmund Clarence Stedman The White Flag John Hay A Song of the Four Seasons Austin Dobson The Love-Knot Nora Perry Riding Down Nora Perry "Forgettin'" Moira O'Neill "Across the Fields to Anne" Richard Burton Pamela in Town Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz Yes? Henry Cuyler Bunner The Prime of Life Walter Learned Thoughts on the Commandments George Augustus Baker

 THE IRONY OF LOVE

 "Sigh no More, Ladies" William Shakespeare A Renunciation Edward Vere A Song, "Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free" George Etherege To His Forsaken Mistress Robert Ayton To an Inconstant Robert Ayton Advice to a Girl Thomas Campion Song, "Follow a shadow, it still flies you" Ben Jonson True Beauty Francis Beaumont The Indifferent Francis Beaumont The Lover's Resolution George Wither His Further Resolution Unknown Song, "Shall I tell you whom I love" William Browne To Dianeme Robert Herrick Ingrateful Beauty Threatened Thomas Carew Disdain Returned Thomas Carew "Love Who Will, for I'll Love None" William Browne Valerius on Women Thomas Heywood Dispraise of Love, and Lovers' Follies Francis Davison The Constant Lover John Suckling Song, "Why so pale and wan, fond Lover" John Suckling Wishes to His Supposed Mistress Richard Crashaw Song, "Love in fantastic Triumph sate" Aphra Behn Les Amours Charles Cotton Rivals William Walsh I Lately Vowed, but 'Twas in Haste John Oldmixon The Touchstone Samuel Bishop Air, "I ne'er could any luster see" Richard Brinsley Sheridan "I Took a Hansom on Today" William Ernest Henley Da Capo Henry Cuyler Bunner Song Against Women Willard Huntington Wright Song of Thyrsis Philip Freneau The Test Walter Savage Landor "The Fault is not Mine" Walter Savage Landor The Snake Thomas Moore "When I Loved You" Thomas Moore A Temple to Friendship Thomas Moore The Glove and the Lions Leigh Hunt To Woman George Gordon Byron Love's Spite Aubrey Thomas de Vere Lady Clara Vere de Vere Alfred Tennyson Shadows Richard Monckton Milnes Sorrows of Werther William Makepeace Thackeray The Age of Wisdom William Makepeace Thackeray Andrea del Sarto Robert Browning My Last Duchess Robert Browning Adam, Lilith, and Eve Robert Browning The Lost Mistress Robert Browning Friend and Lover Mary Ainge de Vere Lost Love Andrew Lang Vobiscum est Iope Thomas Campion Four Winds Sara Teasdale To Marion Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Crowned Amy Lowell Hebe James Russell Lowell "Justine, You Love me Not" John Godfrey Saxe Snowdrop William Wetmore Story When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan Thomas Bailey Aldrich The Shadow Dance Louise Chandler Moulton "Along the Field as we Came by" Alfred Edward Housman "When I was One-and-Twenty" Alfred Edward Housman "Grieve Not, Ladies" Anna Hempstead Branch Suburb Harold Monro The Betrothed Rudyard Kipling

 LOVE'S SADNESS

 "The Night has a Thousand Eyes" Francis William Bourdillon "I Saw my Lady Weep" Unknown Love's Young Dream Thomas Moore "Not Ours the Vows" Bernard Barton The Grave of Love Thomas Love Peacock "We'll go no More a Roving" George Gordon Byron Song, "Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing" Aubrey Thomas de Vere The Question Percy Bysshe Shelley The Wanderer Austin Dobson Egyptian Serenade George William Curtis The Water Lady Thomas Hood "Tripping Down the Field-path" Charles Swain Love Not Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton "A Place in Thy Memory" Gerald Griffin Inclusions Elizabeth Barrett Browning Mariana Alfred Tennyson Ask Me no More Alfred Tennyson A Woman's Last Word Robert Browning The Last Ride Together Robert Browning Youth and Art Robert Browning Two in the Campagna Robert Browning One Way of Love Robert Browning "Never the Time and the Place" Robert Browning Song, "Oh! that we two were Maying" Charles Kingsley For He Had Great Possessions Richard Middleton Windle-straws Edward Dowden Jessie Thomas Edward Brown The Chess-board Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton Aux Italiens Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton Song, "I saw the day's white rapture" Charles Hanson Towne The Lonely Road Kenneth Rand Evensong Ridgely Torrence The Nymph's Song to Hylas William Morris No and Yes Thomas Ashe Love in Dreams John Addington Symonds "A Little While I fain would Linger Yet" Paul Hamilton Hayne Song, "I made another garden, yea" Arthur O'Shaughnessy Song, "Has summer come without the rose" Arthur O'Shaughnessy After Philip Bourke Marston After Summer Philip Bourke Marston Rococo Algernon Charles Swinburne Rondel Algernon Charles Swinburne The Oblation Algernon Charles Swinburne The Song of the Bower Dante Gabriel Rossetti Song, "We break the glass, whose sacred wine" Edward Coote Pinkney Maud Muller John Greenleaf Whittier La Grisette Oliver Wendell Holmes The Dark Man Nora Hopper Eurydice Francis William Bourdillon A Woman's Thought Richard Watson Gilder Laus Veneris Louise Chandler Moulton Adonais Will Wallace Harney Face to Face Frances Cochrane Ashore Laurence Hope Khristna and His Flute Laurence Hope Impenitentia Ultima Ernest Dowson Non Sum Quails Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae Ernest Dowson Quid non Speremus, Amantes? Ernest Dowson "So Sweet Love Seemed" Robert Bridges An Old Tune Andrew Lang Refuge William Winter Midsummer Ella Wheeler Wilcox Ashes of Roses Elaine Goodale Sympathy Althea Gyles The Look Sara Teasdale "When My Beloved Sleeping Lies" Irene Rutherford McLeod Love and Life Julie Mathilde Lippman Love's Prisoner Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer Rosies Agnes I. Hanrahan At the Comedy Arthur Stringer "Sometime It may Be" Arthur Colton "I heard a Soldier" Herbert Trench The Last Memory Arthur Symonds "Down by the Salley Gardens" William Butler Yates Ashes of Life Edna St. Vincent Millay A Farewell Alice Brown

 THE PARTED LOVERS

 Song, "O mistress mine, where are you roaming" William Shakespeare "Go, Lovely Rose" Edmund Waller To the Rose: A Song Robert Herrick Memory William Browne To Lucasta, Going to the Wars Richard Lovelace To Lucasta, Going beyond the Seas Richard Lovelace Song to a Fair Young Lady, Going out of the Town in the Spring John Dryden Song, "To all you ladies now at land" Charles Sackville Song, "In vain you tell your parting lover" Matthew Prior Black-Eyed Susan John Gay Irish Molly O Unknown Song, "At setting day and rising morn" Allan Ramsay Lochaber no More Allan Ramsey Willie and Helen Hew Ainslie Absence Richard Jago "My Mother Bids me Bind my Hair" Anne Hunter "Blow High! Blow Low" Charles Dibdin The Siller Croun Susanna Blamire "My Nannie's Awa" Robert Burns "Ae Fond Kiss" Robert Burns "The Day Returns" Robert Burns My Bonnie Mary Robert Burns A Red, Red Rose Robert Burns I Love My Jean Robert Burns and John Hamilton The Rover's Adieu, from "Rokeby" Walter Scott "Loudoun's Bonnie Woods and Braes" Robert Tannahill "Fare Thee Well" George Gordon Byron "Maid of Athens, Ere We Part" George Gordon Byron "When We Two Parted" George Gordon Byron "Go, Forget Me" Charles Wolfe Last Night George Darley Adieu Thomas Carlyle Jeanie Morrison William Motherwell The Sea-lands Orrick Johns Fair Ines Thomas Hood A Valediction Elizabeth Barrett Browning Farewell John Addington Symonds "I Do Not Love Thee" Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton The Palm-tree and the Pine Richard Monckton Milnes "O Swallow, Swallow Flying South" Alfred Tennyson The Flower's Name Robert Browning To Marguerite Matthew Arnold Separation Matthew Arnold Longing Matthew Arnold Divided Jean Ingelow My Playmate John Greenleaf Whittier A Farewell Coventry Patmore Departure Coventry Patmore A song of Parting H. C. Compton Mackenzie Song, "Fair is the night, and fair the day" William Morris At Parting Algernon Charles Swinburne "If She But Knew" Arthur O'Shaughnessy Kathleen Mavourneen Louisa Macartney Crawford Robin Adair Caroline Keppel "If You Were Here" Philip Bourke Marston "Come to Me, Dearest" Joseph Brenan Song, "'Tis said that absence Conquers love" Frederick William Thomas Parting Gerald Massey The Parting Hour Olive Custance A Song of Autumn Rennell Rodd The Girl I Left Behind Me Unknown "When We are Parted" Hamilton Aide Remember or Forget Hamilton Aide Nancy Dawson Herbert P. Horne My Little Love Charles B. Hawley For Ever William Caldwell Roscoe Auf Wiedersehen James Russell Lowell "Forever and a Day" Thomas Bailey Aldrich Old Gardens Arthur Upson Ferry Hinksey Laurence Binyon Wearyin' fer You Frank L. Stanton The Lovers of Marchaid Marjorie L. C. Pickthall Song, "She's somewhere in the sunlight strong" Richard Le Gallienne The Lover Thinks of His Lady in the North Shaemas O Sheel Chanson de Rosemonde Richard Hovey Ad Domnulam Suam Ernest Dawson Marian Drury Bliss Carman Love's Rosary Alfred Noyes When She Comes Home James Whitcomb Riley

 THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE

 Song, "My silks and fine array" William Blake The Flight of Love Percy Bysshe Shelley "Farewell! If ever Fondest Prayer" George Gordon Byron Porphyria's Lover Robert Browning Modern Beauty Arthur Symons La Belle Dame Sans Merci John Keats Tantalus--Texas Joaquin Miller Enchainment Arthur O'Shaughnessy Auld Robin Gray Anne Barnard Lost Light Elizabeth Akers A Sigh Harriet Prescott Spofford Hereafter Harriet Prescott Spofford Endymion Oscar Wilde "Love is a Terrible Thing" Grace Fallow Norton The Ballad of the Angel Theodosia Garrison "Love Came Back at Fall o' Dew" Lizette Woodworth Reese I Shall not Care Sara Teasdale Outgrown Julia C. R. Dorr A Tragedy Edith Nesbit Left Behind Elizabeth Akers The Forsaken Merman Matthew Arnold The Portrait Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton The Rose and Thorn Paul Hamilton Hayne To Her--Unspoken Amelia Josephine Burr A Light Woman Robert Browning From the Turkish George Gordon Byron A Summer Wooing Louise Chandler Moulton Butterflies John Davidson Unseen Spirits Nathaniel Parker Willis "Grandmither, Think Not I Forget" Willa Sibert Cather Little Wild Baby Margaret Thomson Janvier A Cradle Song Nicholas Breton Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament Unknown A Woman's Love John Hay A Tragedy Theophile Marzials "Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel" Walter Savage Landor Airly Beacon Charles Kingsley A Sea Child Bliss Carman From the Harbor Hill Gustav Kobbe Allan Water Matthew Gregory Lewis Forsaken Unknown Bonnie Doon Robert Burns The Two Lovers Richard Hovey The Vampire Rudyard Kipling Agatha Alfred Austin "A Rose Will Fade" Dora Sigerson Shorter Affaire d'Amour Margaret Deland A Casual Song Roden Noel The Way of It John Vance Cheney "When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly" Oliver Goldsmith Folk-Song Louis Untermeyer A Very Old Song William Laird "She Was Young and Blithe and Fair" Harold Monro The Lass that Died of Love Richard Middleton The Passion-Flower Margaret Fuller Norah Zoe Akins Of Joan's Youth Louise Imogen Guiney There's Wisdom in Women Rupert Brooke Goethe and Frederika Henry Sidgwick The Song of the King's Minstrel Richard Middleton Annie Shore and Johnnie Doon Patrick Orr Emmy Arthur Symons The Ballad of Camden Town James Elroy Flecker

 LOVE AND DEATH

 Helen of Kirconnell Unknown Willy Drowned in Yarrow Unknown Annan Water Unknown The Lament of the Border Widow Unknown Aspatia's Song from "The Maid's Tragedy" John Fletcher A Ballad, "'Twas when the seas were roaring" John Gay The Braes of Yarrow John Logan The Churchyard on the Sands Lord de Tabley The Minstrel's Song from "Aella" Thomas Chatterton Highland Mary Robert Burns To Mary in Heaven Robert Burns Lucy William Wordsworth Proud Maisie Walter Scott Song, "Earl March looked on His dying child" Thomas Campbell The Maid's Lament Walter Savage Landor "She is Far from the Land" Thomas Moore "At the Mid Hour of Night" Thomas Moore On a Picture by Poussin John Addington Symonds Threnody Ruth Guthrie Harding Strong as Death Henry Cuyler Banner "I Shall not Cry Return" Ellen M. H. Gates "Oh! Snatched away in Beauty's Bloom" George Gordon Byron To Mary Charles Wolfe My Heart and I Elizabeth Barrett Browning Rosalind's Scroll Elizabeth Barrett Browning Lament of the Irish Emigrant Helen Selina Sheridan The King of Denmark's Ride Caroline E. S. Norton The Watcher James Stephens The Three Sisters Arthur Davison Ficke Ballad May Kendall "O that 'Twere Possible" Alfred Tennyson "Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead" Alfred Tennyson Evelyn Hope Robert Browning Remembrance Emily Bronte Song, "The linnet in the rocky dells" Emily Bronte Song of the Old Love Jean Ingelow Requiescat Matthew Arnold Too Late Dinah Maria Mulock Craik Four Years Dinah Maria Mulock Craik Barbara Alexander Smith Song, "When I am dead, my dearest" Christina Georgina Rossetti Sarrazine's Song to Her Dead Lover Arthur O'Shaughnessy Love and Death Rosa Mulholland To One in Paradise Edgar Allan Poe Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe For Annie Edgar Allan Poe Telling the Bees John Greenleaf Whittier A Tryst Louise Chandler Moulton Love's Resurrection Day Louise Chandler Moulton Heaven Martha Gilbert Dickinson Janette's Hair Charles Graham Halpine The Dying Lover Richard Henry Stoddard "When the Grass Shall Cover Me" Ina Coolbrith Give Love Today Ethel Talbot Until Death Elizabeth Akers Florence Vane Phillip Pendleton Cooke "If Spirits Walk" Sophie Jewett Requiescat Oscar Wilde Lyric, "You would have understood me, had you waited" Ernest Dowson Romance Andrew Lang Good-Night Hester A. Benedict Requiescat Rosamund Marriott Watson The Four Winds Charles Henry Luders The King's Ballad Joyce Kilmer Heliotrope Harry Thurston Peck "Lydia is Gone this Many a Year" Lizette Woodworth Reese After Lizette Woodworth Reese Memories Arthur Stringer To Diane Helen Hay Whitney "Music I Heard" Conrad Aiken Her Dwelling-place Ada Foster Murray The Wife from Fairyland Richard Le Gallienne In the Fall o' Year Thomas S. Jones, Jr The Invisible Bride Edwin Markham Rain on a Grave Thomas Hardy Patterns Amy Lowell Dust Rupert Brooke Ballad, "The roses in my garden" Maurice Baring "The Little Rose is Dust, My Dear" Grace Hazard Conkling Dirge Adelaide Crapsey The Little Red Ribbon James Whitcomb Riley The Rosary Robert Cameron Rogers

 LOVE'S FULFILLMENT

 "My True-love Hath My Heart" Philip Sidney Song, "O sweet delight" Thomas Campion The Good-Morrow John Donne "There's Gowd in the Breast" James Hogg The Beggar Maid Alfred Tennyson Refuge A. E. At Sunset Louis V. Ledoux "One Morning Oh! so Early" Jean Ingelow Across the Door Padraic Colum May Margaret Theophile Marzials Rondel, "Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet" Algernon Charles Swinburne A Spring Journey Alice Freeman Palmer The Brookside Richard Monckton Milnes Song, "For me the jasmine buds unfold" Florence Earle Coates What My Lover Said Homer Greene May-Music Rachel Annand Taylor Song, "Flame at the core of the World" Arthur Upson A Memory Frederic Lawrence Knowles Love Triumphant Frederic Lawrence Knowles Lines, "Love within the lover's breast" George Meredith Love among the Ruins Robert Browning Earl Mertoun's Song Robert Browning Meeting at Night Robert Browning Parting at Morning Robert Browning The Turn of the Road Alice Rollit Coe "My Delight and Thy Delight" Robert Bridges "O, Saw Ye the Lass" Richard Ryan Love at Sea Algernon Charles Swinburne Mary Beaton's Song Algernon Charles Swinburne Plighted Dinah Maria Mulock Craik A Woman's Question Adelaide Anne Procter "Dinna Ask Me" John Dunlop A Song, "Sing me a sweet, low song of night" Hildegarde Hawthorne The Reason James Oppenheim "My Own Cailin Donn" George Sigerson Nocturne Amelia Josephine Burr Surrender Amelia Josephine Burr "By Yon Burn Side" Robert Tannahill A Pastoral, "Flower of the medlar" Theophile Marzials "When Death to Either shall Come" Robert Bridges The Reconciliation Alfred Tennyson Song, "Wait but a little while" Norman Gale Content Norman Gale Che Sara Sara Victor Plarr "Bid Adieu to Girlish Days" James Joyce To F. C. Mortimer Collins Spring Passion Joel Elias Spingarn Advice to a Lover S. Charles Jellicoe "Yes" Richard Doddridge Blackmore Love Samuel Taylor Coleridge Nested Habberton Lulham The Letters Alfred Tennyson Prothalamion Edmund Spenser Epithalamion Edmund Spenser The Kiss Sara Teasdale Marriage Wilfrid Wilson Gibson The Newly-wedded Winthrop Mackworth Praed I Saw Two Clouds at Morning John Gardiner Calkins Brainard Holy Matrimony John Keble The Bride Laurence Hope A Marriage Charm Nora Hopper "Like a Laverock in the Lift" Jean Ingelow My Owen Ellen Mary Patrick Downing Doris: A Pastoral Arthur Joseph Munby "He'd Nothing but His Violin" Mary Kyle Dallas Love's Calendar William Bell Scott Home Dora Greenwell Two Lovers George Eliot The Land of Heart's Desire Emily Huntington Miller My Ain Wife Alexander Laing The Irish Wife Thomas D'Arcy McGee My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing Robert Burns Lettice Dinah Maria Mulock Craik "If Thou Wert by My Side, My Love" Reginald Heber The Shepherd's Wife's Song Robert Greene "Truth doth Truth Deserve" Philip Sidney The Married Lover Coventry Patmore My Love James Russell Lowell Margaret to Dolcino Charles Kingsley Dolcino to Margaret Charles Kingsley At Last Richard Henry Stoddard The Wife to Her Husband Unknown A Wife's Song William Cox Bennett The Sailor's Wife William Julius Mickle Jerry an' Me Hiram Rich "Don't be Sorrowful, Darling" Rembrandt Peale Winifreda Unknown An Old Man's Idyl Richard Realf The Poet's Song to his Wife Bryan Waller Procter John Anderson Robert Burns To Mary Samuel Bishop The Golden Wedding David Gray Moggy and Me James Hogg "O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear" Gerald Massey The Exequy Henry King

 LOVE SONNETS

 Sonnets from "Amoretti" Edmund Spenser Sonnets from "Astrophel and Stella" Philip Sidney Sonnets from "To Delia" Samuel Daniel Sonnets from "Idea" Michael Drayton Sonnets from "Diana" Henry Constable Sonnets William Shakespeare "Alexis, Here She Stayed" William Drummond "Were I as Base as is the Lowly Plain" Joshua Sylvester A Sonnet of the Moon Charles Best To Mary Unwin William Cowper "Why art Thou Silent" William Wordsworth Sonnets from "The House of Life" Dante Gabriel Rossetti Sonnets Christina Georgina Rossetti How My Songs of Her Began Philip Bourke Marston At the Last Philip Bourke Marston To One who Would Make a Confession Wilfrid Scawen Blunt The Pleasures of Love Wilfrid Scawen Blunt "Were but my Spirit Loosed upon the Air" Louise Chandler Moulton Renouncement Alice Meynell "My Love for Thee" Richard Watson Gilder Sonnets after the Italian Richard Watson Gilder Stanzas from "Modern Love" George Meredith Love in the Winds Richard Hovey "Oh, Death Will Find Me" Rupert Brooke The Busy Heart Rupert Brooke The Hill Rupert Brooke Sonnets from "Sonnets to Miranda" William Watson Sonnets from "Thysia" Morton Luce Sonnets from "Sonnets from the Portuguese" Elizabeth Barrett Browning One Word More Robert Browning

 PART III

 POEMS OF NATURE

 "The World is too Much With Us" William Wordsworth

 MOTHER NATURE

 The Book of the World William Drummond Nature Jones Very Compensation Celia Thaxter The Last Hour Ethel Clifford Nature Henry David Thoreau Song of Nature Ralph Waldo Emerson "Great Nature is an Army Gay" Richard Watson Gilder To Mother Nature Frederic Lawrence Knowles Quiet Work Matthew Arnold Nature Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "As an Old Mercer" Mahlon Leonard Fisher Good Company Karle Wilson Baker "Here is the Place where Loveliness Keeps House" Madison Cawein God's World Edna St. Vincent Millay Wild Honey Maurice Thompson Patmos Edith M. Thomas

 DAWN AND DARK

 Song, "Phoebus, arise" William Drummond Hymn of Apollo Percy Bysshe Shelley Prelude to "The New Day" Richard Watson Gilder Dawn on the Headland William Watson The Miracle of the Dawn Madison Cawein Dawn-angels A. Mary F. Robinson Music of the Dawn Virginia Bioren Harrison Sunrise on Mansfield Mountain Alice Brown Ode to Evening William Collins "It is a Beauteous Evening Calm and Free" William Wordsworth Gloaming Robert Adger Bowen Evening Melody Aubrey de Vere In the Cool of the Evening Alfred Noyes Twilight Olive Custance Twilight at Sea Amelia C. Welby "This is My Hour" Zoe Akins Song to the Evening Star Thomas Campbell The Evening Cloud John Wilson Song: To Cynthia Ben Jonson My Star Robert Browning Night William Blake To Night Percy Bysshe Shelly To Night Joseph Blanco White Night John Addington Symonds Night James Montgomery He Made the Night Lloyd Mifflin Hymn to the Night Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Night's Mardi Gras Edward J. Wheeler Dawn and Dark Norman Gale Dawn George B. Logan, Jr A Wood Song Ralph Hodgson

 THE CHANGING YEAR

 A Song for the Seasons Bryan Waller Procter A Song of the Seasons Cosmo Monkhouse Turn o' the Year Katherine Tynan The Waking Year Emily Dickinson Song, "The year's at the spring" Robert Browning Early Spring Alfred Tennyson Lines Written in Early Spring William Wordsworth In Early Spring Alice Meynell Spring Thomas Nashe A Starling's Spring Rondel James Cousins "When Daffodils begin to Peer" William Shakespeare Spring, from "In Memoriam" Alfred Tennyson The Spring Returns Charles Leonard Moore "When the Hounds of Spring" Algernon Charles Swinburne Song, "Again rejoicing Nature sees" Robert Burns To Spring William Blake An Ode on the Spring Thomas Gray Spring Henry Timrod The Meadows in Spring Edward Fitzgerald The Spring William Barnes "When Spring Comes Back to England" Alfred Noyes New Life Amelia Josephine Burr "Over the Wintry Threshold" Bliss Carman March William Morris Song in March William Gilmore Simms March Nora Hopper Written in March William Wordsworth The Passing of March Robert Burns Wilson Home Thoughts, from Abroad Robert Browning Song, "April, April" William Watson An April Adoration Charles G. D. Roberts Sweet Wild April William Force Stead Spinning in April Josephine Preston Peabody Song: On May Morning John Milton A May Burden Francis Thompson Corinna's Going a-Maying Robert Herrick "Sister, Awake" Unknown May Edward Hovell-Thurlow May Henry Sylvester Cornwell A Spring Lilt Unknown Summer Longings Denis Florence MacCarthy Midsummer John Townsend Trowbridge A Midsummer Song Richard Watson Gilder June, from "The Vision of Sir Launfal" James Russell Lowell June Harrison Smith Morris Harvest Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz Scythe Song Andrew Lang September George Arnold Indian Summer Emily Dickinson Prevision Ada Foster Murray A Song of Early Autumn Richard Watson Gilder To Autumn John Keats Ode to Autumn Thomas Hood Ode to the West Wind Percy Bysshe Shelley Autumn: a Dirge Percy Bysshe Shelley Autumn Emily Dickinson "When the Frost is on the Punkin" James Whitcomb Riley Kore Frederic Manning Old October Thomas Constable November C. L. Cleaveland November Mahlon Leonard Fisher Storm Fear Robert Frost Winter: a Dirge Robert Burns Old Winter Thomas Noel The Frost Hannah Flagg Gould The Frosted Pane Charles G. D. Roberts The Frost Spirit John Greenleaf Whittier Snow Elizabeth Akers To a Snowflake Francis Thompson The Snow-Shower William Cullen Bryant Midwinter John Townsend Trowbridge A Glee for Winter Alfred Domett The Death of the Old Year Alfred Tennyson Dirge for the Year Percy Bysshe Shelley

 WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNTNG BROOK

 Waldeinsamkeit Ralph Waldo Emerson "When in the Woods I Wander All Alone" Edward Hovell-Thurlow Aspects of the Pines Paul Hamilton Hayne Out in the Fields Unknown Under the Leaves Albert Laighton "On Wenlock Edge" Alfred Edward Housman "What Do We Plant" Henry Abbey The Tree Jones Very The Brave Old Oak Henry Fothergill Chorley "The Girt Woak Tree that's in the Dell" William Barnes To the Willow-tree Robert Herrick Enchantment Madison Cawein Trees Joyce Kilmer The Holly-tree Robert Southey The Pine Augusta Webster "Woodman, Spare that Tree" George Pope Morris The Beech Tree's Petition Thomas Campbell The Poplar Field William Cowper The Planting of the Apple-Tree William Cullen Bryant Of an Orchard Katherine Tynan An Orchard at Avignon A. Mary F. Robinson The Tide River Charles Kingsley The Brook's Song Alfred Tennyson Arethusa Percy Bysshe Shelley The Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey Song of the Chattahoochee Sidney Lanier "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton" Robert Burns Canadian Boat-Song Thomas Moore The Marshes of Glynn Sidney Lanier The Trosachs William Wordsworth Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Peaks Stephen Crane Kinchinjunga Cale Young Rice The Hills Julian Grenfell Hemlock Mountain Sarah N. Cleghorn Sunrise on Rydal Water John Drinkwater The Deserted Pasture Bliss Carman To Meadows Robert Herrick The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley April Rain Robert Loveman Summer Invocation William Cox Bennett April Rain Mathilde Blind To the Rainbow Thomas Campbell

 GREEN THINGS GROWING

 My Garden Thomas Edward Brown The Garden Andrew Marvell A Garden Andrew Marvell A Garden Song Austin Dobson In Green Old Gardens Violet Fane A Benedictine Garden Alice Brown An Autumn Garden Bliss Carman Unguarded Ada Foster Murray The Deserted Garden Elizabeth Barrett Browning A Forsaken Garden Algernon Charles Swinburne Green Things Growing Dinah Maria Mulock Craik A Chanted Calendar Sydney Dobell Flowers Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Flowers Thomas Hood A Contemplation Upon Flowers Henry King Almond Blossom Edwin Arnold White Azaleas Harriet McEwen Kimball Buttercups Wilfrid Thorley The Broom Flower Mary Howitt The Small Celandine William Wordsworth To the Small Celandine William Wordsworth Four-leaf Clover Ella Higginson Sweet Clover Wallace Rice "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" William Wordsworth To Daffodils Robert Herrick To a Mountain Daisy Robert Burns A Field Flower James Montgomery To Daisies, Not to Shut so Soon Robert Herrick Daisies Bliss Carman To the Daisy William Wordsworth To Daisies Francis Thompson To the Dandelion James Russell Lowell Dandelion Annie Rankin Annan The Dandelions Helen Gray Cone To the Fringed Gentian William Cullen Bryant Goldenrod Elaine Goodale Eastman Lessons from the Gorse Elizabeth Barrett Browning The Voice of The Grass Sarah Roberts Boyle A Song the Grass Sings Charles G. Blanden The Wild Honeysuckle Philip Freneau The Ivy Green Charles Dickens Yellow Jessamine Constance Fenimore Woolson Knapweed Arthur Christopher Benson Moly Edith Matilda Thomas The Morning-Glory Florence Earle Coates The Mountain Heart's-Ease Bret Harte The Primrose Robert Herrick To Primroses filled with Morning Dew Robert Herrick To an Early Primrose Henry Kirke White The Rhodora Ralph Waldo Emerson The Rose William Browne Wild Roses Edgar Fawcett The Rose of May Mary Howitt A Rose Richard Fanshawe The Shamrock Maurice Francis Egan To Violets Robert Herrick The Violet William Wetmore Story To a Wood-Violet John Banister Tabb The Violet and the Rose Augusta Webster To a Wind-Flower Madison Cawein To Blossoms Robert Herrick "'Tis the Last Rose of Summer" Thomas Moore The Death of the Flowers William Cullen Bryant

 GOD'S CREATURES

 Once on a Time Margaret Benson To a Mouse Robert Burns The Grasshopper Abraham Cowley On the Grasshopper and Cricket John Keats To the Grasshopper and the Cricket Leigh Hunt The Cricket William Cowper To a Cricket William Cox Bennett To an Insect Oliver Wendell Holmes The Snail William Cowper The Housekeeper Charles Lamb The Humble-Bee Ralph Waldo Emerson To a Butterfly William Wordsworth Ode to a Butterfly Thomas Wentworth Higginson The Butterfly Alice Freeman Palmer Fireflies Edgar Fawcett The Blood Horse Bryan Waller Procter Birds Moira O'Neill Birds Richard Henry Stoddard Sea-Birds Elizabeth Akers The Little Beach Bird Richard Henry Dana The Blackbird Frederick Tennyson The Blackbird Alfred Edward Housman The Blackbird William Ernest Henley The Blackbird William Barnes Robert of Lincoln William Cullen Bryant The O'Lincon Family Wilson Flagg The Bobolink Thomas Hill My Catbird William Henry Venable The Herald Crane Hamlin Garland The Crow William Canton To the Cuckoo John Logan The Cuckoo Frederick Locker-Lampson To the Cuckoo William Wordsworth The Eagle Alfred Tennyson The Hawkbit Charles G. D. Roberts The Heron Edward Hovell-Thurlow The Jackdaw William Cowper The Green Linnet William Wordsworth To the Man-of-War-Bird Walt Whitman The Maryland Yellow-Throat Henry Van Dyke Lament of a Mocking-bird Frances Anne Kemble "O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art" William Wordsworth Philomel Richard Barnfield Philomela Matthew Arnold On a Nightingale in April William Sharp To the Nightingale William Drummond The Nightingale Mark Akenside To the Nightingale John Milton Philomela Philip Sidney Ode to a Nightingale John Keats Song, 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark Hartley Coleridge Bird Song Laura E. Richards The Song the Oriole Sings William Dean Howells To an Oriole Edgar Fawcett Song: the Owl Alfred Tennyson "Sweet Suffolk Owl" Thomas Vautor The Pewee John Townsend Trowbridge Robin Redbreast George Washington Doane Robin Redbreast William Allingham The Sandpiper Celia Thaxter The Sea-Mew Elizabeth Barrett Browning To a Skylark William Wordsworth To a Skylark William Wordsworth The Skylark James Hogg The Skylark Frederick Tennyson To a Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley The Stormy Petrel Bryan Waller Procter The First Swallow Charlotte Smith To a Swallow Building Under our Eaves Jane Welsh Carlyle Chimney Swallows Horatio Nelson Powers Itylus Algernon Charles Swinburne The Throstle Alfred Tennyson Overflow John Banister Tabb Joy-Month David Atwood Wasson My Thrush Mortimer Collins "Blow Softly, Thrush" Joseph Russell Taylor The Black Vulture George Sterling Wild Geese Frederick Peterson To a Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant The Wood-Dove's Note Emily Huntington Miller

 THE SEA

 Song for all Seas, all Ships Walt Whitman Stanzas from "The Triumph of Time" Algernon Charles Swinburne The Sea from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" George Gordon Byron On the Sea John Keats "With Ships the Sea was Sprinkled" William Wordsworth A Song of Desire Frederic Lawrence Knowles The Pines and the Sea Christopher Pearse Cranch Sea Fever John Masefield Hastings Mill C. Fox Smith "A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea" Allan Cunningham The Sea Bryan Waller Procter Sailor's Song from "Death's Jest Book" Thomas Lovell Beddoes "A Life on the Ocean Wave" Epes Sargent Tacking Ship off Shore Walter Mitchell In Our Boat Dinah Maria Mulock Craik Poor Jack Charles Dibdin "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep" Emma Hart Willard Outward John G. Neihardt A Passer-by Robert Bridges Off Riviere du Loup Duncan Campbell Scott Christmas at Sea Robert Louis Stevenson The Port o' Heart's Desire John S. McGroarty On the Quay John Joy Bell The Forging of the Anchor Samuel Ferguson Drifting Thomas Buchanan Read "How's My Boy" Sydney Dobell The Long White Seam Jean Ingelow Storm Song Bayard Taylor The Mariner's Dream William Dimond The Inchcape Rock Robert Southey The Sea Richard Henry Stoddard The Sands of Dee Charles Kingsley The Three Fishers Charles Kingsley Ballad Harriet Prescott Spofford The Northern Star Unknown The Fisher's Widow Arthur Symons Caller Herrin' Carolina Nairne Hannah Binding Shoes Lucy Larcom The Sailor William Allingham The Burial of the Dane Henry Howard Brownell Tom Bowling Charles Dibdin Messmates Henry Newbolt The Last Buccaneer Charles Kingsley The Last Buccaneer Thomas Babington Macaulay The Leadman's Song Charles Dibdin Homeward Bound William Allingham

 THE SIMPLE LIFE

 The Lake Isle of Innisfree William Butler Yeats A Wish Samuel Rogers Ode on Solitude Alexander Pope "Thrice Happy He" William Drummond "Under the Greenwood Tree" William Shakespeare Coridon's Song John Chalkhill The Old Squire Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Inscription in a Hermitage Thomas Warton The Retirement Charles Cotton The Country Faith Norman Gale Truly Great William H. Davies Early Morning at Bargis Hermann Hagedorn The Cup John Townsend Trowbridge A Strip of Blue Lucy Larcom An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford Thomas Randolph "The Midges Dance Aboon the Burn" Robert Tannahill The Plow Richard Hengist Horne The Useful Plow Unknown "To One Who has Been Long in City Pent" John Keats The Quiet Life William Byrd The Wish Abraham Cowley Expostulation and Reply William Wordsworth The Tables Turned William Wordsworth Simple Nature George John Romanes "I Fear no Power a Woman Wields" Ernest McGaffey A Runnable Stag John Davidson Hunting Song Richard Hovey "A-Hunting We Will Go" Henry Fielding The Angler's Invitation Thomas Tod Stoddart The Angler's Wish Izaak Walton The Angler John Chalkhill

 WANDERLUST

 To Jane: the Invitation Percy Bysshe Shelley "My Heart's in the Highlands" Robert Burns "Afar in the Desert" Thomas Pringle Spring Song in the City Robert Buchanan In City Streets Ada Smith The Vagabond Robert Louis Stevenson In the Highlands Robert Louis Stevenson The Song my Paddle Sings E. Pauline Johnson The Gipsy Trail Rudyard Kipling Wanderlust Gerald Gould The Footpath Way Katherine Tynan A Maine Trail Gertrude Huntington McGiffert Afoot Charles G. D. Roberts From Romany to Rome Wallace Irwin The Toil of the Trail Hamlin Garland "Do You Fear the Wind?" Hamlin Garland The King's Highway John S. McGroarty The Forbidden Lure Fannie Stearns Davis The Wander-Lovers Richard Hovey The Sea-Gipsy Richard Hovey A Vagabond Song Bliss Carman Spring Song Bliss Carman The Mendicants Bliss Carman The Joys of the Road Bliss Carman The Song of the Forest Ranger Herbert Bashford A Drover Padraic Colum Ballad of Low-lie-down Madison Cawein The Good Inn Herman Knickerbocker Viele Night for Adventures Victor Starbuck Song, "Something calls and whispers" Georgiana Goddard King The Voortrekker Rudyard Kipling The Long Trail Rudyard Kipling

 PART IV

 FAMILIAR VERSE, AND POEMS HUMOROUS AND SATIRIC

 Ballade of the Primitive Jest Andrew Lang

 THE KINDLY MUSE

 Time to be Wise Walter Savage Landor Under the Lindens Walter Savage Landor Advice Walter Savage Landor To Fanny Thomas Moore "I'd be a Butterfly" Thomas Haynes Bayly "I'm not a Single Man" Thomas Hood To ----- Winthrop Mackworth Praed The Vicar Winthrop Mackworth Praed The Belle of the Ball-room Winthrop Mackworth Praed The Fine Old English Gentleman Unknown A Ternerie of Littles, upon a Pipkin of Jelly Sent to a Lady Robert Herrick Chivalry at a Discount Edward Fitzgerald The Ballad of Bouillabaisse William Makepeace Thackeray To my Grandmother Frederick Locker-Lampson My Mistress's Boots Frederick Locker-Lampson A Garden Lyric Frederick Locker-Lampson Mrs. Smith Frederick Locker-Lampson The Skeleton in the Cupboard Frederick Locker-Lampson A Terrible Infant Frederick Locker-Lampson Companions Charles Stuart Calverley Dorothy Q Oliver Wendell Holmes My Aunt Oliver Wendell Holmes The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes Contentment Oliver Wendell Holmes The Boys Oliver Wendell Holmes The Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold On an Intaglio Head of Minerva Thomas Bailey Aldrich Thalia Thomas Bailey Aldrich Pan in Wall Street Edmund Clarence Stedman Upon Lesbia--Arguing Alfred Cochrane To Anthea, who May Command Him Anything Alfred Cochrane The Eight-Day Clock Alfred Cochrane A Portrait Joseph Ashby-Sterry "Old Books are Best" Beverly Chew Impression Edmund Gosse "With Strawberries" William Ernest Henley Ballade of Ladies' Names William Ernest Henley To a Pair of Egyptian Slippers Edwin Arnold Without and Within James Russell Lowell "She was a Beauty" Henry Cuyler Bunner Nell Gwynne's Looking-Glass Laman Blanchard Mimnermus in Church William Johnson-Cory Clay Edward Verrall Lucas Aucassin and Nicolete Francis William Bourdillon Aucassin and Nicolette Edmund Clarence Stedman On the Hurry of This Time Austin Dobson "Good-Night, Babette" Austin Dobson A Dialogue from Plato Austin Dobson The Ladies of St. James's Austin Dobson The Cure's Progress Austin Dobson A Gentleman of the Old School Austin Dobson On a Fan Austin Dobson "When I Saw You Last, Rose" Austin Dobson Urceus Exit Austin Dobson A Corsage Bouquet Charles Henry Luders Two Triolets Harrison Robertson The Ballad of Dead Ladies Dante Gabriel Rossetti Ballade of Dead Ladies Andrew Lang A Ballad of Dead Ladies Justin Huntly McCarthy If I Were King Justin Huntly McCarthy A Ballade of Suicide Gilbert Keith Chesterton Chiffons! William Samuel Johnson The Court Historian Walter Thornbury Miss Lou Walter de La Mare The Poet and the Wood-louse Helen Parry Eden Students Florence Wilkinson "One, Two, Three" Henry Cuyler Bunner The Chaperon Henry Cuyler Bunner "A Pitcher of Mignonette" Henry Cuyler Bunner Old King Cole Edwin Arlington Robinson The Master Mariner George Sterling A Rose to the Living Nixon Waterman A Kiss Austin Dobson Biftek aux Champignons Henry Augustin Beers Evolution Langdon Smith A Reasonable Affliction Matthew Prior A Moral in Sevres Mildred Howells On the Fly-leaf of a Book of Old Plays Walter Learned The Talented Man Winthrop Mackworth Praed A Letter of Advice Winthrop Mackworth Praed A Nice Correspondent Frederick Locker-Lampson Her Letter Bret Harte A Dead Letter Austin Dobson The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn Andrew Marvell On the Death of a Favorite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes Thomas Gray Verses on a Cat Charles Daubeny Epitaph on a Hare William Cowper On the Death of Mrs. Throckmorton's Bullfinch William Cowper An Elegy on a Lap-Dog John Gay My Last Terrier John Halsham Geist's Grave Matthew Arnold "Hold" Patrick R. Chalmers

 THE BARB OF SATIRE

 The Vicar of Bray Unknown The Lost Leader Robert Browning Ichabod John Greenleaf Whittier What Mr. Robinson Thinks James Russell Lowell The Debate in the Sennit James Russell Lowell The Marquis of Carabas Robert Brough A Modest Wit Selleck Osborn Jolly Jack William Makepeace Thackeray The King of Brentford William Makepeace Thackeray Kaiser & Co A. Macgregor Rose Nongtongpaw Charles Dibdin The Lion and the Cub John Gay The Hare with Many Friends John Gay The Sycophantic Fox and the Gullible Raven Guy Wetmore Carryl The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder George Canning Villon's Straight Tip to all Cross Coves William Ernest Henley Villon's Ballade Andrew Lang A Little Brother of the Rich Edward Sandford Martin The World's Way Thomas Bailey Aldrich For My Own Monument Matthew Prior The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church Robert Browning Up at a Villa--Down in the City Robert Browning All Saints' Edmund Yates An Address to the Unco Guid Robert Burns The Deacon's Masterpiece Oliver Wendell Holmes Ballade of a Friar Andrew Lang The Chameleon James Merrick The Blind Men and the Elephant John Godfrey Saxe The Philosopher's Scales Jane Taylor The Maiden and the Lily John Fraser The Owl-Critic James Thomas Fields The Ballad of Imitation Austin Dobson The Conundrum of the Workshops Rudyard Kipling The V-a-s-e James Jeffrey Roche Hem and Haw Bliss Carmen Miniver Cheevy Edwin Arlington Robinson Then Ag'in Sam Walter Foss A Conservative Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman Similar Cases Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman Man and the Ascidian Andrew Lang The Calf-Path Sam Walter Foss Wedded Bliss Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman Paradise: A Hindoo Legend George Birdseye Ad Chloen, M. A. Mortimer Collins "As Like the Woman as You Can" William Ernest Henley "No Fault in Women" Robert Herrick "Are Women Fair" Francis Davison (?) A Strong Hand Aaron Hill Women's Longing John Fletcher Triolet Robert Bridges The Fair Circassian Richard Garnett The Female Phaeton Matthew Prior The Lure John Boyle O'Reilly The Female of the Species Rudyard Kipling The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue William Watson Suppose Anne Reeve Aldrich Too Candid by Half John Godfrey Saxe Fable Ralph Waldo Emerson Woman's Will Unknown Woman's Will John Godfrey Saxe Plays Walter Savage Landor Remedy Worse than the Disease Matthew Prior The Net of Law James Jeffrey Roche Cologne Samuel Taylor Coleridge Epitaph on Charles II John Wilmot Certain Maxims of Hafiz Rudyard Kipling A Baker's Duzzen uv Wise Sawz Edward Rowland Sill Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge Epigram Unknown Epigram Richard Garnett Epigram Richard Garnett Epigram Walter Savage Landor Epigram William Erskine Epigram Richard Brinsley Sheridan Epigram Alexander Pope Epigram Samuel Johnson Epigram John Gay Epigram Alexander Pope Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge Epigram Unknown Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge Epigram Unknown Epigram Matthew Prior Epigram George Macdonald Epigram Jonathan Swift Epigram Byron's epitaph for Pitt Epigram David Garrick Epigram John Harington Epigram John Byrom Epigram Richard Garnett Epigram Thomas Moore Epigram Unknown Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge Epigram John Dryden Epigram Thomas Hood Written on a Looking-glass Unknown An Epitaph George John Cayley On the Aristocracy of Harvard John Collins Bossidy On the Democracy of Yale Frederick Scheetz Jones A General Summary Rudyard Kipling

 THE MIMICS

 An Omar for Ladies Josephine Daskam Bacon "When Lovely Woman" Phoebe Cary Fragment in Imitation of Wordsworth Catherine M. Fanshaw Only Seven Henry Sambrooke Leigh Lucy Lake Newton Mackintosh Jane Smith Rudyard Kipling Father William Lewis Carroll The New Arrival George Washington Cable Disaster Charles Stuart Calverley 'Twas Ever Thus Henry Sambrooke Leigh A Grievance James Kenneth Stephen "Not a Sou Had he Got" Richard Harris Barham The Whiting and the Snail Lewis Carroll The Recognition William Sawyer The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell Algernon Charles Swinburne The Willow-tree William Makepeace Thackeray Poets and Linnets Tom Hood, the Younger The Jam-pot Rudyard Kipling Ballad Charles Stuart Calverley The Poster-girl Carolyn Wells After Dilletante Concetti Henry Duff Traill If Mortimer Collins Nephilidia Algernon Charles Swinburne Commonplaces Rudyard Kipling The Promissory Note Bayard Taylor Mrs. Judge Jenkins Bret Harte The Modern Hiawatha George A. Strong How Often Ben King "If I should Die To-night" Ben King Sincere Flattery James Kenneth Stephen Culture in the Slums William Ernest Henley The Poets at Tea Barry Pain Wordsworth James Kenneth Stephen

PART I

POEMS OF YOUTH AND AGE

THE HUMAN SEASONS

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;There are four seasons in the mind of man:He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clearTakes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriouslySpring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he lovesTo ruminate, and by such dreaming highIs nearest unto Heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wingsHe furleth close; contented so to lookOn mists in idleness--to let fair thingsPass by unheeded as a threshold brook:--

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 

John Keats [1795-1821]

THE BABY

"ONLY A BABY SMALL"

Only a baby small, Dropped from the skies, Only a laughing face, Two sunny eyes;Only two cherry lips, One chubby nose;Only two little hands, Ten little toes. 

Only a golden head, Curly and soft;Only a tongue that wagsLoudly and oft;Only a little brain, Empty of thought;Only a little heart, Troubled with naught. 

Only a tender flowerSent us to rear;Only a life to loveWhile we are here;Only a baby small, Never at rest;Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best. 

Matthias Barr [1831-?]

ONLY

Something to live for came to the place, Something to die for maybe, Something to give even sorrow a grace, And yet it was only a baby!

Cooing, and laughter, and gurgles, and cries, Dimples for tenderest kisses, Chaos of hopes, and of raptures, and sighs, Chaos of fears and of blisses. 

Last year, like all years, the rose and the thorn;This year a wilderness maybe;But heaven stooped under the roof on the mornThat it brought them only a baby. 

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]

INFANT JOY

"I have no name;I am but two days old. "What shall I call thee?"I happy am, Joy is my name. "Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee;Thou dost smile, I sing the while;Sweet joy befall thee!

William Blake [1757-1827]

BABYFrom "At the Back of the North Wind"

Where did you come from, baby dear?Out of the everywhere into the here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue?Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear?I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?I saw something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear?God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands?Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, where did you come, you darling things?From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 

How did they all just come to be you?God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear?God thought about you, and so I am here. 

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

TO A NEW-BORN BABY GIRL

And did thy sapphire shallop slipIts moorings suddenly, to dipAdown the clear, ethereal seaFrom star to star, all silently?What tenderness of archangelsIn silver, thrilling syllablesPursued thee, or what dulcet hymnLow-chanted by the cherubim?And thou departing must have heardThe holy Mary's farewell word, Who with deep eyes and wistful smileRemembered Earth a little while. 

Now from the coasts of morning paleComes safe to port thy tiny sail. Now have we seen by early sun, Thy miracle of life begun. All breathing and aware thou art, With beauty templed in thy heartTo let thee recognize the thrillOf wings along far azure hill, And hear within the hollow skyThy friends the angels rushing by. These shall recall that thou hast knownTheir distant country as thine own, To spare thee word of vales and streams, And publish heaven through thy dreams. The human accents of the breezeThrough swaying star-acquainted treesShall seem a voice heard earlier, Her voice, the adoring sigh of her, When thou amid rosy cherub-playDidst hear her call thee, far away, And dream in very ParadiseThe worship of thy mother's eyes. 

Grace Hazard Conkling [1878-

TO LITTLE RENEE ON FIRST SEEING HER LYING IN HER CRADLE

Who is she here that now I see, This dainty new divinity, Love's sister, Venus' child? She showsHer hues, white lily and pink rose, And in her laughing eyes the snaresThat hearts entangle unawares. Ah, woe to men if Love should yieldHis arrows to this girl to wieldEven in play, for she would giveSore wounds that none might take and live. Yet no such wanton strain is hers, Nor Leda's child and Jupiter'sIs she, though swans no softer areThan whom she fairer is by far. For she was born beside the rillThat gushes from Parnassus' hill, And by the bright Pierian springShe shall receive an offeringFrom every youth who pipes a strainBeside his flocks upon the plain. But I, the first, this very day, Will tune for her my humble lay, Invoking this new Muse to renderMy oaten reed more sweet and tender, Within its vibrant hollows wakeSuch dulcet voices for her sakeAs, curved hand at straining ear, I long have stood and sought to hearBorne with the warm midsummer breezeWith scent of hay and hum of beesFaintly from far-off Sicily. . . . 

Ah, well I know that not for usAre Virgil and Theocritus, And that the golden age is pastWhereof they sang, and thou, the last, Sweet Spenser, of their god-like line, Soar far too swift for verse of mineOne strain to compass of your song. Yet there are poets that prolongOf your rare voice the ravishmentIn silver cadences; contentWere I if I could but rehearseOne stave of Wither's starry verse, Weave such wrought richness as recallsBritannia's lovely Pastorals, Or in some garden-spot suspireOne breath of Marvell's magic fireWhen in the green and leafy shadeHe sees dissolving all that's made. Ah, little Muse still far too highOn weak, clipped wings my wishes fly. Transform them then and make them doves, Soft-moaning birds that Venus loves, That they may circle ever lowAbove the abode where you shall growInto your gracious womanhood. And you shall feed the gentle broodFrom out your hand--content they'll beOnly to coo their songs to thee. 

William Aspenwall Bradley [1878-

RHYME OF ONE

You sleep upon your mother's breast, Your race begun, A welcome, long a wished-for Guest, Whose age is One. 

A Baby-Boy, you wonder whyYou cannot run;You try to talk--how hard you try!--You're only One. 

Ere long you won't be such a dunce:You'll eat your bun, And fly your kite, like folk who onceWere only One. 

You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke, Perhaps you'll pun!Such feats are never done by folkBefore they're One. 

Some day, too, you may have your joy, And envy none;Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy, Who isn't One. 

He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll doAs you have done:(You crown a happy home, though youAre only One. )

But when he's grown shall you be hereTo share his fun, And talk of times when he (the Dear!)Was hardly One?

Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to beMy little Son;I'm glad, though I am old, you see, --While you are One. 

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

TO A NEW-BORN CHILD

Small traveler from an unseen shore, By mortal eye ne'er seen before, To you, good-morrow. You are as fair a little dameAs ever from a glad world cameTo one of sorrow. 

We smile above you, but you fret;We call you gentle names, and yetYour cries redouble. 'Tis hard for little babes to prizeThe tender love that underliesA life of trouble. 

And have you come from Heaven to earth?That were a road of little mirth, A doleful travel. "Why did I come?" you seem to cry, But that's a riddle you and ICan scarce unravel. 

Perhaps you really wished to come, But now you are so far from homeRepent the trial. What! did you leave celestial blissTo bless us with a daughter's kiss?What self-denial!

Have patience for a little space, You might have come to a worse place, Fair Angel-rover. No wonder now you would have stayed, But hush your cries, my little maid, The journey's over. 

For, utter stranger as you are, There yet are many hearts ajarFor your arriving, And trusty friends and lovers trueAre waiting, ready-made for you, Without your striving. 

The earth is full of lovely things, And if at first you miss your wings, You'll soon forget them;And others, of a rarer kindWill grow upon your tender mind--If you will let them--

Until you find that your exchangeOf Heaven for earth expands your rangeE'en as a flier, And that your mother, you and I, If we do what we should, may flyThan Angels higher. 

Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901]

BABY MAY

Cheeks as soft as July peaches, Lips whose dewy scarlet teachesPoppies paleness--round large eyesEver great with new surprise, Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, Minutes just as brimmed with sadness, Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows swifter bornThan on wind-swept Autumn corn, Ever some new tiny notionMaking every limb all motion--Catching up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms, Clutching fingers--straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever new surprisings, Hands all wants and looks all wonderAt all things the heavens under, Tiny scorns of smiled reprovingsThat have more of love than lovings, Mischiefs done with such a winningArchness, that we prize such sinning, Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes, Pullings off of all that's ableTo be caught from tray or table;Silences--small meditations, Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, Breaking into wisest speechesIn a tongue that nothing teaches, All the thoughts of whose possessingMust be wooed to light by guessing;Slumbers--such sweet angel-seemings, That we'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking;Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care--delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be--That's May Bennett, that's my baby. 

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]

ALICE

Of deepest blue of summer skiesIs wrought the heaven of her eyes. 

Of that fine gold the autumns wearIs wrought the glory of her hair. 

Of rose leaves fashioned in the southIs shaped the marvel of her mouth. 

And from the honeyed lips of blissIs drawn the sweetness of her kiss, 'Mid twilight thrushes that rejoiceIs found the cadence of her voice, Of winds that wave the western firIs made the velvet touch of her. 

Of all earth's songs God took the halfTo make the ripple of her laugh. 

I hear you ask, "Pray who is she?"--This maid that is so dear to me. 

"A reigning queen in Fashion's whirl?"Nay, nay! She is my baby girl. 

Herbert Bashford [1871-1928]

SONGS FOR FRAGOLETTA

I

Fragoletta, blessed one!What think you of the light of the sun?Do you think the dark was best, Lying snug in mother's breast?Ah! I knew that sweetness, too, Fragoletta, before you!But, Fragoletta, now you're born, You must learn to love the morn, Love the lovely working light, Love the miracle of sight, Love the thousand things to do--Little girl, I envy you!--Love the thousand things to see, Love your mother, and--love me!And some night, Fragoletta, soon, I'll take you out to see the moon;And for the first time, child of ours, You shall--think of it!--look on flowers, And smell them, too, if you are good, And hear the green leaves in the woodTalking, talking, all togetherIn the happy windy weather;And if the journey's not too farFor little limbs so lately made, Limb upon limb like petals laid, We'll go and picnic in a star. 

II

Blue eyes, looking up at me, I wonder what you really see, Lying in your cradle there, Fragrant as a branch of myrrh?Helpless little hands and feet, O so helpless! O so sweet!Tiny tongue that cannot talk, Tiny feet that cannot walk, Nothing of you that can doAught, except those eyes of blue. How they open, how they close!--Eyelids of the baby-rose. Open and shut--so blue, so wise, Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes. 

III

That, Fragoletta, is the rainBeating upon the window-pane;But lo! The golden sun appears, To kiss away the window's tears. That, Fragoletta, is the wind, That rattles so the window-blind;And yonder shining thing's a star, Blue eyes--you seem ten times as far. That, Fragoletta, is a birdThat speaks, yet never says a word;Upon a cherry tree it sings, Simple as all mysterious things;Its little life to peck and pipe, As long as cherries ripe and ripe, And minister unto the needOf baby-birds that feed and feed. This, Fragoletta, is a flower, Open and fragrant for an hour, A flower, a transitory thing, Each petal fleeting as a wing, All a May morning blows and blows, And then for everlasting goes. 

IV

Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressedOf little mother's hallowed breast, The while your trembling lips are fed, Look up at mother's bended head, All benediction over you--O blue eyes looking into blue!

Fragoletta is so small, We wonder that she lives at all--Tiny alabaster girl, Hardly bigger than a pearl;That is why we take such care, Lest some one run away with her. 

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

CHOOSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister:I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-woman brought herTo papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten!She will shortly be to christen;And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her, --Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa?Ann and Mary, they're too common;Joan's too formal for a woman;Jane's a prettier name beside;But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Edith's pretty, but that looksBetter in old English books;Ellen's left off long ago;Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have named as yetIs so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine;What do you think of Caroline?How I'm puzzled and perplexedWhat to choose or think of next!I am in a little feverLest the name that I should give herShould disgrace her or defame her;--I will leave papa to name her. 

Mary Lamb [1764-1847]

WEIGHING THE BABY

"How many pounds does the baby weigh--Baby who came but a month ago?How many pounds from the crowning curlTo the rosy point of the restless toe?"

Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot, Tenderly guides the swinging weight, And carefully over his glasses peersTo read the record, "only eight. "

Softly the echo goes around:The father laughs at the tiny girl;The fair young mother sings the words, While grandmother smooths the golden curl. 

And stooping above the precious thing, Nestles a kiss within a prayer, Murmuring softly "Little one, Grandfather did not weigh you fair. "

Nobody weighed the baby's smile, Or the love that came with the helpless one;Nobody weighed the threads of care, From which a woman's life is spun. 

No index tells the mighty worthOf a little baby's quiet breath--A soft, unceasing metronome, Patient and faithful until death. 

Nobody weighed the baby's soul, For here on earth no weights there beThat could avail; God only knowsIts value in eternity. 

Only eight pounds to hold a soulThat seeks no angel's silver wing, But shrines it in this human guise, Within so frail and small a thing!

Oh, mother! laugh your merry note, Be gay and glad, but don't forgetFrom baby's eyes looks out a soulThat claims a home in Eden yet. 

Ethel Lynn Beers [1827-1879]

ETUDE REALISTEI

A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet. 

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heatThey stretch and spread and winkTheir ten soft buds that part and meet. 

No flower-bells that expand and shrinkGleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine on life's untrodden brinkA baby's feet. 

II

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled, --A baby's hands. 

Then, even as warriors grip their brandsWhen battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. 

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearledMatch, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world, --A baby's hands. 

III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to winA baby's eyes. 

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise!

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt withinA baby's eyes. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

LITTLE FEET

Two little feet, so small that both may nestleIn one caressing hand, --Two tender feet upon the untried borderOf life's mysterious land. 

Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms, In April's fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tangles, Edging the world's rough ways?

These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future, Must bear a mother's load;Alas! since Woman has the heavier burden, And walks the harder road. 

Love, for a while, will make the path before themAll dainty, smooth, and fair, --Will cull away the brambles, letting onlyThe roses blossom there. 

But when the mother's watchful eyes are shroudedAway from sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding, Who shall direct them then?

How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded, Poor little untaught feet!Into what dreary mazes will they wander, What dangers will they meet?

Will they go stumbling blindly in the darknessOf Sorrow's tearful shades?Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, Whose sunlight never fades?

Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit, The common world above?Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, Walk side by side with Love?

Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded, Which find but pleasant ways:Some hearts there be to which this life is onlyA round of happy days. 

But these are few. Far more there are who wanderWithout a hope or friend, --Who find their journey full of pains and losses, And long to reach the end. 

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highwayStretches so fair and wide?

Ah! who may read the future? For our darlingWe crave all blessings sweet, And pray that He who feeds the crying ravensWill guide the baby's feet. 

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

THE BABIE

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet;Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet. 

Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips, an' baumy mou', With na ane tooth within. 

Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things;Her face is like an angel's face, --We're glad she has nae wings. 

She is the buddin' of our luve, A giftie God gied us:We maun na luve the gift owre weel, 'Twad be nae blessin' thus. 

We still maun luve the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given;An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae Heaven. 

Jeremiah Eames Rankin [1828-1904]

LITTLE HANDS

Soft little hands that stray and clutch, Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold, While baby faces lie in suchClose sleep as flowers at night that fold, What is it you would, clasp and hold, Wandering outstretched with wilful touch?O fingers small of shell-tipped rose, How should you know you hold so much?Two full hearts beating you inclose, Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes, --All yours to hold, O little hands!More, more than wisdom understandsAnd love, love only knows. 

Laurence Binyon [1869-

BARTHOLOMEW

Bartholomew is very sweet, From sandy hair to rosy feet. 

Bartholomew is six months old, And dearer far than pearls or gold. 

Bartholomew has deep blue eyes, Round pieces dropped from out the skies. 

Bartholomew is hugged and kissed:He loves a flower in either fist. 

Bartholomew's my saucy son:No mother has a sweeter one!

Norman Gale [1862-

THE STORM-CHILD

My child came to me with the equinox, The wild wind blew him to my swinging door, With flakes of tawny foam from off the shore, And shivering spindrift whirled across the rocks. Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow-flocksCried him a greeting, and the lordly woods, Waving lean arms of welcome one by one, Cast down their russet cloaks and golden hoods, And bid their dancing leaflets trip and runBefore the tender feet of this my son. 

Therefore the sea's swift fire is in his veins, And in his heart the glory of the sea;Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade be, That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering plains. October, shot with flashing rays and rains, Inhabits all his pulses; he shall knowThe stress and splendor of the roaring gales, The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy tales, And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow, While in his ears the eternal bugles blow. 

May Byron [1861-

"ON PARENT KNEES"

On parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled:So live, that, sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep. 

William Jones [1746-1794]

"PHILIP, MY KING""Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty. "

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king!Round whom the enshadowing purple liesOf babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny handWith love's invisible scepter laden;I am thine Esther to commandTill thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king. 

O the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king!When those beautiful lips are suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and thereSittest love-glorified. Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip, my king. 

Up from thy sweet mouth, --up to thy brow, Philip, my king!The spirit that there lies sleeping nowMay rise like a giant and make men bowAs to one heaven-chosen among his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer, Let me behold thee in future years!--Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king. 

--A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king!Thou too must tread, as we trod, a wayThorny and cruel and cold and gray:Rebels within thee, and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

THE KING OF THE CRADLE

Draw back the cradle curtains, Kate, While watch and ward you're keeping, Let's see the monarch in his state, And view him while he's sleeping. He smiles and clasps his tiny hand, With sunbeams o'er him gleaming, --A world of baby fairylandHe visits while he's dreaming. 

Monarch of pearly powder-puff, Asleep in nest so cosy, Shielded from breath of breezes roughBy curtains warm and rosy:He slumbers soundly in his cell, As weak as one decrepid, Though King of Coral, Lord of Bell, And Knight of Bath that's tepid. 

Ah, lucky tyrant! Happy lot!Fair watchers without number, Who sweetly sing beside his cot, And hush him off to slumber;White hands in wait to smooth so neatHis pillow when its rumpled--A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet, Not one of which is crumpled!

Will yonder dainty dimpled hand--Size, nothing and a quarter--E'er grasp a saber, lead a bandTo glory and to slaughter?Or, may I ask, will those blue eyes--In baby patois, "peepers"--E'er in the House of Commons rise, And try to catch the Speaker's?

Will that smooth brow o'er Hansard frown, Confused by lore statistic?Or will those lips e'er stir the townFrom pulpit ritualistic?Will e'er that tiny SybariteBecome an author noted?That little brain the world's delight, Its works by all men quoted?

Though rosy, dimpled, plump, and roundThough fragile, soft, and tender, Sometimes, alas! it may be foundThe thread of life is slender!A little shoe, a little glove--Affection never waning--The shattered idol of our loveIs all that is remaining!

Then does one chance, in fancy, hear, Small feet in childish patter, Tread soft as they a grave draw near, And voices hush their chatter;'Tis small and new; they pause in fear, Beneath the gray church tower, To consecrate it with a tear, And deck it with a flower. 

Who can predict the future, Kate--Your fondest aspiration!Who knows the solemn laws of fate, That govern all creation?Who knows what lot awaits your boy--Of happiness or sorrow?Sufficient for to-day is joy, Leave tears, Sweet, for to-morrow!

Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838-1917]

THE FIRSTBORN

So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom, And in my hands the little rosy feet. Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom;Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet. 

What is it God hath given me to cherish, This living, moving wonder which is mine--Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish, Dear Lord of love divine. 

Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder, This tender miracle vouchsafed to me, One with myself, yet just so far asunderThat I myself may see. 

Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linkingNew selfs with old, all things that I have beenWith present joys beyond my former thinkingAnd future things unseen. 

There life began, and here it links with heaven, The golden chain of years scarce dipped adownFrom birth, ere once again a hold is givenAnd nearer to God's Throne. 

Seen, held in arms and clasped around so tightly, --My love, my bird, I will not let thee go. Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightlyGo pattering to and fro. 

Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving token. Mine--yes or no, unseen its soul divine?Mine by the chain of love with links unbroken, Dear Saviour, Thine and mine. 

John Arthur Goodchild [1851-

NO BABY IN THE HOUSE

No baby in the house, I know, 'Tis far too nice and clean. No toys, by careless fingers strewn, Upon the floors are seen. No finger-marks are on the panes, No scratches on the chairs;No wooden men setup in rows, Or marshaled off in pairs;No little stockings to be darned, All ragged at the toes;No pile of mending to be done, Made up of baby-clothes;No little troubles to be soothed;No little hands to fold;No grimy fingers to be washed;No stories to be told;No tender kisses to be given;No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse";No merry frolics after tea, --No baby in the house!

Clara Dolliver [18--

OUR WEE WHITE ROSEFrom "The Mother's Idol Broken"

All in our marriage gardenGrew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than everSucked the green warmth of the sod;O, beautiful unfathomablyIts little life unfurled;And crown of all things was our weeWhite Rose of all the world. 

From out a balmy bosomOur bud of beauty grew;It fed on smiles for sunshine, On tears for daintier dew:Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curledSo close and close about our weeWhite Rose of all the world. 

With mystical faint fragranceOur house of life she filled;Revealed each hour some fairy towerWhere winged hopes might build!We saw--though none like us might see--Such precious promise pearledUpon the petals of our weeWhite Rose of all the world. 

But evermore the haloOf angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlightThat folds some fairy feast. Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silentlyOur darling bud uncurled, And dropped in the grave--God's lap--our weeWhite Rose of all the world. 

Our Rose was but in blossom, Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnightWe heard the spirits sing, "Another bud of infancyWith holy dews impearled!"And in their hands they bore our weeWhite Rose of all the world. 

You scarce could think so small a thingCould leave a loss so large;Her little light such shadow flingFrom dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may beIn bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our weeWhite Rose of all the world. 

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

INTO THE WORLD AND OUT

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise;The children laughed so when they saw his eyes. 

Into the world a rosy hand in doubtHe reached--a pale hand took one rosebud out. 

"And that was all--quite all!" No, surely! ButThe children cried so when his eyes were shut. 

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]

"BABY SLEEPS"She is not dead, but sleepeth. --Luke viii. 52. 

The baby wept;The mother took it from the nurse's arms, And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms, And baby slept. 

Again it weeps, And God doth take it from the mother's arms, From present griefs, and future unknown harms, And baby sleeps. 

Samuel Hinds [1793-1872]

BABY BELL

I

Have you not heard the poets tellHow came the dainty Baby BellInto this world of ours?The gates of heaven were left ajar:With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even--Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged Angels go, Bearing the holy Dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers--those feet, So light they did not bend the bellsOf the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers:Then all the air grew strangely sweet. And thus came dainty Baby BellInto this world of ours. 

II

She came and brought delicious May;The swallows built beneath the eaves;Like sunlight, in and out the leavesThe robins went, the livelong day;The lily swung its noiseless bell;And on the porch the slender vineHeld out its cups of fairy wine. How tenderly the twilights fell!Oh, earth was full of singing-birdsAnd opening springtide flowers, When the dainty Baby BellCame to this world of ours. 

III

O Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day!What woman-nature filled her eyes, What poetry within them lay--Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and brightAs if she yet stood in the lightOf those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more:Ah, never in our hearts beforeWas love so lovely born:We felt we had a link betweenThis real world and that unseen--The land beyond the morn;And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earthWhen Baby came from Paradise, )--For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ!--our hearts bowed downLike violets after rain. 

IV

And now the orchards, which were whiteAnd pink with blossoms when she came, Were rich in autumn's mellow prime;The clustered apples burnt like flame, The folded chestnut burst its shell, The grapes hung purpling, range on range;And time wrought just as rich a changeIn little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too:We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now. . . Around her pale angelic browWe saw a slender ring of flame. 

V

God's hand had taken away the sealThat held the portals of her speech;And oft she said a few strange wordsWhose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key;We could not teach her holy thingsWho was Christ's self in purity. 

VI

It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell--The knowledge that our God had sentHis messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tearsLike sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, "Oh, smite us gently, gently, God!Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief. "Ah! how we loved her, God can tell;Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

VII

At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands:And what did dainty Baby Bell?She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair!We parted back her silken hair, We wove the roses round her brow--White buds, the summer's drifted snow--Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers. . . And thus went dainty Baby BellOut of this world of ours. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

IN THE NURSERY

MOTHER GOOSE'S MELODIES

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Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row. 

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There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do;She gave them some broth without any bread;Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed. 

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Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her;He put her in a pumpkin shellAnd there he kept her very well. 

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Run-a-dub-dub, Three men in a tub, And who do you think they be?The butcher, the baker, The candlestick-maker;Turn 'em out, knaves all three!

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I'll tell you a storyAbout Jack a Nory--And now my story's begun;I'll tell you anotherAbout Johnny, his brother--And now my story is done. 

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Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock;The clock struck one, The mouse ran down, Hickory, dickory, dock. 

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A dillar, a dollar, A ten o'clock scholar, What makes you come so soon?You used to come at ten o'clockBut now you come at noon. 

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There was a little man, And he had a little gun, And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;He shot Johnny SprigThrough the middle of his wig, And knocked it right off his head, head, head. 

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There was an old woman, and what do you think?She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink:Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet:Yet this little old woman could never be quiet. 

She went to a baker to buy her some bread, And when she came home, her husband was dead;She went to the clerk to toll the bell, And when she came back her husband was well. 

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If I had as much money as I could spend, I never would cry old chairs to mend;Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;I never would cry old chairs to mend. 

If I had as much money as I could tell, I never would cry old clothes to sell;Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell;I never would cry old clothes to sell. 

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One misty, moisty morning, When cloudy was the weather, I met a little old manClothed all in leather;He began to bow and scrape, And I began to grin, --How do you do, and how do you do, And how do you do again?

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If all the world were apple-pie, And all the sea were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have to drink?

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Pease-pudding hot, Pease-pudding cold, Pease-pudding in the pot, Nine days old. Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, Nine days old. 

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Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon;The little dog laughedTo see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon. 

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Little Jack Horner sat in the cornerEating a Christmas pie;He put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum, And said, "What a good boy am I!"

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Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating of curds and whey;There came a great spiderThat sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away. 

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There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile:He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house. 

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Little Polly Flinders, Sat among the cinders, Warming her pretty little toes;Her mother came and caught her, And whipped her little daughterFor spoiling her nice new clothes. 

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Barber, barber, shave a pig, How many hairs will make a wig?"Four-and-twenty, that's enough. "Give the barber a pinch of snuff. 

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Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn;But where is the boy that looks after the sheep?He's under a hay-cock, fast asleep. Will you awake him? No, not I;For if I do, he'll be sure to cry. 

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There was a man of our town, And he was wondrous wise, He jumped into a bramble bush, And scratched out both his eyes:

But when he saw his eyes were out, With all his might and main, He jumped into another bush, And scratched 'em in again. 

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The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then, Poor thing?

He'll sit in a barn, And to keep himself warm, Will hide his head under his wing, Poor thing!

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Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen;Sometimes nine, and sometimes ten, Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen. 

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Three wise men of GothamWent to sea in a bowl;If the bowl had been stronger, My song had been longer. 

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There was an old woman lived under a hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still. 

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Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?I've been to London to look at the Queen. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there?I frightened a little mouse under the chair. 

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There were two blackbirds sitting on a hill, The one named Jack, the other named Jill;Fly away, Jack! Fly away, Jill!Come again, Jack! Come again, Jill!

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Goosey, goosey, gander, Whither shall I wander, Up stairs, down stairs, And in my lady's chamber. There I met an old manWho would not say his prayers;I took him by his left legAnd threw him down the stairs. 

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Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?Yes, sir; yes, sir, three, bags full. One for my master, one for my dame, And one for the little boy that lives in the lane. 

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Bye, baby bunting, Daddy's gone a-huntingTo get a little rabbit-skinTo wrap the baby bunting in. 

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Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he;He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler, he had a fiddle, and a very fine fiddle had he;Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare, as can compareWith King Cole and his fiddlers three!

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Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady ride on a white horse, Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes. 

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Hector Protector was dressed all in green;Hector Protector was sent to the Queen. The Queen did not like him, no more did the King;So Hector Protector was sent back again. 

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Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked;If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?

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Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so, betwixt them both, you see, They licked the platter clean. 

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The lion and the unicornWere fighting for the crown;The lion beat the unicornAll round about the town. Some gave them white bread, And some gave them brown;Some gave them plum cake, And sent them out of town. 

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As Tommy Snooks and Bessy BrooksWere walking out one Sunday, Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks, "To-morrow will be Monday. "

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Curly locks! Curly locks!Wilt thou be mine?Thou shalt not wash dishesNor yet feed the swine;But sit on a cushionAnd sew a fine seam, And feed upon strawberries, Sugar and cream. 

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Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go!That the miller may grind his corn;That the baker may take it and into rolls make it, And send us some hot in the morn. 

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Six little mice sat down to spin, Pussy passed by, and she peeped in. "What are you at, my little men?""Making coats for gentlemen. ""Shall I come in and bite off your threads?""No, no, Miss Pussy, you'll snip off our heads. ""Oh, no, I'll not, I'll help you to spin. ""That may be so, but you don't come in!"

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Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, Silver buckles at his knee;When he comes back, he'll marry me, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. 

Bobby Shaftoe's fat and fair, Combing down his yellow hair;He's my love for evermair, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. 

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Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green;Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen;And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring;And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the King. 

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock;When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all. 

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To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, Home again, home again, jiggety-jig;To market, to market, to buy a fat hog, Home again, home again, jiggety-jog;To market, to market, to buy a plum bun, Home again, home again, market is done. 

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JACK AND JILL

Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crownAnd Jill came tumbling after. 

Up Jack got and home did trotAs fast as he could caper, And went to bed to mend his headWith vinegar and brown paper. 

THE QUEEN OF HEARTS

The Queen of HeartsShe made some tarts, All on a summer's day;The Knave of HeartsHe stole those tarts, And with them ran away. 

The King of HeartsCalled for the tarts, And beat the Knave full sore;The Knave of HeartsBrought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more!

LITTLE BO-PEEP

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them;Leave them alone, and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them. 

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamed she heard them bleating;But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For they were still a-fleeting. 

Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them;She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left their tails behind them!

It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray, Unto a meadow hard by, There she espied their tails side by side, All hung on a tree to dry. 

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks she raced;And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should, That each tail should be properly placed. 

MARY'S LAMB

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary wentThe lamb was sure to go;He followed her to school one day--That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school. 

And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear;And then he ran to her, and laidHis head upon her arm, As if he said--"I'm not afraid--You'll keep me from all harm. "

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?"The eager children cry--"O, Mary loves the lamb, you know, "The Teacher did reply;--"And you each gentle animalIn confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind. "

Sarah Josepha Hale [1788-1879]

THE STAR

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. 

When the blazing sun is set, And the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

Then the traveler in the darkThanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see where to goIf you did not twinkle so. 

In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eyeTill the sun is in the sky. 

As your bright and tiny sparkLights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star. 

Jane Taylor [1783-1824)

"SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE"

Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye;Four-and-twenty blackbirdsBaked in a pie;

When the pie was openedThe birds began to sing;Wasn't that a dainty dishTo set before the King?

The King was in his counting-house, Counting out his money;The Queen was in the parlor, Eating bread and honey;

The maid was in the gardenHanging out the clothes;When down came a blackbird, And nipped off her nose. 

SIMPLE SIMON

Simple Simon met a piemanGoing to the fair;Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware. "

Says the pieman to Simple Simon, "Show me first your penny";Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Indeed I have not any. "

Simple Simon went a-fishingFor to catch a whale;All the water he had gotWas in his mother's pail. 

Simple Simon went to lookIf plums grew on a thistle;He pricked his fingers very much, Which made poor Simon whistle. 

A PLEASANT SHIP

I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea, And oh! it was all ladenWith pretty things for thee!

There were comfits in the cabin, And apples in the hold;The sails were made of silk, And the masts were made of gold. 

The four-and-twenty sailorsThat stood between the decksWere four-and-twenty white mice, With chains about their necks. 

The captain was a duck, With a packet on his back, And when the ship began to move, The captain said "Quack! Quack!"

"I HAD A LITTLE HUSBAND"

I had a little husbandNo bigger than my thumb;I put him in a pint pot, And there I bade him drum. 

I bought a little horse, That galloped up and down;I bridled him and saddled him, And sent him out of town. 

I gave him some garters, To garter up his hose, And a little handkerchief, To wipe his pretty nose. 

"WHEN I WAS A BACHELOR"

When I was a bachelorI lived by myself;And all the bread and cheese I gotI put upon the shelf. 

The rats and the miceThey made such a strife, I was forced to go to LondonTo buy me a wife. 

The streets were so bad, And the lanes were so narrow, I was forced to bring my wife homeIn a wheelbarrow. 

The wheelbarrow broke, And my wife had a fall, Down came wheelbarrow, Little wife and all. 

"JOHNNY SHALL HAVE A NEW BONNET"

Johnny shall have a new bonnet, And Johnny shall go to the fair, And Johnny shall have a blue ribbonTo tie up his bonny brown hair. 

And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me?And why may not I love JohnnyAs well as another body?

And here's a leg for a stocking, And here's a foot for a shoe;And he has a kiss for his daddy, And one for his mammy, too. 

And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me?And why may not I love Johnny, As well as another body?

THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE

The city mouse lives in a house;--The garden mouse lives in a bower, He's friendly with the frogs and toads, And sees the pretty plants in flower. 

The city mouse eats bread and cheese;--The garden mouse eats what he can;We will not grudge him seeds and stocks, Poor little timid furry man. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

ROBIN REDBREAST

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree, Up went pussy-cat, and down went he;Down came pussy-cat, and away Robin ran;Said little Robin Redbreast, "Catch me if you can. "

Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a wall, Pussy-cat jumped after him, and almost got a fall;Little Robin chirped and sang, and what did pussy say?Pussy-cat said naught but "Mew, " and Robin flew away. 

SOLOMON GRUNDY

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, This is the end ofSolomon Grundy. 

"MERRY ARE THE BELLS"

Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring, Merry was myself, and merry could I sing;With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free, And a merry sing-song, happy let us be!

Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose:Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose:Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free;With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!

Merry have we met, and merry have we been;Merry let us part, and merry meet again;With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free, With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!

"WHEN GOOD KING ARTHUR RULED THIS LAND"

When good King Arthur ruled this land, He was a goodly king;He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag-pudding. 

A bag-pudding the queen did make, And stuffed it well with plums:And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs. 

The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside;And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried. 

THE BELLS OF LONDON

Gay go up, and gay go down, To ring the bells of London town. 

Bull's eyes and targets, Say the bells of Saint Marg'ret's. 

Brickbats and tiles, Say the bells of Saint Giles'. 

Half-pence and farthings, Say the bells of Saint Martin's. 

Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of Saint Clement's. 

Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of Saint Peter's. 

Two sticks and an apple, Say the bells of Whitechapel. 

Old Father Baldpate, Say the slow bells at Aldgate. 

Pokers and tongs, Say the bells of Saint John's. 

Kettles and pans, Say the bells of Saint Ann's. 

You owe me ten shillings, Say the bells of Saint Helen's. 

When will you pay me?Say the bells at Old Bailey. 

When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch. 

Pray, when will that be?Say the bells of Stepney. 

I am sure I don't know, Says the great bell at Bow. 

THE OWL, THE EEL AND THE WARMING-PAN

The owl and the eel and the warming-pan, They went to call on the soap-fat man. The soap-fat man he was not within:He'd gone for a ride on his rolling-pin. So they all came back by the way of the town, And turned the meeting-house upside down. 

Laura E. Richards [1850-

THE COW

Thank you, pretty cow, that madePleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day, and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. 

Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank;But the yellow cowslips eat, They will make it very sweet. 

Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine. 

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]

THE LAMB

Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice?Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild;He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee!Little Lamb, God bless thee. 

William Blake [1757-1827]

LITTLE RAINDROPS

Oh, where do you come from, You little drops of rain, Pitter patter, pitter patter, Down the window-pane?

They won't let me walk, And they won't let me play, And they won't let me goOut of doors at all to-day. 

They put away my playthingsBecause I broke them all, And then they locked up all my bricks, And took away my ball. 

Tell me, little raindrops, Is that the way you play, Pitter patter, pitter patter, All the rainy day?

They say I'm very naughty, But I've nothing else to doBut sit here at the window;I should like to play with you. 

The little raindrops cannot speak, But "pitter, patter pat"Means, "We can play on this side:Why can't you play on that?"

"MOON, SO ROUND AND YELLOW"

Moon, so round and yellow, Looking from on high, How I love to see youShining in the sky. Oft and oft I wonder, When I see you there, How they get to light you, Hanging in the air:

Where you go at morning, When the night is past, And the sun comes peepingO'er the hills at last. Sometime I will watch youSlyly overhead, When you think I'm sleepingSnugly in my bed. 

Matthias Barr [1831-?]

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

This is the house that Jack built. 

This is the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the dogThat worried the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the cow with the crumpled hornThat tossed the dogThat worried the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the maiden all forlornThat milked the cow with the crumpled hornThat tossed the dogThat worried the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the man all tattered and tornThat kissed the maidenThat milked the cow with the crumpled hornThat tossed the dogThat worried the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the priest all shaven and shornThat married the man all tattered and tornThat kissed the maiden all forlornThat milked the cow with the crumpled hornThat tossed the dogThat worried the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the cock that crowed in the mornThat waked the priest all shaven and shornThat married the man all tattered and tornThat kissed the maiden all forlornThat milked the cow with the crumpled hornThat tossed the dogThat worried the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the farmer sowing his cornThat kept the cock that crowed in the mornThat waked the priest all shaven and shornThat married the man all tattered and tornThat kissed the maiden all forlornThat milked the cow with the crumpled hornThat tossed the dogThat worried the catThat killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built. 

OLD MOTHER HUBBARD

Old Mother HubbardWent to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone:But when she got thereThe cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none. 

She went to the baker'sTo buy him some bread, But when she came backThe poor dog was dead. 

She went to the joiner'sTo buy him a coffin, But when she came backThe poor dog was laughing. 

She took a clean dishTo get him some tripe, But when she came backHe was smoking a pipe. 

She went to the fishmonger'sTo buy him some fish, But when she came backHe was licking the dish. 

She went to the tavernFor white wine and red, But when she came backThe dog stood on his head. 

She went to the hatter'sTo buy him a hat, But when she came backHe was feeding the cat. 

She went to the barber'sTo buy him a wig, But when she came backHe was dancing a jig. 

She went to the fruiterer'sTo buy him some fruit, But when she came backHe was playing the flute. 

She went to the tailor'sTo buy him a coat, But when she came backHe was riding a goat. 

She went to the cobbler'sTo buy him some shoes, But when she came backHe was reading the news. 

She went to the seamstressTo buy him some linen, But when she came backThe dog was spinning. 

She went to the hosier'sTo buy him some hose, But when she came backHe was dressed in his clothes. 

The dame made a curtesy, The dog made a bow, The dame said, "Your servant, "The dog said, "Bow-wow. "

This wonderful dogWas Dame Hubbard's delight;He could sing, he could dance, He could read, he could write. 

She gave him rich daintiesWhenever he fed, And built him a monumentWhen he was dead. 

THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF COCK ROBIN

Who killed Cock Robin?"I, " said the Sparrow, "With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin. "

Who saw him die?"I'" said the Fly, "With my little eye, I saw him die. "

Who caught his blood?"I, " said the Fish, "With my little dish, I caught his blood. "

Who'll make his shroud?"I, " said the Beetle, "With my thread and needle, I'll make his shroud. "

Who'll dig his grave?"I, " said the Owl, "With my spade and trowel, I'll dig his grave. "

Who'll be the parson?"I, " said the Rook, "With my little book. I'll be the parson. "

Who'll be the clerk?"I, " said the Lark, "I'll say Amen in the dark;I'll be the clerk. "

Who'll be chief mourner?"I, " said the Dove, "I mourn for my love;I'll be chief mourner. "

Who'll bear the torch?"I, " said the Linnet, "I'll come in a minute, I'll bear the torch. "

Who'll sing his dirge?"I, " said the thrush. "As I sing in the bushI'll sing his dirge. "

Who'll bear the pall?"We, " said the Wren, Both the Cock and the Hen;"We'll bear the pall. "

Who'll carry his coffin?"I, " said the Kite, "If it be in the night, I'll carry his coffin. "

Who'll toll the bell?"I, " said the Bull, "Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell. "

All the birds of the airFell to sighing and sobbingWhen they heard the bell tollFor poor Cock Robin. 

BABY-LAND

"Which is the way to Baby-land?""Any one can tell;Up one flight, To your right;Please to ring the bell. "

"What can you see in Baby-land?""Little folks in white--Downy heads, Cradle-beds, Faces pure and bright!"

"What do they do in Baby-land?""Dream and wake and play, Laugh and crow, Shout and grow;Jolly times have they!"

"What do they say in Baby-land?""Why, the oddest things;Might as wellTry to tellWhat a birdie sings!"

"Who is the Queen of Baby-land?""Mother, kind and sweet;And her love, Born above, Guides the little feet. "

George Cooper [1840-1927]

THE FIRST TOOTH

There once was a wood, and a very thick wood, So thick that to walk was as much as you could;But a sunbeam got in, and the trees understood. 

I went to this wood, at the end of the snows, And as I was walking I saw a primrose;Only one! Shall I show you the place where it grows?

There once was a house, and a very dark house, As dark, I believe, as the hole of a mouse, Or a tree in my wood, at the thick of the boughs. 

I went to this house, and I searched it aright, I opened the chambers, and I found a light;Only one! Shall I show you this little lamp bright?

There once was a cave, and this very dark caveOne day took a gift from an incoming wave;And I made up my mind to know what the sea gave. 

I took a lit torch, I walked round the nessWhen the water was lowest; and in a recessIn my cave was a jewel. Will nobody guess?

O there was a baby, he sat on my knee, With a pearl in his mouth that was precious to me, His little dark mouth like my cave of the sea!

I said to my heart, "And my jewel is bright!He blooms like a primrose! He shines like a light!"Put your hand in his mouth! Do you feel? He can bite!

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

BABY'S BREAKFAST

Baby wants his breakfast, Oh! what shall I do?Said the cow, "I'll give himNice fresh milk--moo-oo!"

Said the hen, "Cut-dah cut!I have laid an eggFor the Baby's breakfast--Take it now, I beg!"

And the buzzing bee said, "Here is honey sweet. Don't you think the BabyWould like that to eat?"

Then the baker kindlyBrought the Baby's bread. "Breakfast is all ready, "Baby's mother said;

"But before the BabyEats his dainty food, Will he not say 'Thank you!'To his friends so good?"

Then the bonny BabyLaughed and laughed away. That was all the "Thank you"He knew how to say. 

Emilie Poulsson [1853-

THE MOON

O, look at the moon!She is shining up there;O mother, she looksLike a lamp in the air. 

Last week she was smaller, And shaped like a bow;But now she's grown bigger, And round as an O. 

Pretty moon, pretty moon, How you shine on the door, And make it all brightOn my nursery floor!

You shine on my playthings, And show me their place, And I love to look upAt your pretty bright face. 

And there is a starClose by you, and maybeThat small twinkling starIs your little baby. 

Eliza Lee Fallen [1787-1859]

BABY AT PLAY

Brow bender, Eye peeper, Nose smeller, Mouth eater, Chin chopper, Knock at the door--peep in, Lift up the latch--walk in. 

Here sits the Lord Mayor, here sit his two men, Here sits the cock, and here sits the hen;Here sit the chickens, and here they go in, Chippety, chippety, chippety, chin. 

This little pig went to market;This little pig stayed at home;This little pig got roast beef;This little pig got none;This little pig cried wee, wee, all the way home. 

One, two, Buckle my shoe;Three, four, Shut the door;Five, six, Pick up sticks;Seven, eight, Lay them straight;Nine, ten, A good fat hen;Eleven, twelve, Who will delve?Thirteen, fourteen, Maids a-courting;Fifteen, sixteen, Maids a-kissing;Seventeen, eighteen, Maids a-waiting;Nineteen, twenty, My stomach's empty. 

THE DIFFERENCE

Eight fingers, Ten toes, Two eyes, And one nose. Baby saidWhen she smelt the rose, "Oh! what a pityI've only one nose!"

Ten teethIn even rows, Three dimples, And one nose. Baby saidWhen she smelt the snuff, "Deary me!One nose is enough. "

Laura E. Richards [1850-

FOOT SOLDIERS

'Tis all the way to Toe-town, Beyond the Knee-high hill, That Baby has to travel downTo see the soldiers drill. 

One, two, three, four, five, a-row--A captain and his men--And on the other side, you know, Are six, seven, eight, nine, ten. 

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

TOM THUMB'S ALPHABET

A was an Archer, who shot at a frog;B was a Butcher, who had a great dog;C was a Captain, all covered with lace;D was a Drunkard, and had a red face;E was an Esquire, with pride on his brow;F was a Farmer, and followed the plow;G was a Gamester, who had but ill luck;H was a Hunter, who hunted a buck;I was an Innkeeper, who loved to bouse;J was a Joiner, who built up a house;K was a King, so mighty and grand;L was a Lady, who had a white hand;M was a Miser, and hoarded his gold;N was a Nobleman, gallant and bold;O was an Oysterman, who went about town;P was a Parson, and wore a black gown;Q was a Quack, with a wonderful pill;R was a Robber, who wanted to kill;S was a Sailor, who spent all he got;T was a Tinker, and mended a pot;U was an Usurer, a miserable elf;V was a Vintner, who drank all himself;W was a Watchman, who guarded the door;X was Expensive, and so became poor;Y was a Youth, that did not love school;Z was a Zany, a poor harmless fool. 

GRAMMAR IN RHYME

Three little words, you often see, Are articles A, An, and The. A Noun is the name of anything, As School, or Garden, Hoop, or Swing. Adjectives tell the kind of Noun, As Great, Small, Pretty, White, or Brown. Instead of Nouns the Pronouns stand, Her head, His face, Your arm, My hand. Verbs tell something being done--To Read, Count, Laugh, Sing, Jump, or Run. How things are done the Adverbs tell, As Slowly, Quickly, Ill, or Well. Conjunctions join the words together--As men And women, wind Or weather. The Preposition stands beforeA noun, as In or Through a door, The Interjection shows surprise, As Oh! how pretty! Ah! how wise!The Whole are called nine parts of speech, Which reading, writing, speaking teach. 

DAYS OF THE MONTH

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November;All the rest have thirty-one;February twenty-eight alone, --Except in leap year, at which timeFebruary's days are twenty-nine. 

THE GARDEN YEAR

January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow. 

February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again. 

March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil. 

April brings the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet. 

May brings flocks of pretty lambsSkipping by their fleecy dams. 

June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies. 

Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots, and gillyflowers. 

August brings the sheaves of corn, Then the harvest home is borne. 

Warm September brings the fruit;Sportsmen then begin to shoot. 

Fresh October brings the pheasant;Then to gather nuts is pleasant. 

Dull November brings the blast;Then the leaves are whirling fast. 

Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire, and Christmas treat. 

Sara Coleridge [1802-1852]

RIDDLES

There was a girl in our town, Silk an' satin was her gown, Silk an' satin, gold an' velvet, Guess her name, three times I've telled it. (Ann. )

As soft as silk, as white as milk, As bitter as gall, a thick green wall, And a green coat covers me all. (A walnut. )

Make three fourths of a cross, And a circle complete;And let two semicirclesOn a perpendicular meet;Next add a triangleThat stands on two feet;Next two semicircles, And a circle complete. (TOBACCO. )

Flour of England, fruit of Spain, Met together in a shower of rain;Put in a bag tied round with a string, If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a ring. (A plum-pudding. )

In marble walls as white as milk, Lined with a skin as soft as silk, Within a fountain crystal clear, A golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold, Yet thieves break in and steal the gold. (An egg. )

Little Nanny Etticoat, In a white petticoat, And a red nose;The longer she stands, The shorter she grows. (A candle. )

Long legs, crooked thighs, Little head and no eyes. (A pair of tongs. )

Thirty white horses upon a red hill, Now they tramp, now they champ, now they stand still. (The teeth. )

Formed long ago, yet made to-day, Employed while others sleep;What few would like to give away, Nor any wish to keep. (A bed. )

Lives in winter, Dies in summer, And grows with its root upwards. (An icicle. )

Elizabeth, Lizzy, Betsy and Bess, All went together to seek a bird's nest;They found a nest with five eggs in it;They each took one and left four in it. 

Thomas a Tattamus took two T's, To tie two tups to two tall trees, To frighten the terrible Thomas a Tattamus!Tell me how many T's there are in all THAT!

Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye, And a long tail which she let fly;And every time she went over a gap, She left a bit of her tail in a trap. (A needle and thread. )

As I went through a garden gap, Who should I meet but Dick Red-Cap!A stick in his hand, a stone in his throat, If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat. (A cherry. )

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;All the king's horses and all the king's menCannot put Humpty Dumpty together again. (An egg. )

As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Every wife had seven sacks, Every sack had seven cats, Every cat had seven kits--Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were going to St. Ives?(One. )

Two legs sat upon three legs, With one leg in his lap;In comes four legsAnd runs away with one leg;Up jumps two legs, Catches up three legs, Throws it after four legs, And makes him drop one leg. (A man, a stool, a leg of mutton, and a dog. )

PROVERBS

If wishes were horses, Beggars would ride;If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side. 

A man of words, and not of deeds, Is like a garden full of weeds;For when the weeds begin to grow, Then doth the garden overflow. 

He that would thriveMust rise at five;He that hath thrivenMay lie till seven;And he that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive. 

A swarm of bees in MayIs worth a load of hay;A swarm of bees in JuneIs worth a silver spoon;A swarm of bees in JulyIs not worth a fly. 

They that wash on MondayHave all the week to dry;They that wash on TuesdayAre not so much awry;They that wash on WednesdayAre not so much to blame;They that wash on Thursday, Wash for shame;They that wash on Friday, Wash in need;And they that wash on Saturday, Oh, they are slovens, indeed. 

Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries, his trouble begins. 

For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, try and find it;If there be none, never mind it. 

Tommy's tears, and Mary's fears, Will make them old before their years. 

If "ifs" and "ands"Were pots and pans, There would be no need for tinkers!

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;For want of the shoe, the horse was lost;For want of the horse, the rider was lost;For want of the rider, the battle was lost;For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost;And all from the want of a horseshoe nail. 

KIND HEARTS

Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the blossoms, Kind deeds are the fruits;Love is the sweet sunshineThat warms into life, For only in darknessGrow hatred and strife. 

WEATHER WISDOM

A sunshiny showerWon't last half an hour. 

Rain before seven, Fair by eleven. 

The South wind brings wet weather, The North wind wet and cold together;The West wind always brings us rain, The East wind blows it back again. 

March winds and April showersBring forth May flowers. 

Evening red and morning graySet the traveller on his way, But evening gray and morning red, Bring the rain upon his head. 

Rainbow at nightIs the sailor's delight;Rainbow at morning, Sailors, take warning. 

OLD SUPERSTITIONS

See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck;See a pin and let it lay, Bad luck you will have all day. 

Cut your nails on Monday, cut them for news;Cut them on Tuesday, a pair of new shoes;Cut them on Wednesday, cut them for health;Cut them on Thursday, cut them for wealth;Cut them on Friday, cut them for woe;Cut them on Saturday, a journey you'll go;Cut them on Sunday, you'll cut them for evil, For all the next week you'll be ruled by the devil. 

Marry Monday, marry for wealth;Marry Tuesday, marry for health;Marry Wednesday, the best day of all;Marry Thursday, marry for crosses;Marry Friday, marry for losses;Marry Saturday, no luck at all. 

Sneeze on a Monday, you sneeze for danger;Sneeze on a Tuesday, you'll kiss a stranger;Sneeze on a Wednesday, you sneeze for a letter;Sneeze on a Thursday, for something better;Sneeze on a Friday, you sneeze for sorrow;Sneeze on a Saturday, your sweetheart to-morrow;Sneeze on a Sunday, your safety seek--The devil will have you the whole of the week. 

Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for its living, And a child that's born on the Sabbath dayIs fair and wise and good and gay. 

THE ROAD TO SLUMBERLAND

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NODDutch Lullaby

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe, --Sailed on a river of crystal lightInto a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?"The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we!"Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe;And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea--"Now cast your nets wherever you wish, --Never afeard are we!"So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam, --Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home:'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemedAs if it could not be;And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea;But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one's trundle-bed;So shut your eyes while Mother singsOf wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock in the misty seaWhere the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. 

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?'Tis a marvel of great renown!It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop seaIn the garden of Shut-Eye Town;The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet(As those who have tasted it say)That good little children have only to eatOf that fruit to be happy next day. 

When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard timeTo capture the fruit which I sing;The tree is so tall that no person could climbTo the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below--And this is the way you contrive to get atThose sugar-plums tempting you so:

You say but the word to that gingerbread dogAnd he barks with such terrible zestThat the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest. And the chocolate cat goes cavorting aroundFrom this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground--Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains, As much as your apron can hold!So come, little child, cuddle closer to meIn your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum TreeIn the garden of Shut-Eye Town. 

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

WHEN THE SLEEPY MAN COMES

When the Sleepy Man comes with the dust on his eyes, (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun;(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)The stars that he loves he lets out one by one. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town;(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)At the touch of his hand the tired eyelids fall down. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He comes with a murmur of dream in his wings;(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

Then the top is a burden, the bugle a bane;(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry, (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)To Sleepy Man's Castle, by Comforting Ferry. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-

AULD DADDY DARKNESS

Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, Black as a blackamoor, blin' as a mole:Stir the fire till it lowes, let the bairnie sit, Auld Daddy Darkness is no wantit yit. 

See him in the corners hidin' frae the licht, See him at the window gloomin' at the nicht;Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far awa'. 

Awa' to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, Awa' to lap the wee flooers on their mither's breast, Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca', For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'. 

He comes when we're weary to wean's frae oor waes, He comes when the bairnies are getting aff their claes;To cover them sae cosy, an' bring bonnie dreams, So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he seems. 

Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye'll see Daddy then;He's in below the bed claes, to cuddle ye he's fain;Noo nestle to his bosie, sleep and dream yer fill, Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre the hill. 

James Ferguson [18--?]

WILLIE WINKIE

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Upstairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?--for it's noo ten o'clock. "

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

Onything but sleep, ye rogue!--glowrin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what--wauknin' sleepin' folk!

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel!Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums:Hey, Willie Winkie!--See, there he comes!

William Miller [1810-1872]

THE SANDMAN

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down;And now the sandman's gentle treadComes stealing through the town. "White sand, white sand, " he softly cries, And as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyesHis gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. 

From sunny beaches far away--Yes, in another land--He gathers up at break of dayHis stone of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way;His little boat alone may floatWithin that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. 

He smiles to see the eyelids closeAbove the happy eyes;And every child right well he knows, --Oh, he is very wise!But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sandTo close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. 

So when you hear the sandman's songSound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him longA-waiting in the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. 

Margaret Thomson Janvier [1845-1913]

THE DUSTMAN

When the toys are growing weary, And the twilight gathers in;When the nursery still echoesWith the children's merry din;Then unseen, unheard, unnoticedComes an old man up the stair, Lightly to the children passes, Lays his hand upon their hair. 

Softly smiles the good old Dustman;In their eyes the dust he throws, Till their little heads are falling, And their weary eyes must close. Then the Dustman very gentlyTakes each little dimpled handLeads them through the sweet green shadows, Far away in slumberland. 

Frederic Edward Weatherly [1848-1929]

SEPHESTIA'S LULLABYFrom "Menaphon"

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy;When thy father first did seeSuch a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe;Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy, Last his sorrow, first his joy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl-drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another's place supplies;Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt;More he crowed, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide:He must go, he must kissChild and mother, baby bliss, For he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

"GOLDEN SLUMBERS KISS YOUR EYES"From "Patient Grissel"

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Thomas Dekker [1570?-1641?]

"SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP"

Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had;And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou art now made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine Eldest Brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;For whosoever thee offendsBy thy protector threatened are, And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

When God with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight;Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

A little infant once was He;And strength in weakness then was laidUpon His Virgin Mother's knee, That power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

In this thy frailty and thy needHe friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

The King of Kings when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease;By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby sleep. 

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed:Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle for a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

The wants that He did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee, And by His torments and His painThy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou hast, yet more, to perfect thisA promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

George Wither [1588-1667]

MOTHER'S SONG

My heart is like a fountain trueThat flows and flows with love to you. As chirps the lark unto the treeSo chirps my pretty babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 

There's not a rose where'er I seek, As comely as my baby's cheek. There's not a comb of honey-bee, So full of sweets as babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 

There's not a star that shines on high, Is brighter than my baby's eye. There's not a boat upon the sea, Can dance as baby does to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 

No silk was ever spun so fineAs is the hair of baby mine. My baby smells more sweet to meThan smells in spring the elder tree. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 

A little fish swims in the well, So in my heart does baby dwell. A little flower blows on the tree, My baby is the flower to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 

The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball, You are my sceptre, crown and all. For all her robes of royal silk, More fair your skin, as white as milk. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 

Ten thousand parks where deer do run, Ten thousand roses in the sun, Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea, My babe more precious is to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 

Unknown

A LULLABY

Upon my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meanwhile his love sustains my lifeAnd gives my body rest. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would, Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thy selfVouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Richard Rowlands [fl. 1565-1620]

A CRADLE HYMN

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed!Heavenly blessings without numberGently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide;All without thy care or payment:All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou'rt attendedThan the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descendedAnd became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle:Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stableAnd His softest bed was hay. 

Blessed babe! what glorious features--Spotless fair, divinely bright!Must He dwell with brutal creatures?How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a mangerCursed sinners could affordTo receive the heavenly stranger?Did they thus affront their Lord?

Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard;'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arms shall be thy guard. 

Yet to read the shameful storyHow the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of Glory, Makes me angry while I sing. 

See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky!Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His Virgin mother by. 

See the lovely babe a-dressing;Lovely infant, how He smiled!When He wept, the mother's blessingSoothed and hushed the holy child. 

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the horned oxen fed;Peace, my darling; here's no danger, Here's no ox anear thy bed. 

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came. 

May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days;Then go dwell forever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]

CRADLE SONG

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night;Sleep, sleep; in thy sleepLittle sorrows sit and weep. 

Sweet babe, in thy faceSoft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles. 

As thy softest limbs I feelSmiles as of the morning stealO'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breastWhere thy little heart doth rest. 

O the cunning wiles that creepIn thy little heart asleep!When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break. 

William Blake [1757-1827]

LULLABY

Baloo, loo, lammy, now baloo, my dear, Does wee lammy ken that its daddy's no here?Ye're rocking full sweetly on mammy's warm knee, But daddy's a-rocking upon the salt sea. 

Now hushaby, lammy, now hushaby, dear;Now hushaby, lammy, for mother is near. The wild wind is raving, and mammy's heart's sair;The wild wind is raving, and ye dinna care. 

Sing baloo, loo, lammy, sing baloo, my dear;Sing baloo, loo, lammy, for mother is here. My wee bairnie's dozing, it's dozing now fine, And O may its wakening be blither than mine!

Carolina Nairne [1763-1845]

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF

O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. 

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. 

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. 

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

GOOD-NIGHT

Little baby, lay your headOn your pretty cradle-bed;Shut your eye-peeps, now the dayAnd the light are gone away;All the clothes are tucked in tight;Little baby dear, good-night. 

Yes, my darling, well I knowHow the bitter wind doth blow;And the winter's snow and rainPatter on the window-pane:But they cannot come in here, To my little baby dear;

For the window shutteth fast, Till the stormy night is past;And the curtains warm are spreadRound about her cradle bed:So till morning shineth bright, Little baby dear, good-night. 

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

"LULLABY, O LULLABY"

Lullaby! O lullaby!Baby, hush that little cry!Light is dying, Bats are flying, Bees to-day with work have done;So, till comes the morrow's sun, Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry!Lullaby! O lullaby. 

Lullaby! O lullaby!Hushed are all things far and nigh;Flowers are closing, Birds reposing, All sweet things with life are done. Sweet, till dawns the morning sun, Sleep, then kiss those blue eyes dry. Lullaby! O lullaby!

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]

LULLABYFrom "The Princess"

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

The days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song;Then hush again upon my breast;All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth;The crickets long have ceased their mirth;There's nothing stirring in the houseSave one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse;Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light;'Tis but the moon that shines so brightOn the window-pane bedropped with rain:There, little darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day!

Dorothy Wordsworth [1804-1847]

TROT, TROT!

Every evening Baby goesTrot, trot, to town, Across the river, through the fields, Up hill and down. 

Trot, trot, the Baby goes, Up hill and down, To buy a feather for her hat, To buy a woolen gown. 

Trot, trot, the Baby goes;The birds fly down, alack!"You cannot have our feathers, dear, "They say, "so please trot back. "

Trot, trot, the Baby goes;The lambs come bleating near. "You cannot have our wool, " they say, "But we are sorry, dear. "

Trot, trot, the Baby goes, Trot, trot, to town;She buys a red rose for her hat, She buys a cotton gown. 

Mary F. Butts [1836-1902]

HOLY INNOCENTS

Sleep, little Baby, sleep;The holy Angels love thee, And guard thy bed, and keepA blessed watch above thee. No spirit can come nearNor evil beast to harm thee:Sleep, Sweet, devoid of fearWhere nothing need alarm thee. 

The Love which doth not sleep, The eternal Arms surround thee:The Shepherd of the sheepIn perfect love hath found thee. Sleep through the holy night, Christ-kept from snare and sorrow, Until thou wake to lightAnd love and warmth to-morrow. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

LULLABYFrom "The Mistress of the Manse"

Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover!Crooning so drowsily, crying so low, Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover!Down into wonderland, Down to the under-landGo, oh go!Down into wonderland go!

Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover!(Tears on the eyelids that waver and weep!)Rockaby, lullaby--bending it over!Down on the mother-world, Down on the other world, Sleep, oh sleep!Down on the mother-world sleep!

Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover!Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn!Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover!Into the stilly world, Into the lily world, Gone! oh gone!Into the lily world gone!

Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]

CRADLE SONGFrom "Bitter-Sweet"

What is the little one thinking about?Very wonderful things, no doubt!Unwritten history!Unfathomed mystery!Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinksAnd curious riddles as any sphinx!Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years;And he'll never knowWhere the summers go;--He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!

Who can tell what a baby thinks?Who can follow the gossamer linksBy which the mannikin feels his wayOut from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day?--Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony;--Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls, --Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide!What does he think of his mother's eyes?What does he think of his mother's hair?What of the cradle-roof, that fliesForward and backward through the air?What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight, --Cup of his life, and couch of his rest?What does he think when her quick embracePresses his hand and buries his faceDeep where the heart-throbs sink and swellWith a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the wordsOf all the birds, --Words she has learned to murmur well?Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!I can see the shadow creepOver his eyes, in soft eclipse, Over his brow, and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips!Softly sinking, down he goes!Down he goes! down he goes!See! he is hushed in sweet repose!

Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]

AN IRISH LULLABY

I've found my bonny babe a nestOn Slumber Tree, I'll rock you there to rosy rest, Asthore Machree!Oh, lulla lo! sing all the leavesOn Slumber Tree, Till everything that hurts or grievesAfar must flee. 

I've put my pretty child to floatAway from me, Within the new moon's silver boatOn Slumber Sea. And when your starry sail is o'erFrom Slumber Sea, My precious one, you'll step to shoreOn Mother's knee. 

Alfred Perceval Graves [1846-1931]

CRADLE SONG

I

Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoiceWhen at last a little boy'sCheek lies heavy as a rose, And his eyelids close?

Gabriel, when that hush may be, This sweet hand all heedfullyI'll undo, for thee alone, From his mother's own. 

Then the far blue highways pavenWith the burning stars of heaven, He shall gladden with the sweetHasting of his feet--

Feet so brightly bare and cool, Leaping, as from pool to pool;From a little laughing boySplashing rainbow joy!

Gabriel, wilt thou understandHow to keep his hovering hand--Never shut, as in a bond, From the bright beyond?--

Nay, but though it cling and closeTightly as a climbing rose, Clasp it only so--aright, Lest his heart take fright. 

(Dormi, dormi tu:The dusk is hung with blue. )

II

Lord Michael, wilt not thou rejoiceWhen at last a little boy'sHeart, a shut-in murmuring bee, Turns him unto thee?

Wilt thou heed thine armor well--To take his hand from Gabriel, So his radiant cup of dreamMay not spill a gleam?

He will take thy heart in thrall, Telling o'er thy breastplate, allColors, in his bubbling speech, With his hand to each. 

(Dormi, dormi tu. Sapphire is the blue:Pearl and beryl, they are called, Chrysoprase and emerald, Sard and amethyst. Numbered so, and kissed. )

Ah, but find some angel wordFor thy sharp, subduing sword!Yea, Lord Michael, make no doubtHe will find it out:

(Dormi, dormi tu!His eyes will look at you. )

III

Last, a little morning space, Lead him to that leafy placeWhere Our Lady sits awake, For all mothers' sake. 

Bosomed with the Blessed One, He shall mind her of her Son, Once so folded from all harms, In her shrining arms. 

(In her veil of blue, Dormi, dormi tu. )

So;--and fare thee well. Softly, --Gabriel. . . When the first faint red shall come, Bid the Day-star lead him home, For the bright world's sake--To my heart, awake. 

Josephine Preston Peabody [1874-1922]

MOTHER-SONG FROM "PRINCE LUCIFER"

White little hands!Pink little feet!Dimpled all over, Sweet, sweet, sweet!What dost thou wail for?The unknown? the unseen?The ills that are coming, The joys that have been?

Cling to me closer, Closer and closer, Till the pain that is purerHath banished the grosser. Drain, drain at the stream, love, Thy hunger is freeing, That was born in a dream, love, Along with thy being!

Little fingers that feelFor their home on my breast, Little lips that appealFor their nurture, their rest!Why, why dost thou weep, dear?Nay, stifle thy cries, Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, Lies soft on thine eyes. 

Alfred Austin [1835-1913]

KENTUCKY BABE

'Skeeters am a hummin' on de honeysuckle vine, --Sleep, Kentucky Babe!Sandman am a comin' to dis little coon of mine, --Sleep, Kentucky Babe!Silv'ry moon am shinin' in de heabens up above, Bobolink am pinin' fo' his little lady love:Yo' is mighty lucky, Babe of old Kentucky, --Close yo' eyes in sleep. 

Fly away, Fly away, Kentucky Babe, fly away to rest, Fly away, Lay yo' kinky, woolly head on yo' mammy's breast, --Um--Um--, Close yo' eyes in sleep. 

Daddy's in de cane-brake wid his little dog and gun, --Sleep, Kentucky Babe!'Possum fo' yo' breakfast when yo' sleepin' time is done, --Sleep, Kentucky Babe!Bogie man'll catch yo' sure unless yo' close yo' eyes, Waitin' jes outside de doo' to take yo' by surprise:Bes' be keepin' shady, Little colored lady, --Close yo' eyes in sleep. 

Richard Henry Buck [1869-

MINNIE AND WINNIE

Minnie and Winnie slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell within, silver without;Sounds of the great sea wandered about. 

Sleep, little ladies! Wake not soon!Echo on echo dies to the moon. 

Two bright stars peeped into the shell. "What are they dreaming of? Who can tell?"

Started a green linnet out of the croft;Wake, little ladies! The sun is aloft. 

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

BED-TIME SONG

Sleep, my baby, while I singBed-time news of everything. Chickens run to mother hen;Piggy curls up in the pen. In the field, all tired with play, Quiet now the lambkins stay. Kittens cuddle in a heap--Baby, too, must go to sleep!

Sleep, my baby, while I singBed-time news of everything. Now the cows from pasture come;Bees fly home with drowsy hum. Little birds are in the nest, Under mother-bird's soft breast. Over all soft shadows creep--Baby now must go to sleep. 

Sleep, my baby, while I singBed-time news of everything. Sleepy flowers seem to nod, Drooping toward the dewy sod;While the big sun's fading lightBids my baby dear good-night. Mother loving watch will keep;Baby now must go to sleep. 

Emilie Poulsson [1853-

TUCKING THE BABY IN

The dark-fringed eyelids slowly closeOn eyes serene and deep;Upon my breast my own sweet childHas gently dropped to sleep;I kiss his soft and dimpled cheek, I kiss his rounded chin, Then lay him on his little bed, And tuck my baby in. 

How fair and innocent he lies;Like some small angel strayed, His face still warmed by God's own smile, That slumbers unafraid;Or like some new embodied soul, Still pure from taint of sin--My thoughts are reverent as I stoopTo tuck my baby in. 

What toil must stain these tiny handsThat now lie still and white?What shadows creep across the faceThat shines with morning light?These wee pink shoeless feet--how farShall go their lengthening tread, When they no longer cuddled closeMay rest upon this bed?

O what am I that I should trainAn angel for the skies;Or mix the potent draught that feedsThe soul within these eyes?I reach him up to the sinless HandsBefore his cares begin, --Great Father, with Thy folds of love, O tuck my baby in. 

Curtis May [18 --

"JENNY WI' THE AIRN TEETH"

What a plague is this o' mine, Winna steek an e'e;Though I hap him o'er the heid, As cosy as can be. Sleep an' let me to my wark--A' thae claes to airn--Jenny wi' the airn teeth, Come an' tak' the bairn!

Tak' him to your ain den, Whaur the bogie bides, But first put baith your big teethIn his wee plump sides;Gie your auld gray pow a shake, Rive him frae my grup, Tak' him whaur nae kiss is gaunWhen he waukens up. 

Whatna noise is that I hearCoomin' doon the street?Weel I ken the dump, dump, O' her beetle feet;Mercy me! she's at the door!Hear her lift the sneck;Wheesht, an' cuddle mammy noo, Closer roun' the neck. 

Jenny wi' the airn teeth, The bairn has aff his claes;Sleepin' safe an' soun', I think--Dinna touch his taes. 

Sleepin' bairns are no for you, Ye may turn aboot, An' tak' awa' wee Tam next door--I hear him screichin' oot. 

Dump, dump, awa' she gangsBack the road she cam', I hear her at the ither door, Speirin' after Tam;He's a crabbit, greetin' thing--The warst in a' the toon, Little like my ain wee wean--Losh, he's sleepin' soun'!

Mithers hae an awfu' warkWi' their bairns at nicht, Chappin' on the chair wi' tangs, To gie the rogues a fricht;Aulder bairns are fleyed wi' less, Weel eneuch we ken, Bigger bogies, bigger Jennies, Frichten muckle men. 

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]

CUDDLE DOON

The bairnies cuddle doon at nichtWi' muckie faucht an' din, "O, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your father's comin' in. "They never heed a word I speak;I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon. "

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid--He aye sleeps next the wa'--Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece;"The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun';Then draw the blankets up an' cry, "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon. "

But ere five minutes gang, wee RabCries oot, frae 'neath the claes, "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at once--He's kittlin' wi' his taes. "The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon;But aye I hap them up an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon. "

At length they hear their father's fit, An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aff his shoon;"The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon. "

An' just afore we bed oorsel's, We look at oor wee lambs;Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, "O bairnies, cuddle doon. "

The bairnies cuddle doon at nichtWi' mirth that's dear to me;But sune the big warl's cark an' careWill quaten doon their glee. Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboonAye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "O bairnies, cuddle doon. "

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]

BEDTIME

'Tis bedtime; say your hymn, and bid "Good-night;God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all. "Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, Another minute, you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall!What will you give me, sleepy one, and callMy wages, if I settle you all right?

I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand, Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warmShe nestled to me, and, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages--"Baby's Kiss. "

Francis Robert St. Clair Erskine [1833-1890]

THE DUTY OF CHILDREN

HAPPY THOUGHT

The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN

A child should always say what's trueAnd speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table;At least as far as he is able. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

POLITENESS

Good little boys should never say"I will, " and "Give me these";O, no! that never is the way, But "Mother, if you please. "

And "If you please, " to Sister AnnGood boys to say are ready;And, "Yes, sir, " to a Gentleman, And, "Yes, ma'am, " to a Lady. 

Elizabeth Turner [?--1846]

RULES OF BEHAVIOR

Hearts, like doors, will ope with easeTo very, very little keys, And don't forget that two of theseAre "I thank you" and "If you please. "

Come when you're called, Do what you're bid, Close the door after you, Never be chid. 

Seldom "can't, "Seldom "don't;"Never "shan't, "Never "won't. "

LITTLE FRED

When little FredWas called to bed, He always acted right;He kissed Mama, And then Papa, And wished them all good-night. 

He made no noise, Like naughty boys, But gently up the stairsDirectly went, When he was sent, And always said his prayers. 

THE LOVABLE CHILD

Frisky as a lambkin, Busy as a bee--That's the kind of little girlPeople like to see. 

Modest as a violet, As a rosebud sweet--That's the kind of little girlPeople like to meet. 

Bright as is a diamond, Pure as any pearl--Everyone rejoices inSuch a little girl. 

Happy as a robin, Gentle as a dove--That's the kind of little girlEveryone will love. 

Fly away and seek her, Little song of mine, For I choose that very girlAs my Valentine. 

Emilie Poulsson [1853-

GOOD AND BAD CHILDREN

Children, you are very little, And your bones are very brittle;If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately. 

You must still be bright and quiet, And content with simple diet;And remain, through all bewild'ring, Innocent and honest children. 

Happy hearts and happy faces, Happy play in grassy places--That was how, in ancient ages, Children grew to kings and sages. 

But the unkind and the unruly, And the sort who eat unduly, They must never hope for glory--Theirs is quite a different story!

Cruel children, crying babies, All grow up as geese and gabies, Hated, as their age increases, By their nephews and their nieces. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

REBECCA'S AFTER-THOUGHT

Yesterday, Rebecca Mason, In the parlor by herself, Broke a handsome china basin, Placed upon the mantel-shelf. 

Quite alarmed, she thought of goingVery quietly away, Not a single person knowing, Of her being there that day. 

But Rebecca recollectedShe was taught deceit to shun;And the moment she reflected, Told her mother what was done;

Who commended her behavior, Loved her better, and forgave her. 

Elizabeth Turner [?--1846]

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

Little children, never givePain to things that feel and live;Let the gentle robin comeFor the crumbs you save at home, --As his meat you throw alongHe'll repay you with a song;Never hurt the timid harePeeping from her green grass lair, Let her come and sport and playOn the lawn at close of day;The little lark goes soaring highTo the bright windows of the sky, Singing as if 'twere always spring, And fluttering on an untired wing, --Oh! let him sing his happy song, Nor do these gentle creatures wrong. 

A RULE FOR BIRDS' NESTERS

The robin and the red-breast, The sparrow and the wren;If ye take out o' their nest, Ye'll never thrive again!

The robin and the red-breast, The martin and the swallow;If ye touch one o' their eggs, Bad luck will surely follow!

"SING ON, BLITHE BIRD"

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree, But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me. I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peerWith their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near;I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was goodTo leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood. 

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing;He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing. He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray, I would not harm him for the world, or interrupt his lay. Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness;It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

William Motherwell [1797-1835]

"I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY"

I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm;And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm. So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But Pussy and I very gently will play. 

She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food;And she'll love me because I am gentle and good. I'll pat little Pussy and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her. 

I'll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw;I never will vex her, nor make her displeased, For Pussy can't bear to be worried or teased. 

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

LITTLE THINGS

Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty oceanAnd the pleasant land. 

So the little moments, Humble though they be, Make the mighty agesOf eternity. 

So our little errorsLead the soul awayFrom the path of virtue, Far in sin to stray. 

Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Help to make earth happyLike the heaven above. 

Julia Fletcher Carney [1823-1908]

THE LITTLE GENTLEMANFrom "Little Derwent's Breakfast"

Take your meals, my little man, Always like a gentleman;Wash your face and hands with care, Change your shoes, and brush your hair;Then so fresh, and clean, and neat, Come and take your proper seat:Do not loiter and be late, Making other people wait;Do not rudely point or touch:Do not eat and drink too much:Finish what you have, beforeYou even ask, or send for more:Never crumble or destroyFood that others might enjoy;They who idly crumbs will wasteOften want a loaf to taste!Never spill your milk or tea, Never rude or noisy be;Never choose the daintiest food, Be content with what is good:Seek in all things that you canTo be a little gentleman. 

THE CRUST OF BREAD

I must not throw upon the floorThe crust I cannot eat;For many little hungry onesWould think it quite a treat. 

My parents labor very hardTo get me wholesome food;Then I must never waste a bitThat would do others good. 

For wilful waste makes woeful want, And I may live to say, Oh! how I wish I had the breadThat once I threw away!

"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE"

How doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour, And gather honey all the dayFrom every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell!How neat she spreads the wax!And labors hard to store it wellWith the sweet food she makes. 

In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy too;For Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do. 

In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be passed, That I may give for every daySome good account at last. 

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]

THE BROWN THRUSH

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!"And what does he say, little girl, little boy?"Oh, the world's running over with joy!Don't you hear? Don't you see?Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy!Now I'm glad! Now I'm free!And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me. "

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me;And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy!But long it won't be, Don't you know? Don't you see?Unless we're as good as can be. "

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

THE SLUGGARD

'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again";As the door on its hinges, so he on his bedTurns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. 

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber";Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number;And when he gets up, he sits folding his handsOr walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands. 

I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brierThe thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. 

I made him a visit, still hoping to findThat he took better care for improving his mind;He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking. But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. 

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me;That man's but a picture of what I might be;But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading. "

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]

THE VIOLET

Down in a green and shady bedA modest violet grew;Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view. 

And yet it was a lovely flower, Its colors bright and fair;It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there. 

Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed;And there diffused a sweet perfume, Within the silent shade. 

Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see;That I may also learn to growIn sweet humility. 

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

DIRTY JIM

There was one little Jim, 'Tis reported of him, And must be to his lasting disgrace, That he never was seenWith hands at all clean, Nor yet ever clean was his face. 

His friends were much hurtTo see so much dirt, And often they made him quite clean;But all was in vain, He got dirty again, And not at all fit to be seen. 

It gave him no painTo hear them complain, Nor his own dirty clothes to survey;His indolent mindNo pleasure could findIn tidy and wholesome array. 

The idle and bad, Like this little lad, May love dirty ways, to be sure;But good boys are seen, To be decent and clean, Although they are ever so poor. 

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

THE PIN

"Dear me! what signifies a pin, Wedged in a rotten board?I'm certain that I won't begin, At ten years old, to hoard;I never will be called a miser, That I'm determined, " said Eliza. 

So onward tripped the little maid, And left the pin behind, Which very snug and quiet lay, To its hard fate resigned;Nor did she think (a careless chit)'Twas worth her while to stoop for it. 

Next day a party was to ride, To see an air balloon;And all the company besideWere dressed and ready soon;But she a woeful case was in, For want of just a single pin. 

In vain her eager eyes she brings, To every darksome crack;There was not one, and yet her thingsWere dropping off her back. She cut her pincushion in two, But no, not one had fallen through. 

At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away;But poor Eliza was not in, For want of just--a single pin!

There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforeseen;And wilful waste, depend upon't, Brings, almost always, woeful want!

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]

JANE AND ELIZA

There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain, One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane;They were both of one height, as I've heard people say, And both of one age, I believe, to a day. 

'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them, There was not a pin to be chosen between them;But no one for long in this notion persisted, So great a distinction there really existed. 

Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing, While fretting and fuming, while sulking or teasing;And therefore in company artfully tried, Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide. 

So, when she was out, with much labor and pain, She contrived to look almost as pleasant as Jane;But then you might see that, in forcing a smile, Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while. 

And in spite of her care it would sometimes befallThat some cross event happened to ruin it all;And because it might chance that her share was the worst, Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed. 

But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, But her face always showed what her bosom was feeling. 

At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, A cheerful good nature that needed no guile. And Eliza worked hard, but could never obtainThe affection that freely was given to Jane. 

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]

MEDDLESOME MATTY

One ugly trick has often spoiledThe sweetest and the best;Matilda, though a pleasant child, One ugly trick possessed, Which, like a cloud before the skies, Hid all her better qualities. 

Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid, To peep at what was in it;Or tilt the kettle, if you didBut turn your back a minute. In vain you told her not to touch, Her trick of meddling grew so much. 

Her grandmamma went out one day, And by mistake she laidHer spectacles and snuff-box gayToo near the little maid;"Ah! well, " thought she, "I'll try them on, As soon as grandmamma is gone. "

Forthwith she placed upon her noseThe glasses large and wide;And looking round, as I suppose, The snuff-box too she spied:"Oh! what a pretty box is that;I'll open it, " said little Matt. 

"I know that grandmamma would say, 'Don't meddle with it, dear';But then, she's far enough away, And no one else is near:Besides, what can there be amissIn opening such a box as this?"

So thumb and finger went to workTo move the stubborn lid, And presently a mighty jerkThe mighty mischief did;For all at once, ah! woeful case, The snuff came puffing in her face. 

Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, beside, A dismal sight presented;In vain, as bitterly she cried, Her folly she repented. In vain she ran about for ease;She could do nothing now but sneeze. 

She dashed the spectacles away, To wipe her tingling eyes, And as in twenty bits they lay, Her grandmamma she spies. "Heydey! and what's the matter now?"Cried grandmamma, with lifted brow. 

Matilda, smarting with the pain, And tingling still, and sore, Made many a promise to refrainFrom meddling evermore. And 'tis a fact, as I have heard, She ever since has kept her word. 

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]

CONTENTED JOHN

One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, Although he was poor, did not want to be richer;For all such vain wishes in him were preventedBy a fortunate habit of being contented. 

Though cold were the weather, or dear were the food, John never was found in a murmuring mood;For this he was constantly heard to declare, --What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear. 

"For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said;"If I cannot get meat, I'll be thankful for bread;And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper, It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper. "

If John was afflicted with sickness or pain, He wished himself better, but did not complain, Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow, But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow. 

If any one wronged him or treated him ill, Why, John was good-natured and sociable still;For he said that revenging the injury doneWould be making two rogues when there need be but one. 

And thus honest John, though his station was humble, Passed through this sad world without even a grumble;And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher. 

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

FRIENDS

How good to lie a little whileAnd look up through the tree!The Sky is like a kind big smileBent sweetly over me. 

The Sunshine flickers through the laceOf leaves above my head, And kisses me upon the faceLike Mother, before bed. 

The Wind comes stealing o'er the grassTo whisper pretty things;And though I cannot see him pass, I feel his careful wings. 

So many gentle Friends are nearWhom one can scarcely see, A child should never feel a fear, Wherever he may be. 

Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]

ANGER

Anger in its time and placeMay assume a kind of grace. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. If to further lengths it go, It does into malice grow. 'Tis the difference that we see'Twixt the serpent and the bee. If the latter you provoke, It inflicts a hasty stroke, Puts you to some little pain, But it never stings again. Close in tufted bush or brakeLurks the poison-swelled snakeNursing up his cherished wrath;In the purlieus of his path, In the cold, or in the warm, Mean him good, or mean him harm, Wheresoever fate may bring you, The vile snake will always sting you. 

Charles and Mary Lamb

"THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL"

There was a little girl, who had a little curlRight in the middle of her forehead, And when she was good she was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid. 

She stood on her head, on her little trundle-bed, With nobody by for to hinder;She screamed and she squalled, she yelled and she bawled, And drummed her little heels against the winder. 

Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boysPlaying in the empty attic, She rushed upstairs, and caught her unawares, And spanked her, most emphatic. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

THE REFORMATION OF GODFREY GORE

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore--No doubt you have heard the name before--Was a boy who never would shut a door!

The wind might whistle, the wind might roar, And teeth be aching and throats be sore, But still he never would shut the door. 

His father would beg, his mother implore, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, We really do wish you would shut the door!"

Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore;But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus GoreWas deaf as the buoy out at the Nore. 

When he walked forth the folks would roar, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, Why don't you think to shut the door?"

They rigged out a Shutter with sail and oar, And threatened to pack off Gustavus GoreOn a voyage of penance to Singapore. 

But he begged for mercy, and said, "No more!Pray do not send me to SingaporeOn a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!"

"You will?" said his parents; "then keep on shore!But mind you do! For the plague is soreOf a fellow that never will shut the door, Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!"

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

THE BEST FIRM

A pretty good firm is "Watch & Waite, "And another is "Attit, Early & Layte;"And still another is "Doo & Dairet;"But the best is probably "Grinn & Barrett. "

Walter G. Doty [1876-

A LITTLE PAGE'S SONG(13th Century)

God's lark at morning I would be!I'd set my heart within a treeClose to His bed and sing to HimRight merrilyA sunrise hymn. 

At night I'd be God's troubadour!Beneath His starry walls I'd pourAcross the moat such roundelaysHe'd love me sure--And maybe praise!

William Alexander Percy [1885-

HOW THE LITTLE KITE LEARNED TO FLY

"I never can do it, " the little kite said, As he looked at the others high over his head;"I know I should fall if I tried to fly. ""Try, " said the big kite; "only try!Or I fear you never will learn at all. "But the little kite said, "I'm afraid I'll fall. "

The big kite nodded: "Ah well, goodby;I'm off;" and he rose toward the tranquil sky. Then the little kite's paper stirred at the sight, And trembling he shook himself free for flight. First whirling and frightened, then braver grown, Up, up he rose through the air alone, Till the big kite looking down could seeThe little one rising steadily. 

Then how the little kite thrilled with pride, As he sailed with the big kite side by side!While far below he could see the ground, And the boys like small spots moving round. They rested high in the quiet air, And only the birds and the clouds were there. "Oh, how happy I am!" the little kite cried, "And all because I was brave, and tried. "

Unknown

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE

Methought I heard a butterflySay to a laboring bee;"Thou hast no colors of the skyOn painted wings like me. "

"Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colors bright and rare, "With mild reproof, the bee replies, "Are all beneath my care. "

"Content I toil from morn till eve, And, scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leaveThe vanity of dress. "

William Lisle Bowles [1762-1850]

THE BUTTERFLY

The butterfly, an idle thing, Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, As do the bee and bird;Nor does it, like the prudent ant, Lay up the grain for times of want, A wise and cautious hoard. 

My youth is but a summer's day:Then like the bee and ant I'll layA store of learning by;And though from flower to flower I rove, My stock of wisdom I'll improve, Nor be a butterfly. 

Adelaide O'Keefe [1776-1855]

MORNING

The lark is up to meet the sun, The bee is on the wing, The ant her labor has begun, The woods with music ring. 

Shall birds and bees and ants be wise, While I my moments waste?Oh, let me with the morning rise, And to my duties haste. 

Why should I sleep till beams of mornTheir light and glory shed?Immortal beings were not bornTo waste their time in bed. 

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES

Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers;Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours, While the trees are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisiesSpring up here and there. 

Ere the snow-drop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primroseOpes its paly gold, --Somewhere on the sunny bankButtercups are bright;Somewhere midst the frozen grassPeeps the daisy white. 

Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy healthBy their mother's door. Purple with the north-wind, Yet alert and bold;Fearing not, and caring not, Though they be a-cold!

What to them is winter!What are stormy showers!Buttercups and daisiesAre these human flowers!He who gave them hardshipsAnd a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strengthAnd patient hearts to bear. 

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE ANT AND THE CRICKET

A silly young cricket, accustomed to singThrough the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at homeHis cupboard was empty and winter was come. Not a crumb to be foundOn the snow-covered ground;Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree:"Oh, what will become, " says the cricket, "of me?"

At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant, To see if, to keep him alive, he would grantHim shelter from rain:A mouthful of grainHe wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow:If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow. 

Says the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend;But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing byWhen the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I. My heart was so lightThat I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay. ""You sang, sir, you say?Go then, " said the ant, "and dance winter away. "Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicketAnd out of the door turned the poor little cricket. Though this is a fable, the moral is good:If you live without work, you must live without food. 

Unknown

AFTER WINGS

This was your butterfly, you see, --His fine wings made him vain:The caterpillars crawl, but hePassed them in rich disdain. --My pretty boy says, "Let him beOnly a worm again!"

O child, when things have learned to wearWings once, they must be fainTo keep them always high and fair:Think of the creeping painWhich even a butterfly must bearTo be a worm again!

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]

DEEDS OF KINDNESS

Suppose the little CowslipShould hang its golden cupAnd say, "I'm such a little flowerI'd better not grow up!"How many a weary travellerWould miss its fragrant smell, How many a little child would grieveTo lose it from the dell!

Suppose the glistening DewdropUpon the grass should say, "What can a little dewdrop do?I'd better roll away!"The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun. 

Suppose the little Breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to coolThe traveller on his way:Who would not miss the smallestAnd softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistakeIf they were acting so?

How many deed of kindnessA little child can do, Although it has but little strengthAnd little wisdom too!It wants a loving spiritMuch more than strength, to proveHow many things a child may doFor others by its love. 

Epes Sargent [1813-1880]

THE LION AND THE MOUSE

A lion with the heat oppressed, One day composed himself to rest:But while he dozed as he intended, A mouse, his royal back ascended;Nor thought of harm, as Aesop tells, Mistaking him for someone else;And travelled over him, and round him, And might have left him as she found himHad she not--tremble when you hear--Tried to explore the monarch's ear!Who straightway woke, with wrath immense, And shook his head to cast her thence. "You rascal, what are you about?"Said he, when he had turned her out, "I'll teach you soon, " the lion said, "To make a mouse-hole in my head!"So saying, he prepared his footTo crush the trembling tiny brute;But she (the mouse) with tearful eye, Implored the lion's clemency, Who thought it best at last to giveHis little prisoner a reprieve. 

'Twas nearly twelve months after this, The lion chanced his way to miss;When pressing forward, heedless yet, He got entangled in a net. With dreadful rage, he stamped and tore, And straight commenced a lordly roar;When the poor mouse, who heard the noise, Attended, for she knew his voice. Then what the lion's utmost strengthCould not effect, she did at length;With patient labor she appliedHer teeth, the network to divide;And so at last forth issued he, A lion, by a mouse set free. 

Few are so small or weak, I guess, But may assist us in distress, Nor shall we ever, if we're wise, The meanest, or the least despise. 

Jeffreys Taylor [1792-1853]

THE BOY AND THE WOLF

A little Boy was set to keepA little flock of goats or sheep;He thought the task too solitary, And took a strange perverse vagary:To call the people out of fun, To see them leave their work and run, He cried and screamed with all his might, --"Wolf! wolf!" in a pretended fright. Some people, working at a distance, Came running in to his assistance. They searched the fields and bushes round, The Wolf was nowhere to be found. The Boy, delighted with his game, A few days after did the same, And once again the people came. The trick was many times repeated, At last they found that they were cheated. One day the Wolf appeared in sight, The Boy was in a real fright, He cried, "Wolf! wolf!"--the neighbors heard, But not a single creature stirred. "We need not go from our employ, --'Tis nothing but that idle boy. "The little Boy cried out again, "Help, help! the Wolf!" he cried in vain. At last his master came to beat him. He came too late, the Wolf had eat him. 

This shows the bad effect of lying, And likewise of continual crying. If I had heard you scream and roar, For nothing, twenty times before, Although you might have broke your arm, Or met with any serious harm, Your cries could give me no alarm;They would not make me move the faster, Nor apprehend the least disaster;I should be sorry when I came, But you yourself would be to blame. 

John Hookham Frere [1769-1846]

THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS, WHO WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP

Augustus was a chubby lad;Fat, ruddy cheeks Augustus had;And everybody saw with joyThe plump and hearty, healthy boy. He ate and drank as he was told, And never let his soup get cold. 

But one day, one cold winter's day, He screamed out--"Take the soup away!O take the nasty soup away!I won't have any soup to-day. "

Next day begins his tale of woes;Quite lank and lean Augustus grows. Yet, though he feels so weak and ill, The naughty fellow cries out still--"Not any soup for me, I say:O take the nasty soup away!I won't have any soup to-day. "

The third day comes; O what a sin!To make himself so pale and thin. Yet, when the soup is put on table, He screams, as loud as he is able, --"Not any soup for me, I say:O take the nasty soup away!I won't have any soup to-day. "

Look at him, now the fourth day's come!He scarcely weighs a sugar-plum;He's like a little bit of thread, And on the fifth day, he was--dead!

From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]

THE STORY OF LITTLE SUCK-A-THUMB

One day, mamma said: "Conrad dear, I must go out and leave you here. But mind now, Conrad, what I say, Don't suck your thumb while I'm away. The great tall tailor always comesTo little boys that suck their thumbs;And ere they dream what he's about, He takes his great sharp scissors outAnd cuts their thumbs clean off, --and then, You know, they never grow again. "

Mamma had scarcely turned her back, The thumb was in, alack! alack!The door flew open, in he ran, The great, long, red-legged scissors-man. Oh, children, see! the tailor's comeAnd caught our little Suck-a-Thumb. Snip! snap! snip! the scissors go;And Conrad cries out--"Oh! oh! oh!"

Snip! snap! Snip! They go so fast, That both his thumbs are off at last. Mamma comes home; there Conrad stands, And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;--"Ah!" said mamma, "I knew he'd comeTo naughty little Suck-a-Thumb. "

From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]

WRITTEN IN A LITTLE LADY'S LITTLE ALBUM

Hearts good and trueHave wishes fewIn narrow circles bounded, And hope that livesOn what God givesIs Christian hope well founded. 

Small things are best;Grief and unrestTo rank and wealth are given;But little thingsOn little wingsBear little souls to heaven. 

Frederick William Faber [1814-1863]

MY LADY WIND

My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind, Went round about the house to findA chink to set her foot in;She tried the keyhole in the door, She tried the crevice in the floor, And drove the chimney soot in. 

And then one night when it was darkShe blew up such a tiny sparkThat all the town was bothered;From it she raised such flame and smokeThat many in great terror woke, And many more were smothered. 

And thus when once, my little dears, A whisper reaches itching ears--The same will come, you'll find:Take my advice, restrain the tongue, Remember what old nurse has sungOf busy Lady Wind. 

Unknown

TO A CHILD

Small service is true service while it lasts:Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one:The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

A FAREWELL

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray:Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave youFor every day. 

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carolThan lark who hails the dawn on breezy down;To earn yourself a purer poet's laurelThan Shakespeare's crown. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:And so make Life, and Death, and that For EverOne grand sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD

REEDS OF INNOCENCE

Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a lamb!"So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;"So I piped: he wept to hear. 

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. 

"Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read. "So he vanished from my sight;And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear. 

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE WONDERFUL WORLD

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast, World, you are beautifully dressed. 

The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree--It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills. 

You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all;And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot:You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

THE WORLD'S MUSIC

The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything. 

I waken when the morning's come, And feel the air and light aliveWith strange sweet music like the humOf bees about their busy hive. 

The linnets play among the leavesAt hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing;While, flashing to and from the eaves, The swallows twitter on the wing. 

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway;And tall old trees you could not climb;And winds that come, but cannot stay, Are gaily singing all the time. 

From dawn to dark the old mill-wheelMakes music, going round and round;And dusty-white with flour and meal, The miller whistles to its sound. 

And if you listen to the rainWhen leaves and birds and bees are dumb, You hear it pattering on the paneLike Andrew beating on his drum. 

The coals beneath the kettle croon, And clap their hands and dance in glee;And even the kettle hums a tuneTo tell you when it's time for tea. 

The world is such a happy place, That children, whether big or small, Should always have a smiling face, And never, never sulk at all. 

Gabriel Setoun [1861-

A BOY'S SONG

Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me. 

Why the boys should drive awayLittle sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell. 

But this I know, I love to playThrough the meadow, among the hay;Up the water and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. 

James Hogg [1770-1835]

GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLEA Boy's Song

With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hillDart, with heedful mind;The air goes by in a wind. 

Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty liftMakes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:--"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. 

"Is this, is this your joy?O bird, then I, though a boy, For a golden moment shareYour feathery life in air!"

Say, heart, is there aught like thisIn a world that is full of bliss?'Tis more than skating, boundSteel-shod to the level ground. 

Speed slackens now, I floatAwhile in my airy boat;Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall. 

Alas, that the longest hillMust end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there. 

Henry Charles Beeching [1859-1919]

PLAYGROUNDS

In summer I am very gladWe children are so small, For we can see a thousand thingsThat men can't see at all. 

They don't know much about the mossAnd all the stones they pass:They never lie and play amongThe forests in the grass:

They walk about a long way off;And, when we're at the sea, Let father stoop as best he canHe can't find things like me. 

But, when the snow is on the groundAnd all the puddles freeze, I wish that I were very tall, High up above the trees. 

Laurence Alma-Tadema [18--

"WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?"

Who has seen the wind?Neither I nor you:But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through. 

Who has seen the wind?Neither you nor I:But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

THE WIND'S SONG

O winds that blow across the sea, What is the story that you bring?Leaves clap their hands on every treeAnd birds about their branches sing. 

You sing to flowers and trees and birdsYour sea-songs over all the land. Could you not stay and whisper wordsA little child might understand?

The roses nod to hear you sing;But though I listen all the day, You never tell me anythingOf father's ship so far away. 

Its masts are taller than the trees;Its sails are silver in the sun;There's not a ship upon the seasSo beautiful as father's one. 

With wings spread out it flies so fastIt leaves the waves all white with foam. Just whisper to me, blowing past, If you have seen it sailing home. 

I feel your breath upon my cheek, And in my hair, and on my brow. Dear winds, if you could only speak, I know that you would tell me now. 

My father's coming home, you'd say, With precious presents, one, two, three;A shawl for mother, beads for May, And eggs and shells for Rob and me. 

The winds sing songs where'er they roam;The leaves all clap their little hands;For father's ship is coming homeWith wondrous things from foreign lands. 

Gabriel Setoun [1861-

THE PIPER ON THE HILLA Child's Song

There sits a piper on the hillWho pipes the livelong day, And when he pipes both loud and shrill, The frightened people say:"The wind, the wind is blowing up'Tis rising to a gale. "The women hurry to the shoreTo watch some distant sail. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing to a gale. 

But when he pipes all sweet and low, The piper on the hill, I hear the merry women goWith laughter, loud and shrill:"The wind, the wind is coming south'Twill blow a gentle day. "They gather on the meadow-landTo toss the yellow hay. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing south to-day. 

And in the morn, when winter comes, To keep the piper warm, The little Angels shake their wingsTo make a feather storm:"The snow, the snow has come at last!"The happy children call, And "ring around" they dance in glee, And watch the snowflakes fall. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Has spread a snowy pall. 

But when at night the piper plays, I have not any fear, Because God's windows open wideThe pretty tune to hear;And when each crowding spirit looks, From its star window-pane, A watching mother may beholdHer little child again. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, May blow her home again. 

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]

THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out;You stareIn the airLike a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about--I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out. "

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deepOn a heapOf clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon. "

He turned in his bed; she was there again!On highIn the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again. "

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge!If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim. "

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puffMore's enoughTo blow her to snuff!One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread. "

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the airNowhereWas a moonbeam bare;Far off and harmless the shy stars shone--Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more;On down, In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar--"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and blew;But in vainWas the painOf his bursting brain;For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. 

Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, And shoneOn her throneIn the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. 

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!With my breath, Good faith!I blew her to death--First blew her away right out of the sky--Then blew her in; what strength have I!

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair;For highIn the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare. 

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

CHILD'S SONG IN SPRING

The silver birch is a dainty lady, She wears a satin gown;The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady, She will not live in town. 

The English oak is a sturdy fellow, He gets his green coat late;The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, While brown the beech trees wait. 

Such a gay green gown God gives the larches--As green as He is good!The hazels hold up their arms for archesWhen Spring rides through the wood. 

The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty, The poplar's gentle and tall, But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city--I love him best of all!

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]

BABY SEED SONG

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark?Here we lie cosily, close to each other:Hark to the song of the lark--"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you--Waken! 'tis morning--'tis May!"

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of flower will you be?I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother;Do be a poppy like me. What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss youWhen you're grown golden and high!But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;Little brown brother, good-bye. 

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]

LITTLE DANDELION

Gay little DandelionLights up the meads, Swings on her slender foot, Telleth her beads, Lists to the robin's notePoured from above;Wise little DandelionAsks not for love. 

Cold lie the daisy banksClothed but in green, Where, in the days agone, Bright hues were seen. Wild pinks are slumbering, Violets delay;True little DandelionGreeteth the May. 

Brave little Dandelion!Fast falls the snow, Bending the daffodil'sHaughty head low. Under that fleecy tent, Careless of cold, Blithe little DandelionCounteth her gold. 

Meek little DandelionGroweth more fair, Till dies the amber dewOut from her hair. High rides the thirsty sun, Fiercely and high;Faint little DandelionCloseth her eye. 

Pale little Dandelion, In her white shroud, Heareth the angel-breezeCall from the cloud;Tiny plumes flutteringMake no delay;Little winged DandelionSoareth away. 

Helen Barron Bostwick [1826-? ]

LITTLE WHITE LILYFrom "Within and Without"

Little White Lily sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting till the sun shone. Little White Lily sunshine has fed;Little White Lily is lifting her head. 

Little White Lily said: "It is good, Little White Lily's clothing and food. "Little White Lily dressed like a bride!Shining with whiteness, and crowned beside!

Little White Lily drooping with pain, Waiting and waiting for the wet rain, Little White Lily holdeth her cup;Rain is fast falling and filling it up. 

Little White Lily said: "Good again, When I am thirsty to have the nice rain. Now I am stronger, now I am cool;Heat cannot burn me, my veins are so full. "

Little White Lily smells very sweet;On her head sunshine, rain at her feet. Thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the rain, Little White Lily is happy again. 

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

WISHING

Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the Spring!The stooping bough above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm-tree for our King!

Nay, --stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The Birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing!

O--no! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till Winter comes with icy thumbsTo ruffle up our wing. 

Well--tell! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For Mother's kiss, --sweeter thisThan any other thing!

William Allingham [1824-1889]

IN THE GARDEN

I spied beside the garden bedA tiny lass of ours, Who stopped and bent her sunny headAbove the red June flowers. 

Pushing the leaves and thorns apart, She singled out a rose, And in its inmost crimson heart, Enraptured, plunged her nose. 

"O dear, dear rose, come, tell me true--Come, tell me true, " said she, "If I smell just as sweet to youAs you smell sweet to me!"

Ernest Crosby [1856-1907]

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around;When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure spaceAnd their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smilesOn the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles;Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. 

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

GLAD DAY

Here's another day, dear, Here's the sun againPeeping in his pleasant wayThrough the window pane. Rise and let him in, dear, Hail him "hip hurray!"Now the fun will all begin. Here's another day!

Down the coppice path, dear, Through the dewy glade, (When the Morning took her bathWhat a splash she made!)Up the wet wood-way, dear, Under dripping greenRun to meet another day, Brightest ever seen. 

Mushrooms in the field, dear, Show their silver gleam. What a dainty crop they yieldFirm as clouted cream, Cool as balls of snow, dear, Sweet and fresh and round!Ere the early dew can goWe must clear the ground. 

Such a lot to do, dear, Such a lot to see!How we ever can get throughFairly puzzles me. Hurry up and out, dear, Then--away! away!In and out and round about, Here's another day!

W. Graham Robertson [1867-

THE TIGER

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake [1757-1827]

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!"In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong;What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving--all come back together. But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he--"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN

I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said:"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red. It is quite time to go to bed. "

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay;Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!'Tis such a very pleasant day, We do not want to go away. "

So, just for one more merry dayTo the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced, and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among--

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget, And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg, and coax, and fret. "But the great Tree did no such thing;He smiled to hear them whispering. 

"Come, children, all to bed, " he cried;And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air. 

I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm. 

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Goodnight dear little leaves, " he said. And from below each sleepy childReplied, "Goodnight, " and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed!"

Susan Coolidge [1835-1905]

A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND

Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winterThat they cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeerTo the sledges, when it snows;And the children look like bear's cubsIn their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story--I don't believe 'tis true;And yet you may learn a lessonIf I tell the tale to you. 

Once, when the good Saint PeterLived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know, He came to the door of a cottage, In traveling round the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes, And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting, For the day was almost done, He asked her, from her store of cakes, To give him a single one. 

So she made a very little cake, But as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemedToo large to give away. 

Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one;But it looked, when she turned it over, As large as the first had done. 

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, And rolled and rolled it flat;And baked it thin as a wafer--But she couldn't part with that. 

For she said, "My cakes that seem too smallWhen I eat of them myself, Are yet too large to give away. "So she put them on the shelf. 

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint;And surely such a womanWas enough to provoke a saint. 

And he said, "You are far too selfishTo dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm. 

"Now, you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty foodBy boring, and boring, and boring, All day in the hard, dry wood. "

Then up she went through the chimney, Never speaking a word, And out of the top flew a woodpecker, For she was changed to a bird. 

She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, But all the rest of her clothes were burnedBlack as a coal in the flame. 

And every country school-boyHas seen her in the wood, Where she lives in the trees till this very day, Boring and boring for food. 

And this is the lesson she teaches:Live not for yourself alone, Lest the needs you will not pityShall one day be your own. 

Give plenty of what is given to you, Listen to pity's call;Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small. 

Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood. 

You mayn't be changed to a bird though you liveAs selfishly as you can;But you will be changed to a smaller thing--A mean and selfish man. 

Phoebe Cary [1824-1871]

THE CRICKET'S STORY

The high and mighty lord of Glendare, The owner of acres both broad and fair, Searched, once on a time, his vast domains, His deep, green forest, and yellow plains, For some rare singer, to make completeThe studied charms of his country-seat;But found, for all his pains and labors, No sweeter songster than had his neighbors. 

Ah, what shall my lord of the manor do?He pondered the day and the whole night through. He called on the gentry of hill-top and dale;And at last on Madame the Nightingale, --Inviting, in his majestical way, Her pupils to sing at his grand soiree, That perchance among them my lord might findSome singer to whom his heart inclined. What wonder, then, when the evening came, And the castle gardens were all aflameWith the many curious lights that hungO'er the ivied porches, and flared amongThe grand old trees and the banners proud, That many a heart beat high and loud, While the famous choir of Glendare Bog, Established and led by the Brothers Frog, Sat thrumming as hoarsely as they were able, In front of the manager's mushroom table!

The overture closed with a crash--then, hark!Across the stage comes the sweet-voiced Lark. She daintily sways, with an airy grace, And flutters a bit of gossamer lace, While the leafy alcove echoes and thrillsWith her liquid runs and lingering trills. Miss Goldfinch came next, in her satin gown, And shaking her feathery flounces down, With much expression and feeling sungSome "Oh's" and "Ah's" in a foreign tongue;While to give the affair a classic tone, Miss Katydid rendered a song of her own, In which each line closed as it had begun, With some wonderful deed which she had done. Then the Misses Sparrow, so prim and set, Twittered and chirped through a long duet;And poor little Wren, who tried with a will, But who couldn't tell "Heber" from "Ortonville, "Unconscious of sarcasm, piped awayAnd courtesied low o'er a huge bouquetOf crimson clover-heads, culled by the dozen, By some brown-coated, plebeian cousin. 

But you should have heard the red Robin singHis English ballad, "Come, beautiful Spring!"And Master Owlet's melodious tune, "O, meet me under the silvery moon!"Then, as flighty Miss Humming-bird didn't careTo sing for the high and mighty Glendare, The close of the evening's performance fellTo the fair young Nightingale, Mademoiselle. Ah! the wealth of each wonderful noteThat came from the depths of her tiny throat!She carolled, she trilled, and she held her breath, Till she seemed to hang at the point of death:She ran the chromatics through every key, And ended triumphant on upper C;Airing the graces her mother had taught herIn a manner quite worthy of Madame's daughter. 

But his lordship glared down the leafy aisleWith never so much as a nod or smile, Till, out in the shade of a blackberry thicket, He all of a sudden spied little Miss Cricket;And, roused from his gloom, like an angry bat, He sternly demanded, "Who is that?""Miss Cricket, my lord, may it please you so, A charity scholar--ahem!--you know--Quite worthy, of course, but we couldn't bring"--Thundered His Mightiness, "Let her sing!"The Nightingale opened her little eyesExtremely wide in her blank surprise;But catching a glimpse of his lordship's rage, Led little Miss Cricket upon the stage, Where she modestly sang, in her simple measures, Of "Home, sweet Home, " and its humble pleasures. And the lord of Glendare cried out in his glee, "This little Miss Cricket shall sing for me!"

Of course, of comment there was no need;But the world said, "Really!" and "Ah, indeed!"Yet, notwithstanding, we find it trueAs his lordship does will the neighbors do;So this is the way, as the legends tell, In the very beginning it befellThat the Crickets came, in the evening's gloom, To sing at our hearths of "Home, sweet Home. "

Emma Huntington Nason [1845-1921]

THE SINGING-LESSON

A nightingale made a mistake;She sang a few notes out of tune;Her heart was ready to break, And she hid away from the moon. She wrung her claws, poor thing!But was far too proud to weep;She tucked her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep. 

A lark, arm in arm with a thrush, Came sauntering up to the place;The nightingale felt herself blush, Though feathers hid her face. She knew they had heard her song, She felt them snicker and sneer;She thought that life was too long, And wished she could skip a year. 

"Oh, Nightingale, " cooed a dove--"Oh, Nightingale, what's the use?You bird of beauty and love, Why behave like a goose?Don't skulk away from our sight, Like a common, contemptible fowl;You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl?

"Only think of all you have done, Only think of all you can do;A false note is really funFrom such a bird as you!Lift up your proud little crest, Open your musical beak;Other birds have to do their best--You need only to speak. "

The nightingale shyly tookHer head from under her wing, And, giving the dove a look, Straightway began to sing. There was never a bird could pass;The night was divinely calm, And the people stood on the grassTo hear that wonderful psalm. 

The nightingale did not care;She only sang to the skies;Her song ascended there, And there she fixed her eyes. The people that stood belowShe knew but little about;And this tale has a moral, I know, If you'll try to find it out. 

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

CHANTICLEER

Of all the birds from East to WestThat tuneful are and dear, I love that farmyard bird the best, They call him Chanticleer. 

Gold plume and copper plume, Comb of scarlet gay;'Tis he that scatters night and gloom, And whistles back the day!

He is the sun's brave heraldThat, ringing his blithe horn, Calls round a world dew-pearledThe heavenly airs of morn. 

O clear gold, shrill and bold!He calls through creeping mistThe mountains from the night and coldTo rose and amethyst. 

He sets the birds to singing, And calls the flowers to rise;The morning cometh, bringingSweet sleep to heavy eyes. 

Gold plume and silver plume, Comb of coral gay;'Tis he packs off the night and gloom, And summons home the day!

Black fear he sends it flying, Black care he drives afar;And creeping shadows sighingBefore the morning star. 

The birds of all the forestHave dear and pleasant cheer, But yet I hold the rarestThe farmyard Chanticleer. 

Red cock or black cock, Gold cock or white, The flower of all the feathered flock, He whistles back the light!

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

"WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?"From "Sea Dreams"

What does little birdie sayIn her nest at peep of day?Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger, If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. 

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

NURSE'S SONG

When the voices of children are heard on the greenAnd laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. 

"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of the night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us awayTill the morning appears in the skies. "

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep;Besides in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep. "

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed. "The little ones leaped and shouted and laughed;And all the hills echoed. 

William Blake [1757-1827]

JACK FROST

The door was shut, as doors should be, Before you went to bed last night;Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see, And left your window silver white. 

He must have waited till you slept;And not a single word he spoke, But pencilled o'er the panes and creptAway again before you woke. 

And now you cannot see the hillsNor fields that stretch beyond the lane;But there are fairer things than theseHis fingers traced on every pane. 

Rocks and castles towering high;Hills and dales, and streams and fields;And knights in armor riding by, With nodding plumes and shining shields. 

And here are little boats, and thereBig ships with sails spread to the breeze;And yonder, palm trees waving fairOn islands set in silver seas. 

And butterflies with gauzy wings;And herds of cows and flocks of sheep;And fruit and flowers and all the thingsYou see when you are sound asleep. 

For creeping softly underneathThe door when all the lights are out, Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe, And knows the things you think about. 

He paints them on the window paneIn fairy lines with frozen steam;And when you wake you see againThe lovely things you saw in dream. 

Gabriel Setoun [1861-

OCTOBER'S PARTY

October gave a party;The leaves by hundreds came--The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples, And leaves of every name. The Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand, Miss Weather led the dancing, Professor Wind the band. 

The Chestnuts came in yellow, The Oaks in crimson dressed;The lovely Misses MapleIn scarlet looked their best;All balanced to their partners, And gaily fluttered by;The sight was like a rainbowNew fallen from the sky. 

Then, in the rustic hollow, At hide-and-seek they played, The party closed at sundown, And everybody stayed. Professor Wind played louder;They flew along the ground;And then the party endedIn jolly "hands around. "

George Cooper [1840-1927]

THE SHEPHERD

How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!From the morn to the evening he strays;He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise. For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply;He is watchful, while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh. 

William Blake [1757-1827]

NIKOLINA

O tell me, little children, have you seen her--The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina?O, her eyes are blue as cornflowers, mid the corn, And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn!

Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her, As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller, Breaking off their scarlet cups for you, With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue. 

In her little garden many a flower is growing--Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing, But the child that stands amid the blossoms gayIs sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they. 

Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]

LITTLE GUSTAVA

Little Gustava sits in the sun, Safe in the porch, and the little drops runFrom the icicles under the eaves so fast, For the bright spring sun shines warm at last, And glad is little Gustava. 

She wears a quaint little scarlet cap, And a little green bowl she holds in her lap, Filled with bread and milk to the brim, And a wreath of marigolds round the rim:"Ha! ha!" laughs little Gustava. 

Up comes her little gray coaxing catWith her little pink nose, and she mews, "What's that?"Gustava feeds her, --she begs for more;And a little brown hen walks in at the door:"Good day!" cries little Gustava. 

She scatters crumbs for the little brown hen. There comes a rush and a flutter, and thenDown fly her little white doves so sweet, With their snowy wings and crimson feet:"Welcome!" cries little Gustava. 

So dainty and eager they pick up the crumbs. But who is this through the doorway comes?Little Scotch terrier, little dog Rags, Looks in her face, and his funny tail wags:"Ha! ha!" laughs little Gustava. 

"You want some breakfast too?" and downShe sets her bowl on the brick floor brown;And little dog Rags drinks up her milk, While she strokes his shaggy locks like silk:"Dear Rags!" says little Gustava. 

Waiting without stood sparrow and crow, Cooling their feet in the melting snow:"Won't you come in, good folk?" she cried. But they were too bashful, and stood outsideThough "Pray come in!" cried Gustava. 

So the last she threw them, and knelt on the matWith doves and biddy and dog and cat. And her mother came to the open house-door:"Dear little daughter, I bring you some more. My merry little Gustava!"

Kitty and terrier, biddy and doves, All things harmless Gustava loves. The shy, kind creatures 'tis joy to feed, And oh, her breakfast is sweet indeedTo happy little Gustava!

Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]

PRINCE TATTERS

Little Prince Tatters has lost his cap!Over the hedge he threw it;Into the river it fell "kerslap!"Stupid old thing to do it!Now Mother may sigh and Nurse may fumeFor the gay little cap with its eagle plume. "One cannot be thinking all day of such matters!Trifles are trifles!" says little Prince Tatters. 

Little Prince Tatters has lost his coat!Playing, he did not need it;"Left it right there, by the nanny-goat, And nobody never seed it!"Now Mother and Nurse may search till nightFor the little new coat with its buttons bright;But--"Coat-sleeves or shirt-sleeves, how little it matters!Trifles are trifles!" says little Prince Tatters. 

Little Prince Tatters has LOST HIS BALL!Rolled away down the street!Somebody'll have to find it, that's all, Before he can sleep or eat. Now raise the neighborhood, quickly, do!And send for the crier and constable too!"Trifles are trifles; but serious matters, They must be seen to, " says little Prince Tatters. 

Laura E. Richards [1850-

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but oh, my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun, --there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away;And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

"And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceAre but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

"For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying: 'Come out from the grove, My love and care, And round My golden tent like lambs rejoice. '"

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. 

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE BLIND BOY

O say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy;What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright;I feel him warm, but how can he, Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I makeWhene'er I sleep or play;And could I ever keep awakeWith me 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hearYou mourn my hapless woe;But sure with patience I can bearA loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot haveMy cheer of mind destroy:Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. 

Colley Cibber [1671-1757]

BUNCHES OF GRAPES

"Bunches of grapes, " says Timothy, "Pomegranates pink, " says Elaine;"A junket of cream and a cranberry tartFor me, " says Jane. 

"Love-in-a-mist, " says Timothy, "Primroses pale, " says Elaine;"A nosegay of pinks and mignonetteFor me, " says Jane. 

"Chariots of gold, " says Timothy, "Silvery wings, " says Elaine;"A bumpety ride in a wagon of hayFor me, " says Jane. 

Walter de la Mare [1873-

MY SHADOW

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. 

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. 

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me layTo keep me happy all the day. 

And sometimes for an hour or soI watched my leaden soldiers go, With different uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleetsAll up and down among the sheets;Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about. 

I was the giant great and stillThat sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit;They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. 

Now, with my little gun, I crawlAll in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest trackAway behind the sofa back. 

There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have readTill it is time to go to bed. 

These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes;And there the river by whose brinkThe roaring lions come to drink. 

I see the others far awayAs if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. 

So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looksAt my dear land of Story-books. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE GARDENER

The gardener does not love to talk, He makes me keep the gravel walk;And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key. 

Away behind the currant rowWhere no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots, I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big. 

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to. He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play. 

Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, When in the garden bare and brownYou must lay your barrow down. 

Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these garden daysO how much wiser you would beTo play at Indian wars with me!

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

FOREIGN LANDS

Up into the cherry treeWho should climb but little me?I held the trunk with both my handsAnd looked abroad on foreign lands. 

I saw the next door garden lie, Adorned with flowers, before my eye, And many pleasant places moreThat I had never seen before. 

I saw the dimpling river passAnd be the sky's blue looking-glass;The dusty roads go up and downWith people tramping in to town. 

If I could find a higher tree, Farther and farther I should see, To where the grown-up river slipsInto the sea among the ships;

To where the roads on either handLead onward into fairy land, Where all the children dine at five, And all the playthings come alive. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

MY BED IS A BOAT

My bed is like a little boat;Nurse helps me in when I embark;She girds me in my sailor's coatAnd starts me in the dark. 

At night, I go on board and sayGood night to all my friends on shore;I shut my eyes and sail awayAnd see and hear no more. 

And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do;Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two. 

All night across the dark we steer;But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room, beside the pier, I find my vessel fast. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN

I wish I lived in a caravan, With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man!Where he comes from nobody knows, Or where he goes to, but on he goes!

His caravan has windows two, And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through;He has a wife, with a baby brown, And they go riding from town to town. 

Chairs to mend, and delf to sell!He clashes the basins like a bell;Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order, Plates, with alphabets round the border!

The roads are brown, and the sea is green, But his house is like a bathing-machine;The world is round, and he can ride, Rumble and slash, to the other side!

With the peddler-man I should like to roam, And write a book when I came home;All the people would read my book, Just like the Travels of Captain Cook!

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

MR. COGGS

A watch will tell the time of day, Or tell it nearly, any way, Excepting when it's overwound, Or when you drop it on the ground. 

If any of our watches stop, We haste to Mr. Coggs's shop;For though to scold us he pretends, He's quite among our special friends. 

He fits a dice-box in his eye, And takes a long and thoughtful spy, And prods the wheels, and says, "Dear, dear!More carelessness, I greatly fear. "

And then he lays the dice-box downAnd frowns a most prodigious frown;But if we ask him what's the time, He'll make his gold repeater chime. 

Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-

THE BUILDING OF THE NEST

They'll come again to the apple tree--Robin and all the rest--When the orchard branches are fair to see, In the snow of the blossoms dressed;And the prettiest thing in the world will beThe building of the nest. 

Weaving it well, so round and trim, Hollowing it with care, --Nothing too far away for him, Nothing for her too fair, --Hanging it safe on the topmost limb, Their castle in the air. 

Ah! mother bird, you'll have weary daysWhen the eggs are under your breast, And shadow may darken the dancing raysWhen the wee ones leave the nest;But they'll find their wings in a glad amaze. And God will see to the rest. 

So come to the trees with all your trainWhen the apple blossoms blow;Through the April shimmer of sun and rain, Go flying to and fro;And sing to our hearts as we watch againYour fairy building grow. 

Margaret Sangster [1838-1912]

"THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER"From "Love in a Village"

There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee;He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he;And this the burden of his song forever used to be:--"I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me. 

"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife;I would not change my station for any other in life;No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor e'er had a groat from me;I care for nobody, no not I if nobody cares for me. "

When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay;No summer's drought alarms his fear, nor winter's cold decay;No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say, "Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day. "

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing;The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing;This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring;Let heart and voice and all agree to say, "Long live the king. "

Isaac Bickerstaff [?--1812?]

ONE AND ONE

Two little girls are better than one, Two little boys can double the fun, Two little birds can build a fine nest, Two little arms can love mother best. Two little ponies must go to a span;Two little pockets has my little man;Two little eyes to open and close, Two little ears and one little nose, Two little elbows, dimpled and sweet, Two little shoes on two little feet, Two little lips and one little chin, Two little cheeks with a rose shut in;Two little shoulders, chubby and strong, Two little legs running all day long. Two little prayers does my darling say, Twice does he kneel by my side each day, Two little folded hands, soft and brown, Two little eyelids cast meekly down, And two little angels guard him in bed, "One at the foot, and one at the head. "

Mary Mapes Dodge [1831-1905]

A NURSERY SONG

Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory GroutAre two little goblins black. Full oft from my house I've driven them out, But somehow they still come back. 

They clamber up to the baby's mouth, And pull the corners down;They perch aloft on the baby's brow, And twist it into a frown. 

Chorus:And one says "Must!" and t'other says "Can't!"And one says "Shall!" and t'other says "Shan't!"Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout, I pray you now from my house keep out!

But Samuel Smile and Lemuel LaughAre two little fairies bright;They're always ready for fun and chaff, And sunshine is their delight. 

And when they creep into Baby's eyes, Why, there the sunbeams are;And when they peep through her rosy lips, Her laughter rings near and far. 

Chorus:And one says "Please!" and t'other says "Do!"And both together say "I love you!"So, Lemuel Laugh and Samuel Smile, Come in, my dears, and tarry awhile!

Laura E. Richards [1850-

A MORTIFYING MISTAKE

I studied my tables over and over, and backward and forward, too;But I couldn't remember six times nine, and I didn't know what to do, Till sister told me to play with my doll, and not to bother my head. "If you call her 'Fifty-four' for a while, you'll learn it by heart, " she said. 

So I took my favorite, Mary Ann (though I thought 'twas a dreadful shameTo give such a perfectly lovely child such a perfectly horrid name), And I called her my dear little "Fifty-four" a hundred times, till I knewThe answer of six times nine as well as the answer of two times two. 

Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who always acts so proud, Said, "Six times nine is fifty-two, " and I nearly laughed aloud!But I wished I hadn't when teacher said, "Now, Dorothy, tell if you can. "For I thought of my doll and--sakes alive!--I answered, "Mary Ann!"

Anna Maria Pratt [18---

THE RAGGEDY MAN

O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!He comes to our house every day, An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;An' he opens the shed--an' we all ist laughWhen he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;An' nen--ef our hired girl says he can--He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. --Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W'y, the Raggedy Man--he's ist so goodHe splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;An' nen he spades in our garden, too, An' does most things 'at boys can't do. --He clumbed clean up in our big treeAn' shooked a' apple down fer me--An' nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann--An' nother'n', too, fer the Raggedy Man. --Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymesAn' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers therselves!An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' canTurn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!Er Ma, er Pa, er the Raggedy Man!Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man--one time when heWas makin' a little bow-n'-orry fer me, Says, "When you're big like your Pa is, Air you go' to keep a fine store like his--An' be a rich merchunt--an' wear fine clothes?--Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man!--I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE MAN IN THE MOON

Said the Raggedy Man, on a hot afternoon, "My!Sakes!What a lot o' mistakesSome little folks makes on The Man in the Moon!But people that's b'en up to see him, like me, And calls on him frequent and intimately, Might drop a few facts that would interest youClean!Through!--If you wanted 'em to--Some actual facts that might interest you!

"O The Man in the Moon has a crick in his back;Whee!Whimm!Ain't you sorry for him?And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;And his eyes are so weak that they water and runIf he dares to dream even he looks at the sun. --So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise--My!Eyes!But isn't he wise--To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?

"And The Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear, --Whee!Whing!What a singular thing!I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear, --There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin, --He calls it a dimple--but dimples stick in--Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!Whang!Ho!Why, certainly so!--It might be a dimple turned over, you know!

"And The Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee, --Gee!Whizz!What a pity that is!And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan. Whing!Whann!What a marvelous man!What a very remarkably marvelous man!

"And The Man in the Moon, " sighed the Raggedy Man, "Gits!So!Sullonesome, you know, --Up there by hisse'f sence creation began!--That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay, --Till--Well! if it wasn't fer Jimmy-cum-Jim, Dadd!Limb!I'd go pardners with him--Jes' jump my job here and be pardners with him!"

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board an'-keep;An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest funA-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits youEf youDon'tWatchOut!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers--An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heered him holler, an' his Daddy heered him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout:An' the Gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;An' onc't when they was "company, " an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!An' the Gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away, --You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond and dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

OUR HIRED GIRL

Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann;An' she can cook best things to eat!She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet;An' nen she salts it all on topWith cinnamon; an' nen she'll stopAn' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow, In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slopAn' git all spilled; nen bakes it, soIt's custard-pie, first thing you know!An' nen she'll say, "Clear out o' my way!They's time fer work, an' time fer play!Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"

When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad, An' says folks got to walk the chalkWhen she's around, er wisht they had!I play out on our porch an' talkTo Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn;An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans onHis old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn!Ef my old nose don't tell me lies, It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!"An' nen he'll say, "Clear out o' my way!They's time fer work, an' time for play!Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!Er she cain't git no cookin' done!"

Wunst our hired girl, when sheGot the supper, an' we all et, An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' meAn' Pa went wher' the "Social" met, --An' nen when we come home, an' seeA light in the kitchen door, an' weHeerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'--O'-Gracious, who can her beau be?"An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth AnnWuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man!Better say, "Clear out o' the way!They's time fer work, an' time fer play!Take the hint, an' run, child, run!Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

SEEIN' THINGS

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice, An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed, For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, Mother tells me "Happy Dreams!" an' takes away the light, An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!

Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door, Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor;Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' roundSo softly and so creepylike they never make a sound!Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white--But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!

Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street, An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row, A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me--so!Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite--It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!

Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death!Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath;An' I am, oh, so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' thenI promise to be better an' I say my prayers again!Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it rightWhen a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!

An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within;An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice, I want to--but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice!No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sightThan I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

THE DUEL

The gingham dog and the calico catSide by side on the table sat;'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!)Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plateAppeared to know as sure as fateThere was going to be a terrible spat. (I wasn't there: I simply stateWhat was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went, "Bow-wow-wow!"And the calico cat replied, "Mee-ow!"The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-placeUp with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row!(Now mind; I'm only telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and clawIn the awfullest way you ever saw--And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!(Don't fancy I exaggerate--I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning, where the two had satThey found no trace of dog or cat:And some folks think unto this dayThat burglars stole that pair away!But the truth about the cat and pupIs this: they ate each other up!Now what do you really think of that!(The old Dutch clock it told me so, And that is how I came to know. )

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

HOLY THURSDAY

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green;Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. 

Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. 

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. 

William Blake [1757-1827]

A STORY FOR A CHILD

Little one, come to my knee!Hark, how the rain is pouringOver the roof, in the pitch-black night, And the wind in the woods a-roaring!

Hush, my darling, and listen, Then pay for the story with kisses;Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is!

High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited;Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated. 

The rain and the night togetherCame down and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, And snapping many a rafter. 

I crept along in the darkness, Stunned, and bruised, and blinded, --Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, And a sheltering rock behind it. 

There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me:Something rustled, two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me. 

Little one, be not frightened;I and the wolf together, Side by side, through the long, long night, Hid from the awful weather. 

His wet fur pressed against me;Each of us warmed the other;Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man was brother. 

And when the falling forestNo longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-placeForth in the wild, wet morning. 

Darling, kiss me payment!Hark, how the wind is roaring;Father's house is a better placeWhen the stormy rain is pouring!

Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly. "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy;The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to show when you are there. ""Oh no, no, " said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain;For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again. "

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!""Oh no, no, " said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I doTo prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;I'm sure you're very welcome--will you please to take a slice?""Oh no, no, " said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature, " said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise;How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself. ""I thank you, gentle sir, " she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day. "

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon be back again;So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly. Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing, --"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head;Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead. "

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by:With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, --Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;Thinking only of her crested head--poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal denWithin his little parlor--but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed;Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly. 

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER

We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep, --It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep. 

'Tis a fearful thing in winterTo be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpetThunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence, --For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaringAnd the breakers talked with death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spake in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harborWhen the morn was shining clear. 

James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM

A nightingale, that all day longHad cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite;When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark;So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent:"Did you admire my lamp, " quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song;For 'twas the self-same Power DivineTaught you to sing, and me to shine;That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night. "The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. Hence jarring sectaries may learnTheir real interest to discern;That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other;But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's caseThe gifts of nature and of grace. Those Christians best deserve the nameWho studiously make peace their aim;Peace both the duty and the prizeOf him that creeps and him that flies. 

William Cowper [1731-1808]

SIR LARK AND KING SUN: A PARABLEFrom "Adela Cathcart"

"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone, Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne. "Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home. I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair. "

"Must I thank you, then, " said the king, "Sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark?You ask a full cup for half a thirst:Half was love of me, and half love to be first. There's many a bird makes no such haste, But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste. "

And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud, And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;But he flew up higher, and thought, "AnonThe wrath of the king will be over and gone;And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold. "

So he flew--with the strength of a lark he flew;But, as he rose, the cloud rose too;And not one gleam of the golden hairCame through the depths of the misty air;Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more. 

His wings had had no chrism of gold:And his feathers felt withered and worn and old;He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone. And there on her nest, where he left her, aloneSat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs. 

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!Full in her face was shining the king. "Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired, " said he;"Up is not always the best way to me. While you have been singing so high and away, I've been shining to your little wife all day. "

He had set his crown all about the nest, And out of the midst shone her little brown breast;And so glorious was she in russet gold, That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold. He popped his head under her wing, and layAs still as a stone, till King Sun was away. 

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

THE COURTSHIP, MERRY MARRIAGE, AND PICNIC DINNEROF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN

It was a merry timeWhen Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she danced, And so sweetly as she sung, Robin Redbreast lost his heart:He was a gallant bird;He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said:--

"My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie, And drink nice currant wine. I'll dress you like a Goldfinch, Or like a Peacock gay;So if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day. "

Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind:"Then let it be to-morrow, Bob, I take your offer kind--Cherry pie is very good!So is currant wine!But I will wear my brown gown, And never dress too fine. "

Robin rose up earlyAt the break of day;He flew to Jenny Wren's house, To sing a roundelay. He met the Cock and Hen, And bid the Cock declare, This was his wedding-dayWith Jenny Wren, the fair. 

The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbors know, This was Robin's wedding-day, And they might see the show. And first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band, And one of Mother Hubbard's booksHe held within his hand. 

Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be clerkAt Cock Robin's wedding. He sang of Robin's loveFor little Jenny Wren;And when he came unto the end, Then he began again. 

Then came the bride and bridegroom;Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks wereAs red as Robin's breast. But Robin cheered her up;"My pretty Jen, " said he, "We're going to be marriedAnd happy we shall be. "

The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the bride;The Linnet, being bride's maid, Walked by Jenny's side;And, as she was a-walking, She said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock RobinIs a very pretty bird. "

The Bulfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say, "Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch, dressed so gay;What though her gay apparelBecomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and lookMust bear away the bell. "

The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet jug sweetly echoesThrough every grove and dale;The Sparrow and Tom Tit, And many more, were there:All came to see the weddingOf Jenny Wren, the fair. 

"O then, " says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?""I do, " says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay:Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside;Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!"

"And will you have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?""Yes, I will, " says Robin, "And love her all my life. ""And will you have him, Jenny, Your husband now to be?""Yes, I will, " says Jenny, "And love him heartily. "

Then on her finger fairCock Robin put the ring;"You're married now, " says Parson Rook, While the Lark aloud did sing:"Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide. "

The birds were asked to dine;Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songsterThat had Cock Robin known. They had a cherry pie, Beside some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine. 

Now they all sat or stoodTo eat and to drink;And every one said whatHe happened to think:They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair:Cock Robin, the bridegroom, And Jenny Wren, the fair. 

The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing;And soon they made the placeNear a mile round to ring. The concert it was fine;And every bird triedWho best could sing for RobinAnd Jenny Wren, the bride. 

Then in came the Cuckoo and made a great rout;He caught hold of Jenny and pulled her about. Cock Robin was angry, and so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry his bow and his arrow. 

His aim then he took, but he took it not right;His skill was not good, or he shot in a fright;For the Cuckoo he missed, but Cock Robin killed!--And all the birds mourned that his blood was so spilled. 

Unknown

THE BABES IN THE WOOD

Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words, which I shall write;A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good accountIn Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmountMost men of his estate. 

Sore sick was he, and like to die, No help his life could save;His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possessed one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind;In love they lived, in loved they died, And left two babes behind:

The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three years old;The other a girl more young than he, And framed in beauty's mold. The father left his little son, As plainly does appear, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a year. 

And to his little daughter JaneFive hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controlled:But if the children chance to die, Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth;For so the will did run. 

"Now, brother, " said the dying man, "Look to my children dear;Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here:To God and you I recommendMy children dear this day;But little while be sure we haveWithin this world to stay. 

"You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one;God knows what will become of them, When I am dead and gone. "With that bespake their mother dear, "O brother kind, " quoth she, "You are the man must bring our babesTo wealth or misery. 

"And if you keep them carefullyThen God will you reward;But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deeds regard. "With lips as cold as any stone, They kissed their children small:"God bless you both, my children dear;"With that the tears did fall. 

These speeches then their brother spakeTo this sick couple there, "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear;God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear, When you are laid in grave. "

The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight into his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babesA twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did deviseTo make them both away. 

He bargained with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale, He would the children sendTo be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend. 

Away then went these pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay:

So that the pretty speech they had, Made Murder's heart relent;And they that undertook the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him, Had paid him very large. 

The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife;With one another they did fight, About the children's life:And he that was of mildest mood, Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood;The babes did quake for fear!

He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry:And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain:"Stay here, " quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back again. "

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down, But never more could see the manApproaching from the town;Their pretty lips with black-berriesWere all besmeared and dyed, And, when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cried. 

Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till death did end their grief;In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief:No burial this pretty pairOf any man receives, Till Robin-red-breast piouslyDid cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrath of GodUpon their uncle fell;Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell:His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were barren made, His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stayed. 

And in a voyage to PortugalTwo of his sons did die;And, to conclude, himself was broughtTo want and misery:He pawned and mortgaged all his landEre seven years came about, And now at length his wicked actDid by this means come out:

The fellow, that did take in handThese children for to kill, Was for a robbery judged to die, Such was God's blessed will:Who did confess the very truthAs here hath been displayed:Their uncle having died in jail, Where he for debt was laid. 

You that executors be made, And overseers ekeOf children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek;Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like miseryYour wicked minds requite. 

Unknown

GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet:'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, The grain lie rotting on the ground. 

Every day the starving poorCrowded around Bishop Hatto's door;For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighborhood could tellHis granaries were furnished well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a dayTo quiet the poor without delay;He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. 

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near;The great barn was full as it could holdOf women and children, and young and old. 

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;And, while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all. 

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he;"And the country is greatly obliged to meFor ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn. "

So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man;But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 

In the morning, as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he looked, there came a man from his farm, --He had a countenance white with alarm:"My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn. "

Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be. "Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this way, --The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine, " replied he;"'Tis the safest place in Germany, --The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong, and the water deep. "

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with careAll the windows, and doors, and loop-holes there. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise;He started, and saw two eyes of flameOn his pillow, from whence the screaming came. 

He listened and looked, --it was only the cat;But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were drawing near. 

For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep, And now by thousands up they crawlTo the holes and the windows in the wall. 

Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The saw of their teeth without he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls by thousands they pour;And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, --And all at once to the Bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop's bones;They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELINA Child's Story

IHamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city;The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin was a pity. 

IIRats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chatsBy drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats. 

IIIAt last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:"'Tis clear, " cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;And as for our Corporation, --shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can't or won't determineWhat's best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease?Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking, To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation. 

IVAn hour they sat in council, --At length the Mayor broke silence:"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It's easy to bid one rack one's brain, --I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber-door but a gentle tap?"Bless us, " cried the Mayor, "what's that?"(With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat;Nor brighter was his eye, nor moisterThan a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinousFor a plate of turtle green and glutinous)"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

V"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger:And in did come the strangest figure!His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in;There was no guessing his kith and kin:And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

VIHe advanced to the council-table:And, "Please your honors, " said he, I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper;And people call me the Pied Piper. "(And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same check, And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever strayingAs if impatient to be playingUpon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old-fangled. )"Yet, " said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;And as for what your brain bewilders, --If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders?""One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

VIIInto the street the Piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers;Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, --Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished!--Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry(As he, the manuscript he cherished)To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was: "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe, --And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;And it seemed as if a voice(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, Already staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'--I found the Weser rolling o'er me. "

VIIIYou should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple;"Go, " cried the Mayor, "and get long poles!Poke out the nests and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats!"--when suddenly, up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place, With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

IXA thousand guilders! the Mayor looked blue;So did the Corporation too. For council-dinners made rare havocWith Claret, Moselle, Via-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gypsy coat of red and yellow!"Beside, " quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke;But as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

XThe Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait! beside, I've promised to visit by dinner timeBagdat, and accept the primeOf the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:With him I proved no bargain-driver;With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe after another fashion. "

XI"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brookBeing worse treated than a Cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

XIIOnce more he stepped into the street;And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician's cunningNever gave the enraptured air)There was a rustling that seemed like a bustlingOf merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering;And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running:All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 

XIIIThe Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by, --And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However, he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top!He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!"When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced and the children followed;And when all were in, to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say, --"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!I can't forget that I'm bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me;For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed, and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!

XIVAlas, alas for Hamelin!There came into many a burgher's pateA text which says that heaven's gateOpes to the rich at as easy rateAs the needle's eye takes a camel in!The Mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated dulyIf, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened hereOn the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street--Where any one playing on pipe or taborWas sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostlery or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window paintedThe same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there's a tribeOf alien people who ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prisonInto which they were trepannedLong time ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. 

XVSo, Willy, let me and you be wipersOf scores out with all men--especially pipers!And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE GLAD EVANGEL

A CAROL

He came all so stillWhere His mother was, As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass. 

He came all so stillWhere His mother lay, As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray. 

He came all so stillTo His mother's bower, As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flower. 

Mother and maidenWas never none but she!Well might such a ladyGod's mother be. 

Unknown

"GOD REST YOU MERRY, GENTLEMEN"

God rest you merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born upon this day, To save us all from Satan's powerWhen we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy!For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day. 

In Bethlehem, in Jewry, This blessed babe was born, And laid within a manger, Upon this blessed morn;The which His mother, Mary, Nothing did take in scorn. 

From God our Heavenly Father, A blessed angel came;And unto certain shepherdsBrought tidings of the same:How that in Bethlehem was bornThe Son of God by name. 

"Fear not, " then said the angel, "Let nothing you affright, This day is born a SaviourOf virtue, power, and might, So frequently to vanquish allThe friends of Satan quite. "

The shepherds at these tidingsRejoiced much in mind, And left their flocks a-feedingIn tempest, storm, and wind, And went to Bethlehem straightway, This blessed babe to find. 

But when to Bethlehem they came, Whereat this infant lay, They found Him in a manger, Where oxen feed on hay, His mother Mary kneeling, Unto the Lord did pray. 

Now to the Lord sing praises, All you within this place, And with true love and brotherhoodEach other now embrace;This holy tide of ChristmasAll others doth deface. 

O tidings of comfort and joy!For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born in Christmas Day. 

Unknown

"O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM"

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie!Above thy deep and dreamless sleepThe silent stars go by;Yet in thy dark streets shinethThe everlasting Light;The hopes and fears of all the yearsAre met in thee to-night. 

For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keepTheir watch of wondering love. O morning stars, togetherProclaim the holy birth!And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth. 

How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given!So God imparts to human heartsThe blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in. 

O holy Child of Bethlehem!Descend to us, we pray;Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angelsThe great glad tidings tell;Oh come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!

Phillips Brooks [1835-1893]

A CHRISTMAS HYMNOld Style: 1837

It was the calm and silent night!Seven hundred years and fifty-threeHad Rome been growing up to might, And now was Queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars;Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnightCenturies ago. 

'Twas in the calm and silent night!The senator of haughty RomeImpatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches gleaming swellHis breast with thoughts of boundless sway;What recked the Roman what befellA paltry province far away, In the solemn midnightCenturies ago!

Within that province far awayWent plodding home a weary boor:A streak of light before him lay, Fall'n through a half-shut stable doorAcross his path. He passed--for naughtTold what was going on within;How keen the stars! his only thought;The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnightCenturies ago!

O strange indifference!--low and highDrowsed over common joys and cares:The earth was still--but knew not why;The world was listening--unawares. How calm a moment may precedeOne that shall thrill the world for ever!To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked, no more to sever, In the solemn midnightCenturies ago. 

It is the calm and solemn night!A thousand bells ring out, and throwTheir joyous peals abroad, and smiteThe darkness, charmed and holy now. The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given;For in that stable lay new-bornThe peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnightCenturies ago. 

Alfred Domett [1811-1887]

"WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT"

While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around. 

"Fear not, " said he, for mighty dreadHad seized their troubled mind;"Glad tidings of great joy I bringTo you and all mankind. 

"To you, in David's town, this dayIs born, of David's line, The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, And this shall be the sign:

"The heavenly babe you there shall findTo human view displayed, All meanly wrapped in swaddling bands, And in a manger laid. "

Thus spake the seraph; and forthwithAppeared a shining throngOf angels, praising God, who thusAddressed their joyful song:

"All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace;Good will henceforth from Heaven to menBegin and never cease. "

Nahum Tate [1652-1715]

CHRISTMAS CAROLS

It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earthTo touch their harps of gold:"Peace on the earth, good will to menFrom heaven's all-gracious King"--The world in solemn stillness layTo hear the angels sing. 

Still through the cloven skies they comeWith peaceful wings unfurled, And still their heavenly music floatsO'er all the weary world;Above its sad and lowly plainsThey bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-soundsThe blessed angels sing. 

But with the woes of sin and strifeThe world has suffered long;Beneath the angel-strain have rolledTwo thousand years of wrong;And man, at war with man, hears notThe love-song which they bring;--Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing wayWith painful steps and slow, Look now! for glad and golden hoursCome swiftly on the wing;--Oh, rest beside the weary roadAnd hear the angels sing!

For lo! the days are hastening onBy prophet bards foretold, When with the ever circling yearsComes round the age of gold;When Peace shall over all the earthIts ancient splendors fling, And the whole world give back the songWhich now the angels sing. 

Edmund Hamilton Sears [1810-1876]

THE ANGELSFrom "Flowers of Sion"

Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears. We bring the best of news; be not dismayed:A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid, A weakling did him bear, who all upbears;There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres:Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth. This is that night--no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is:In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth!Thus singing, through the air the angels swarm, And cope of stars re-echoed the same. 

William Drummond [1585-1649]

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary winter's nightStood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heatWhich made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eyeTo view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning brightDid in the air appear;Who, scorched with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames, Which with His tears were bred:"Alas!" quoth He, "but newly bornIn fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their heartsOr feel my fire but I!

"My faultless breast the furnace is;The fuel, wounding thorns;Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;The ashes, shames and scorns;The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wroughtAre men's defiled souls:For which, as now on fire I amTo work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood. "With this He vanished out of sightAnd swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mindThat it was Christmas Day. 

Robert Southwell [1561?-1595]

TRYSTE NOEL

The Ox he openeth wide the Doore, And from the Snowe he calls her inne, And he hath seen her Smile therefor, Our Ladye without Sinne. Now soone from SleepA Starre shall leap, And soone arrive both King and Hinde:Amen, Amen:But O, the Place co'd I but finde!

The Ox hath hushed his voyce and bentTrewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow, And on his lovelie Neck, forspent, The Blessed layes her Browe. Around her feetFull Warme and SweeteHis bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell:Amen, Amen:But sore am I with Vaine Travel!

The Ox is host in Judah stallAnd Host of more than onelie one, For close she gathereth withalOur Lorde her littel Sonne. Glad Hinde and KingTheir Gyfte may bring, But wo'd to-night my Teares were there, Amen, Amen:Between her Bosom and His hayre!

Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]

CHRISTMAS CAROL

As Joseph was a-waukin', He heard an angel sing, "This night shall be the birthnightOf Christ our heavenly King. 

"His birth-bed shall be neitherIn housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of paradise, But in the oxen's stall. 

"He neither shall be rockedIn silver nor in gold, But in the wooden mangerThat lieth in the mould. 

"He neither shall be washenWith white wine nor with red, But with the fair spring waterThat on you shall be shed. 

"He neither shall be clothedIn purple nor in pall, But in the fair, white linenThat usen babies all. "

As Joseph was a-waukin', Thus did the angel sing, And Mary's son at midnightWas born to be our King. 

Then be you glad, good people, At this time of the year;And light you up your candles, For His star it shineth clear. 

Unknown

"BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING"

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning!Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall;Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odors of Edom and offerings divine?Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;Vainly with gifts would His favor secure:Richer by far is the heart's adoration;Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning!Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Reginald Heber [1783-1826]

CHRISTMAS BELLS

I heard the bells on Christmas DayTheir old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweetThe words repeatOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all ChristendomHad rolled alongThe unbroken songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublimeOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouthThe cannon thundered in the South, And with the soundThe carols drownedOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rentThe hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlornThe households bornOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;"There is no peace on earth, " I said, "For hate is strong, And mocks the songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep!The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap, His hair was like a light. (O weary, weary were the world, But here is all aright. )

The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast, His hair was like a star. (O stern and cunning are the kings, But here the true hearts are. )

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart, His hair was like a fire. (O weary, weary is the world, But here the world's desire. )

The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee, His hair was like a crown, And all the flowers looked up at Him, And all the stars looked down. 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]

THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS

There fared a mother driven forthOut of an inn to roam;In the place where she was homelessAll men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and standThan the square stones of Rome. 

For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay their heads in a foreign landWhenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honor and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skiesWhere the yule tale was begun. 

A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam, Only where He was homelessAre you and I at home;We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost--how long ago!In a place no chart nor ship can showUnder the sky's dome. 

This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enoughFor our wonder and our war;But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swingsAnd our peace is put in impossible thingsWhere clashed and thundered unthinkable wingsRound an incredible star. 

To an open house in the eveningHome shall men come, To an older place than EdenAnd a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homelessAnd all men are at home. 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]

THE FEAST OF THE SNOW

There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim, And never before or again, When the nights are strong with a darkness long, And the dark is alive with rain. 

Never we know but in sleet and snowThe place where the great fires are, That the midst of earth is a raging mirth, And the heart of the earth a star. 

And at night we win to the ancient inn, Where the Child in the frost is furled, We follow the feet where all souls meet, At the inn at the end of the world. 

The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, For the flame of the sun is flown;The gods lie cold where the leaves are gold, And a Child comes forth alone. 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]

MARY'S BABY

Joseph, mild and noble, bent above the straw:A pale girl, a frail girl, suffering he saw;"O my Love, my Mary, my bride, I pity thee!""Nay, Dear, " said Mary, "all is well with me!""Baby, my baby, O my babe, " she sang. Suddenly the golden night all with music rang. 

Angels leading shepherds, shepherds leading sheep:The silence of worship broke the mother's sleep. All the meek and lowly of all the world were there;Smiling, she showed them that her Child was fair, "Baby, my baby, " kissing Him she said. Suddenly a flaming star through the heavens sped. 

Three old men and weary knelt them side by side, The world's wealth forswearing, majesty and pride;Worldly might and wisdom before the Babe bent low:Weeping, maid Mary said, "I love Him so!""Baby, my baby, " and the Baby slept. Suddenly on Calvary all the olives wept. 

Shaemas OSheel [1886-

GATES AND DOORSA Ballad of Christmas Eve

There was a gentle hostler(And blessed be his name!)He opened up the stableThe night Our Lady came. Our Lady and St. Joseph, He gave them food and bed, And Jesus Christ has given himA glory round his head. 

So let the gate swing openHowever poor the yard, Lest weary People visit youAnd find their Passage barred. Unlatch the door at midnightAnd let your lantern's glowShine out to guide the traveler's feetTo you across the snow. 

There was a courteous hostler(He is in Heaven to-night)He held Our Lady's bridleAnd helped her to alight. He spread clean straw before herWhereon she might lie down, And Jesus Christ has given himAn everlasting crown. 

Unlock the door this eveningAnd let your gate swing wide, Let all who ask for shelterCome speedily inside. What if your yard be narrow?What if your house be small?There is a Guest is comingWill glorify it all. 

There was a joyous hostlerWho knelt on Christmas mornBeside the radiant mangerWherein his Lord was born. His heart was full of laughter, His soul was full of blissWhen Jesus, on His Mother's lap, Gave him His hand to kiss. 

Unbar your heart this eveningAnd keep no stranger out, Take from your soul's great portalThe barrier of doubt. To humble folk and wearyGive hearty welcoming, Your breast shall be to-morrowThe cradle of a King. 

Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]

THE THREE KINGS

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. 

The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the skyBecame a white mist in the atmosphere;And by this they knew that the coming was nearOf the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys;Their robes were of crimson silk, with rowsOf bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. 

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well. 

"Of the child that is born, " said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news, For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews. "

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;We know of no king but Herod the Great!"They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plainLike riders in haste, and who cannot wait. 

And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king. "

So they rode away, and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn;Yes, it stopped, --it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David, where Christ was born. 

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turnedAnd neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. 

And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The Child that would be King one dayOf a kingdom not human, but divine. 

His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of deathWere mingled together in her breast. 

They laid their offerings at his feet:The gold was their tribute to a King;The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete;The myrrh for the body's burying. 

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone;Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had saidOf an endless reign and of David's throne. 

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

LULLABY IN BETHLEHEM

There hath come an host to see Thee, Baby dear, Bearded men with eyes of flameAnd lips of fear, For the heavens, they say, have brokenInto blinding gulfs of glory, And the Lord, they say, hath spokenIn a little wondrous story, Baby dear. 

There have come three kings to greet Thee, Baby dear, Crowned with gold, and clad in purple, They draw near. They have brought rare silks to bind Thee, At Thy feet, behold, they spread them, From their thrones they sprang to find Thee, And a blazing star hath led them, Baby dear. 

I have neither jade nor jasper, Baby dear, Thou art all my hope and glory, And my fear, Yet for all the gems that strew Thee, And the costly gowns that fold Thee, Yea, though all the world should woo Thee, Thou art mine--and fast I hold Thee, Baby dear. 

Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-

A CHILD'S SONG OF CHRISTMAS

My counterpane is soft as silk, My blankets white as creamy milk. The hay was soft to Him, I know, Our little Lord of long ago. 

Above the roofs the pigeons flyIn silver wheels across the sky. The stable-doves they cooed to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem. 

Bright shines the sun across the drifts, And bright upon my Christmas gifts. They brought Him incense, myrrh, and gold, Our little Lord who lived of old. 

Oh, soft and clear our mother singsOf Christmas joys and Christmas things. God's holy angels sang to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem. 

Our hearts they hold all Christmas dear, And earth seems sweet and heaven seems near, Oh, heaven was in His sight, I know, That little Child of long ago. 

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]

JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS

Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill!Mighty glad I ain't a girl--ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy!Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake--Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache!'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at!Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart an' we all hook a ride!But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!"But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd knowThat Buff'lo Bill and cow-boys is good enough for me!Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they keep a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's becomeOf them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions meWhen jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys;So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's an' q's, An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out yer shoes;Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again;But, thinking of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

A VTSTT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night. "

Clement Clarke Moore [1779-1863]

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS

Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing;While my good dame, sheBids ye all be free;And drink to your hearts' desiring. 

With the last year's brandLight the new block, andFor good success in his spending, On your psaltries play, That sweet luck mayCome while the log is a-tending. 

Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here, The while the meat is a-shredding;For the rare mince-pieAnd the plums stand byTo fill the paste that's a-kneading. 

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY

This is the month, and this the happy mornWherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did singThat he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of MajestyWherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-taTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strainTo welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet!O run, prevent them with thy humble odeAnd lay it lowly at his blessed feet;Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel choirFrom out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire. 

THE HYMNIt was the winter wildWhile the heaven-born ChildAll meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to HimHad doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

Only with speeches fairShe woos the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow;And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;Confounded, that her Maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities. 

But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;She, crowned with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing and amorous clouds dividing;And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

No war, or battle's soundWas heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high uphung;The hooked chariot stoodUnstained with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean--Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glowUntil their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

And though the shady gloomHad given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flameThe new-enlightened world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThan his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. 

The shepherds on the lawnOr ere the point of dawnSat simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thenThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 

When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greetAs never was by mortal finger strook--Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 

Nature, that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, Now was almost wonTo think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular lightThat with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed;The helmed CherubimAnd sworded SeraphimAre seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn choirWith unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir. 

Such music (as 'tis said)Before was never madeBut when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator greatHis constellations setAnd the well-balanced world on hinges hung;And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so;And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy songEnwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;And speckled vanityWill sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit betweenThroned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 

But wisest Fate says No;This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify:Yet first, to those ychained in sleepThe wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:The aged Earth aghastWith terror of that blastShall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne. 

And then at last our blissFull and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy dayThe old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway;And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb;No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:No nightly trance or breathed spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o'erAnd the resounding shoreA voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring and daleEdged with poplar paleThe parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 

In consecrated earthAnd on the holy hearthThe Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars roundA drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. 

Peor and BaalimForsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine;And mooned AshtarothHeaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 

And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dreadHis burning idol all of blackest hue;In vain with cymbals' ringThey call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 

Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove, or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest;Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;In vain with timbrelled anthems darkThe sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark. 

He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded Infant's hand;The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abideNor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew. 

So, when the sun in bedCurtained with cloudy redPillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave:And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. 

But see! the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:Heaven's youngest teemed starHath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:And all about the courtly stableBright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable. 

John Milton [1608-1674]

FAIRYLAND

THE FAIRY BOOK

In summer, when the grass is thick, if mother has the time, She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme, And often she is sweet enough to choose a leafy nook, Where I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook. 

In winter, when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song, And crocuses and violets have been away too long, Dear mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look, And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook. 

And mother tells the servants that of course they must contriveTo manage all the household things from four till half-past five, For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook, When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairybook. 

Norman Gale [1862-

FAIRY SONGS

IFrom "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green:The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favors, In those freckles live their savors:I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 

IIFrom "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen. 

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby. 

Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence. 

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good-night, with lullaby. 

IIIFrom "The Tempest"

Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands:Court'sied when you have, and kissed, --The wild waves whist, --Foot it featly here and there;And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark!Bow, wow, The watch-dogs bark:Bow, wow. Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

IVFrom "The Tempest"

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip's bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do flyAfter summer merrily:Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

QUEEN MABFrom "The Satyr"

This is Mab, the Mistress-Fairy, That doth nightly rob the dairyAnd can hurt or help the churning, As she please without discerning. 

She that pinches country wenchesIf they rub not clean their benches, And with sharper nails remembersWhen they rake not up their embers:But if so they chance to feast her, In a shoe she drops a tester. 

This is she that empties cradles, Takes out children, puts in ladles:Trains forth old wives in their slumberWith a sieve the holes to number;And then leads them from her burrows, Home through ponds and water-furrows. 

She can start our Franklins' daughters, In their sleep, with shrieks and laughters:And on sweet Saint Anna's nightFeed them with a promised sight, Some of husbands, some of lovers, Which an empty dream discovers. 

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE

Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf, Out of the rain, to shelter himself. 

Under the toadstool sound asleep, Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap. 

Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yetFearing to fly away lest he get wet. 

To the next shelter--maybe a mile!Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile, Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two. Holding it over him, gayly he flew. 

Soon he was safe home, dry as could be. Soon woke the Dormouse--"Good gracious me!

"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented. --And that's how umbrellas first were invented. 

Oliver Herford [1863-1935]

"OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?"

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills?Beneath the moon they cannot tripIn circles o'er the plain;And draughts of dew they cannot sip, Till green leaves come again. 

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bellsThey plunge beneath the waves, Inhabiting the wreathed shellsThat lie in coral caves. Perhaps, in red VesuviusCarousals they maintain;And cheer their little spirits thus, Till green leaves come again. 

When they return, there will be mirthAnd music in the air. And fairy wings upon the earth, And mischief everywhere. The maids, to keep the elves aloof, Will bar the doors in vain;No key-hole will he fairy-proofWhen green leaves come again. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

FAIRY SONGFrom "Amyntas"

We the Fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 

Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples. 

When to bed the world is bobbing, Then's the time for orchard-robbing;Yet the fruit were scarce worth peelingWere it not for stealing, stealing. 

Translated by Leigh Hunt from the Latin of Thomas Randolph[1605-1635]

DREAM SONG

I come from woods enchaunted, Starlit and pixey-haunted, Where 'twixt the bracken and the treesThe goblins lie and take their easeBy winter moods undaunted. 

There down the golden gravelThe laughing rivers travel;Elves wake at nights and whisper lowBetween the bracken and the snowTheir dreamings to unravel. 

Twisted and lank and hairy, With wanton eyes and wary, They stretch and chuckle in the wind, For one has found a mermaid kind, And one has kissed a fairy. 

They know no melancholy, But fashion crowns of holly, And gather sleep within the brakeTo deck a kingdom when they wake, And bless the dreamer's folly. 

Ah! would that I might followThe servants of Apollo!But it is sweet to heap the hoursWith quiet dreams and poppy-flowers, Down in the pixies' hollow. 

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

FAIRY SONG

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O, weep no more!Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! O, dry your eyes!For I was taught in ParadiseTo ease my breast of melodies, --Shed no tear. 

Overhead! look overhead!'Mong the blossoms white and red, --Look up, look up! I flutter nowOn this flush pomegranate bough. See me! 'tis this silvery billEver cures the good man's ill, --Shed no tear! O, shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu--I fly--adieu!I vanish in the heaven's blue, --Adieu, adieu!

John Keats [1795-1821]

QUEEN MAB

A little fairy comes at night, Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, With silver spots upon her wings, And from the moon she flutters down. 

She has a little silver wand, And when a good child goes to bedShe waves her hand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head. 

And then it dreams of pleasant things, Of fountains filled with fairy fish, And trees that bear delicious fruit, And bow their branches at a wish:

Of arbors filled with dainty scentsFrom lovely flowers that never fade;Bright flies that glitter in the sun, And glow-worms shining in the shade:

And talking birds with gifted tongues, For singing songs and telling tales, And pretty dwarfs to show the wayThrough fairy hills and fairy dales. 

But when a bad child goes to bed, From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the nightOf only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes, And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, And ogres draw their cruel knives, To shed the blood of girls and boys. 

Then stormy waves rush on to drown, Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air, And serpents crawl along the ground. 

Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away;But good ones love the dark, and findThe night as pleasant as the day. 

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOWA Midsummer Legend

"And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?""I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?""I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow. "

"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?""I heard the drops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill. "

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary--All--all that ever you know;For you must have seen the fairiesLast night on the Caldon-Low!"

"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine:A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine. 

"And their harp-strings rang so merrilyTo their dancing feet so small;But, oh! the words of their talkingWere merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?""I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way. 

"Some of them played with the water, And rolled it down the hill;'And this, ' they said, 'shall speedily turnThe poor old miller's mill. 

"'For there has been no waterEver since the first of May;And a busy man will the miller beAt the dawning of the day!

"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise!The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill:

"'And there, ' said they, 'the merry winds goAway from every horn;And they shall clear the mildew dankFrom the blind old widow's corn:

"'Oh, the poor blind widow--Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseedAnd flung it down the Low:'And this, ' said they, 'by the sunriseIn the weaver's croft shall grow!

"'Oh, the poor lame weaver!How will he laugh outrightWhen he sees his dwindling flax-fieldAll full of flowers by night!'

"And then outspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin:'I have spun up all the tow, ' said he, 'And I want some more to spin. 

"'I've spun a piece of hempen clothAnd I want to spin another--A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother!'

"With that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free;And then on the top of the Caldon-LowThere was no one left but me. 

"And all on the top of the Caldon-LowThe mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stonesThat round about me lay. 

"But, coming down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!

"And I peeped into the widow's field, And, sure enough, was seenThe yellow ears of the mildewed cornAll standing stout and green. 

"And down the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung;And I met the weaver at his gateWith the good news on his tongue!

"Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see;So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home, They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. 

High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses, On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nightsTo sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake. 

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there. If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

William Allingham [1824-1889]

THE FAIRY THRALL

On gossamer nights when the moon is low, And stars in the mist are hiding, Over the hill where the foxgloves growYou may see the fairies riding. Kling! Klang! Kling!Their stirrups and their bridles ring, And their horns are loud and their bugles blow, When the moon is low. 

They sweep through the night like a whistling wind, They pass and have left no traces;But one of them lingers far behindThe flight of the fairy faces. She makes no moan, She sorrows in the dark alone, She wails for the love of human kind, Like a whistling wind. 

"Ah! why did I roam where the elfins ride, Their glimmering steps to follow?They bore me far from my loved one's side, To wander o'er hill and hollow. Kling! Klang! Kling!Their stirrups and their bridles ring, But my heart is cold in the cold night-tide, Where the elfins ride. "

Mary C. G. Byron [1861-

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES

Farewell, rewards and fairies!Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairiesDo fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no lessThan maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbeys, The fairies' lost command!They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land;And all your children sprung from thence, Are now grown Puritanes;Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your demains. 

At morning and at evening bothYou merry were and glad;So little care of sleep or slothThese pretty ladies had;When Tom came home from labor, Or Ciss to milking rose, Then merrily merrily went their taborAnd nimbly went their toes. 

Witness those rings and roundelaysOf theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's daysOn many a grassy plain;But since of late, Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heathAs when the time hath been. 

By which we note the fairiesWere of the old profession;Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession. But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas;Or farther for religion fled;Or else they take their ease. 

A tell-tale in their companyThey never could endure;And whoso kept not secretlyTheir mirth, was punished sure;It was a just and Christian deedTo pinch such black and blue:Oh, how the Commonwealth doth needSuch justices as you!

Richard Corbet [1582-1635]

THE FAIRY FOLK

Come cuddle close in daddy's coatBeside the fire so bright, And hear about the fairy folkThat wander in the night. For when the stars are shining clearAnd all the world is still, They float across the silver moonFrom hill to cloudy hill. 

Their caps of red, their cloaks of green, Are hung with silver bells, And when they're shaken with the windTheir merry ringing swells. And riding on the crimson moth, With black spots on her wings, They guide them down the purple skyWith golden bridle rings. 

They love to visit girls and boysTo see how sweet they sleep, To stand beside their cosy cotsAnd at their faces peep. For in the whole of fairy-landThey have no finer sightThan little children sleeping soundWith faces rosy bright. 

On tip-toe crowding round their heads, When bright the moonlight beams, They whisper little tender wordsThat fill their minds with dreams;And when they see a sunny smile, With lightest finger tipsThey lay a hundred kisses sweetUpon the ruddy lips. 

And then the little spotted mothsSpread out their crimson wings, And bear away the fairy crowdWith shaking bridle rings. Come, bairnies, hide in daddy's coat, Beside the fire so bright--Perhaps the little fairy folkWill visit you to-night. 

Robert Bird [1867-

THE FAIRY BOOK

When Mother takes the Fairy BookAnd we curl up to hear, 'Tis "All aboard for Fairyland!"Which seems to be so near. 

For soon we reach the pleasant placeOf Once Upon a Time, Where birdies sing the hour of day, And flowers talk in rhyme;

Where Bobby is a velvet Prince, And where I am a Queen;Where one can talk with animals, And walk about unseen;

Where Little People live in nuts, And ride on butterflies, And wonders kindly come to passBefore your very eyes;

Where candy grows on every bush, And playthings on the trees, And visitors pick basketfulsAs often as they please. 

It is the nicest time of day--Though Bedtime is so near, --When Mother takes the Fairy BookAnd we curl up to hear. 

Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]

THE VISITOR

The white goat Amaryllis, She wandered at her willAt time of daffodilliesAfar and up the hill:We hunted and we holloa'dAnd back she came at dawn, But what d'you think had followed?--A little, pagan Faun!

His face was like a berry. His ears were high and pricked:Tip-tap--his hoofs came merryAs up the path he clicked;A junket for his winningWe set in dairy delf;He eat it--peart and grinningAs Christian as yourself!

He stayed about the steadingA fortnight, say, or more;A blanket for his beddingWe spread beside the door;And when the cocks crowed clearlyBefore the dawn was ripe, He'd call the milkmaids cheerlyUpon a reedy pipe!

That fortnight of his stayingThe work went smooth as silk:The hens were all in laying, The cows were all in milk;And then--and then one morningThe maids woke up at dayWithout his oaten warning, --And found he'd gone away. 

He left no trace behind him;But still the milkmaids deemThat they, perhaps, may find himWith butter and with cream:Beside the door they set themIn bowl and golden pat, But no one comes to get them--Unless, maybe, the cat. 

The white goat Amaryllis, She wanders at her willAt time of daffodillies, Away up Woolcombe hill;She stays until the morrow, Then back she comes at dawn;But never--to our sorrow--The little, pagan Faun. 

Patrick R. Chalmers [18

THE LITTLE ELF

I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small, And why he didn't grow. He slightly frowned, and with his eyeHe looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me, " said he, "As you are big for you. "

John Kendrick Bangs [1862-1922]

THE SATYRS AND THE MOON

Within the wood behind the hillThe moon got tangled in the trees. Her splendor made the branches thrillAnd thrilled the breeze. 

The satyrs in the grotto bentTheir heads to see the wondrous sight. "It is a god in banishmentThat stirs the night. "

The little satyr looked and guessed:"It is an apple that one sees, Brought from that garden of the West--Hesperides. "

"It is a cyclops' glaring eye. ""A temple dome from Babylon. ""A Titan's cup of ivory. ""A little sun. "

The tiny satyr jumped for joy, And kicked hoofs in utmost glee. "It is a wondrous silver toy--Bring it to me!"

A great wind whistled through the blueAnd caught the moon and tossed it high;A bubble of pale fire it flewAcross the sky. 

The satyrs gasped and looked and smiled, And wagged their heads from side to side, Except their shaggy little child, Who cried and cried. 

Herbert S. Gorman [1893-

THE CHILDREN

THE CHILDREN

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, The little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed;Oh, the little white arms that encircleMy neck in their tender embrace!Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone, I sit dreamingOf my childhood too lovely to last, --Of joy that my heart will remember, While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made meA partner of sorrow and sin, When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. 

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go, --Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;--Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holyAs the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households;They are angels of God in disguise;His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still shines in their eyes;Those truants from home and from heaven, --They have made me more manly and mild;And I know now how Jesus could likenThe kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadowTo temper the glare of the sun;I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself;--Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rodI have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God:My heart is the dungeon of darknessWhere I shut them for breaking a rule;My frown is sufficient correction;My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more;Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear onesThat meet me each morn at the door!I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowersThat are brought every morning for me. 

I shall miss them at morn and at even, Their song in the school and the street;I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended, And death says: "The school is dismissed!"May the little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed!

Charles Monroe Dickinson [1842-1924]

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence:Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning togetherTo take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall!By three doors left unguardedThey enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turretO'er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they surround me;They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of BingenIn his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I amIs not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeonIn the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

LAUS INFANTIUM

In praise of little children I will sayGod first made man, then found a better wayFor woman, but his third way was the best. Of all created things, the loveliestAnd most divine are children. Nothing hereCan be to us more gracious or more dear. And though, when God saw all his works were good, There was no rosy flower of babyhood, 'Twas said of children in a later dayThat none could enter Heaven save such as they. 

The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn, Was glad, O little child, when you were born;The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue, Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you;And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glassIts beauty in each dewdrop on the grass, --Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair, And left, O little child, its reflex there. 

William Canton [1845-

THE DESIRE

Give me no mansions ivory whiteNor palaces of pearl and gold;Give me a child for all delight, Just four years old. 

Give me no wings of rosy shineNor snowy raiment, fold on fold, Give me a little boy all mine, Just four years old. 

Give me no gold and starry crownNor harps, nor palm branches unrolled;Give me a nestling head of brown, Just four years old. 

Give me a cheek that's like the peach, Two arms to clasp me from the cold;And all my heaven's within my reach, Just four years old. 

Dear God, You give me from Your skiesA little paradise to hold, As Mary once her Paradise, Just four years old. 

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

A CHILD'S LAUGHTER

All the bells of heaven may ring, All the birds of heaven may sing, All the wells on earth may spring, All the winds on earth may bringAll sweet sounds together;Sweeter far then all things heard, Hand of harper, tone of bird, Sound of woods at sundawn stirred, Welling water's winsome word, Wind in warm, wan weather. 

One thing yet there is, that none, Hearing ere its chime be done, Knows not well the sweetest oneHeard of man beneath the sun, Hoped in heaven hereafter;Soft and strong and loud and light, Very sound of very light, Heard from morning's rosiest height, When the soul of all delight, Fills a child's clear laughter. 

Golden bells of welcome rolledNever forth such note, nor toldHours so blithe in tones so bold, As the radiant mouth of goldHere that rings forth heaven. If the golden-crested wrenWere a nightingale--why, thenSomething seen and heard of menMight be half as sweet as whenLaughs a child of seven. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

SEVEN YEARS OLD

Seven white roses on one tree, Seven white loaves of blameless leaven, Seven white sails on one soft sea, Seven white swans on one lake's lea, Seven white flowerlike stars in Heaven, All are types unmeet to beFor a birthday's crown of seven. 

Not the radiance of the roses, Not the blessing of the bread, Not the breeze that ere day grows isFresh for sails and swans, and closesWings above the sun's grave spreadWhen the starshine on the snows isSweet as sleep on sorrow shed. 

Nothing sweeter, nothing best, Holds so good and sweet a treasureAs the love wherewith once blestJoy grows holy, grief takes rest, Life, half tired with hours to measure, Fills his eyes and lips and breastWith most light and breath of pleasure;

As the rapture unpolluted, As the passion undefiled, By whose force all pains heart-rootedAre transfigured and transmuted, Recompensed and reconciled, Through the imperial, undisputed, Present godhead of a child. 

Brown bright eyes and fair bright head, Worth a worthier crown than this is, Worth a worthier song instead, Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fedWith the joy of love, whose bliss isMore than mortal wine and bread, Lips whose words are sweet as kisses. 

Little hands so glad of giving, Little heart so glad of love, Little soul so glad of living, While the strong swift hours are weavingLight with darkness woven above, Time for mirth and time for grieving, Plume of raven and plume of dove. 

I can give you but a wordWarm with love therein for leaven, But a song that falls unheardYet on ears of sense unstirredYet by song so far from Heaven, Whence you came the brightest bird, Seven years since, of seven times seven. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

CREEP AFORE YE GANG

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang, Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Grannie's sang:Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang. 

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye're ower young to learnTo tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;Better creepin' cannie, than fa'in' wi' a bang, Duntin' a' your wee brow, --creep afore ye gang. 

Ye'll creep, an' ye'll hotch, an' ye'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka step o' your wee dousy brither;Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye'll be a braw chiel yet, --creep afore ye gang. 

The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee, Folks are sure to tumble, when they climb ower hie;They wha canna walk right are sure to come to wrang, Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang. 

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

CASTLES IN THE AIR

The bonnie, bonnie bairn who sits poking in the ase, Glowering in the fire wi' his wee round face, Laughing at the fuffin' lowe--what sees he there?Ha! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air. 

His wee chubby face and his touzie curly powAre laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe;He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air. 

He sees muckle castles towering to the moon;He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun;Warlds whommlin' up and doun, bleezing wi' a flare, --See how he loups as they glimmer in the air!

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men:A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare, --There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air. 

Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld:His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;His brow is brent sae braid--O pray that daddy CareWad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air!

He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light;But mony sparkling stars are swallowed up by Night:Aulder e'en than his are glamored by a glare, --Hearts are broken, heads are turned, wi' castles in the air. 

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

UNDER MY WINDOW

Under my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curlsFlit to and fro together:--There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window, Leaning stealthily over, Merry and clear, the voice I hearOf each glad-hearted rover. Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, As merry as bees in clover. 

Under my window, under my window, In the blue Midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe, I catch them all together:--Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window, And off through the orchard closes;While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies;But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses. 

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

LITTLE BELLHe prayeth well who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast. The Ancient Mariner

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he--"What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold, "--"Little Bell, " said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks--Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks--"Bonny bird, " quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go. ""Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell, " said he. 

And the blackbird piped; you never heardHalf so gay a song from any bird--Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow. All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pourHis full heart out freely o'er and o'er'Neath the morning skies. In the little childish heart belowAll the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflowFrom the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the treeSwung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, --While bold blackbird piped that all might hear--"Little Bell, " piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern--"Squirrel, to your task return--Bring me nuts, " quoth she. Up, away the frisky squirrel hies--Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes--And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by one--Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!"Happy Bell, " pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade--"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me!"Down came squirrel eager for his fare--Down came bonny blackbird I declare;Little Bell gave each his honest share--Ah the merry three!And the while these frolic playmates twainPiped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart belowAll the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflowFrom her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray--Very calm and clearRose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serenePaused awhile to hear--"What good child is this, " the angel said, "That, with happy heart, beside her bedPrays so lovingly?"Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he. 

"Whom God's creatures love, " the angel fairMurmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;Child, thy bed shall beFolded safe from harm--Love deep and kindShall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!"

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

THE BAREFOOT BOY

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;From my heart I give thee joy, --I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art, --the grown-up manOnly is republican. Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye, --Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, --Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pondMine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread;Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

THE HERITAGE

Thee rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares;The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart, he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair;A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit?Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit?A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. 

O rich man's son! there is a toilThat with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands;This is the best crop from thy lands, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. 

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

LETTY'S GLOBEOr Some Irregularities In A First Lesson In Geography

When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year, And her young artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a colored sphereOf the wide Earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land. She patted all the world; old Empires peepedBetween her baby fingers; her soft handWas welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped, And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss!But when we turned her sweet unlearned eyeOn our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry, --"O yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!"And while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 

Charles Tennyson Turner [1808-1879]

DOVE'S NEST

"Sylvia, hush!" I said, "come here, Come see a fairy-tale, my dear!Tales told are good, tales seen are best!"The dove was brooding on the nestIn the lowest crotch of the apple tree. I lifted her up so quietly, That when she could have touched the birdThe soft gray creature had not stirred. It looked at us with a wild dark eye. But, "Birdie, fly!" was Sylvia's cry, Impatient Sylvia, "Birdie, fly. "Ah, well: but when I touched the nest, The child recoiled upon my breast. Was ever such a startling thing?Sudden silver and purple wing, The dove was out, away, across, Struggling heart-break on the grass. And there in the cup within the treeTwo milk-white eggs were ours to see. Was ever thing so pretty? Alack, "Birdie!" Sylvia cried, "come back!"

Joseph Russell Taylor [1868-1933]

THE ORACLE

I lay upon the summer grass. A gold-haired, sunny child came by, And looked at me, as loath to pass, With questions in her lingering eye. 

She stopped and wavered, then drew near, (Ah! the pale gold around her head!)And o'er my shoulder stopped to peer. "Why do you read?" she said. 

"I read a poet of old time, Who sang through all his living hours--Beauty of earth--the streams, the flowers--And stars, more lovely than his rhyme. 

"And now I read him, since men go, Forgetful of these sweetest things;Since he and I love brooks that flow, And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings!"

She stared at me with laughing look, Then clasped her hands upon my knees:"How strange to read it in a book!I could have told you all of these!"

Arthur Davison Ficke [1883-

TO A LITTLE GIRL

You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address, The mode of plucking pansies and the art of sowing cress, And how to handle puppies, with propitiatory patsFor mother dogs, and little acts of courtesy to cats. 

O connoisseur of pebbles, colored leaves and trickling rills, Whom seasons fit as do the sheaths that wrap the daffodils, Whose eyes' divine expectancy foretells some starry goal, You taught me here docility--and how to save my soul. 

Helen Parry Eden [18

TO A LITTLE GIRL

Her eyes are like forget-me-nots, So loving, kind and true;Her lips are like a pink sea-shellJust as the sun shines through;Her hair is like the waving grainIn summer's golden light;And, best of all, her little soulIs, like a lily, white. 

Gustav Kobbe [1857-1918]

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SONAged Three Years And Five Months

Thou happy, happy elf!(But stop, --first let me kiss away that tear!)Thou tiny image of myself!(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, --(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, --(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)Thou darling of thy sire!(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)Thou imp of mirth and joy!In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents, --(Drat the boy!There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub, --but of earth;Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!)Thou human humming-bee, extracting honeyFrom every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny. --(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!(Are these torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, --(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John!Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, --(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk!(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy and breathing music like the South, --(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, --(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;--(I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above. )

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A NEW POET

I write. He sits beside my chair, And scribbles, too, in hushed delight, He dips his pen in charmed air:What is it he pretends to write?

He toils and toils; the paper givesNo clue to aught he thinks. What then?His little heart is glad; he livesThe poems that he cannot pen. 

Strange fancies throng that baby brain. What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes!He stops--reflects--and now againHis unrecording pen he plies. 

It seems a satire on myself, --These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf, Wouldst drive thy father to despair?

Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mindPersists in hoping, --schemes and strivesThat there may linger with our kindSome memory of our little lives. 

Beneath his rock in the early worldSmiling the naked hunter lay, And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, The urus which he made his prey. 

Like him I strive in hope my rhymesMay keep my name a little while, --O child, who knows how many timesWe two have made the angels smile!

William Canton [1845-

TO LAURA W--, TWO YEARS OLD

Bright be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow, --Bright as the dream flung over theeBy all that meets thee now, --Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's, And sweetly breaks the melodyOf thy imperfect words. I know no fount that gushes outAs gladly as thy tiny shout. 

I would that thou might'st ever beAs beautiful as now, That time might ever leave as freeThy yet unwritten brow. I would life were all poetryTo gentle measure set, That naught but chastened melodyMight stain thine eye of jet, Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 

I would--but deeper things than theseWith woman's lot are wove:Wrought of intensest sympathies, And nerved by purest love;By the strong spirit's discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven, By all that wrings the heart of sin, Is woman won to heaven. "Her lot is on thee, " lovely child--God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air, Thine eye's beseeching earnestnessMay be to thee a snare. The silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow:But they who kneel at woman's shrineBreathe on it as they bow. Peace may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain. 

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?Keep thee as thou art now?Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, At God's pure throne to bow?The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim--Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up to Him?He who himself was "undefiled?"With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

TO ROSE

Rose, when I remember you, Little lady, scarcely two, I am suddenly awareOf the angels in the air. All your softly gracious waysMake an island in my daysWhere my thoughts fly back to beSheltered from too strong a sea. All your luminous delightShines before me in the nightWhen I grope for sleep and findOnly shadows in my mind. 

Rose, when I remember you, White and glowing, pink and new, With so swift a sense of funAlthough life has just begun;With so sure a pride of placeIn your very infant face, I should like to make a prayerTo the angels in the air:"If an angel ever bringsMe a baby in her wings, Please be certain that it growsVery, very much like Rose. "

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

Timely blossom, Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every nightTheir solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please;Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue;Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandoned to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush;Like the linnet in the bushTo the mother-linnet's noteModuling her slender throat;Chirping forth thy pretty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in MayFlitting to each bloomy spray;Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest:--This thy present happy lot, This, in time will be forgot:Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares;And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee. 

Ambrose Philips [1675?-1749]

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS

See with what simplicityThis nymph begins her golden days!In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tamesThe wilder flowers, and gives them names;But only with the roses plays, And them does tellWhat color best becomes them, and what smell. 

Who can foretell for what high causeThis darling of the gods was born?Yet this is she whose chaster lawsThe wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke, and ensigns torn. Happy who canAppease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compoundAnd parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound, Ere with their glancing wheels they driveIn triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise:Let me be laidWhere I may see the glories from some shade. 

Meantime, whilst every verdant thingItself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring;Make that the tulips may have shareOf sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarmBut most procureThat violets may a longer age endure. 

But O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;Lest Flora, angry at thy crimeTo kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make the example yours;And, ere we see, Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes and thee. 

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGESix Years Old

O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought:Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thoughtThe breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;Thou fairy voyager! that dost floatIn such clear water, that thy boatMay rather seemTo brood on air than on an earthly stream;Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery:O blessed vision! happy child!Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fearsFor what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality;And Grief, uneasy lover! never restBut when she sate within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly!O vain and causeless melancholy!Nature will either end thee quite;Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow?Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;A gem that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives;But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife, Slips in a moment out of life. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO A CHILD OF QUALITYFive Years Old, 1704, The Author Then Forty

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous bandThat wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high commandTo show their passions by their letters. 

My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fires, and lookThe power they have to be obeyed. 

Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbids me yet my flame to tell;Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. 

For, while she makes her silkworms' bedsWith all the tender things I swear;Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame;For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then too, alas! when she shall tearThe rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making loveWhen she begins to comprehend it. 

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

EX ORE INFANTIUM

Little Jesus, wast Thou shyOnce, and just so small as I?And what did it feel like to beOut of Heaven, and just like me?Didst Thou sometimes think of there, And ask where all the angels were?I should think that I would cryFor my house all made of sky;I would look about the air, And wonder where my angels were;And at waking 'twould distress me--Not an angel there to dress me!

Hadst Thou ever any toys, Like us little girls and boys?And didst Thou play in Heaven with allThe angels, that were not too tall, With stars for marbles? Did the thingsPlay Can you see me? through their wings?

Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?And did they tire sometimes, being young, And make the prayer seem very long?And dost Thou like it best, that weShould join our hands to pray to Thee?I used to think, before I knew, The prayer not said unless we do. And did Thy Mother at the nightKiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said?

Thou canst not have forgotten allThat it feels like to be small:And Thou know'st I cannot prayTo Thee in my father's way--When Thou wast so little, say, Could'st Thou talk Thy Father's way?--So, a little Child, come downAnd hear a child's tongue like Thy own;

Take me by the hand and walk, And listen to my baby-talk. To Thy Father show my prayer(He will look, Thou art so fair), And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one. "

And He will smile, that children's tongueHas not changed since Thou wast young!

Francis Thompson [1859-1907]

OBITUARY

Finding Francesca full of tears, I said, "Tell me thy trouble. " "Oh, my dog is dead!Murdered by poison!--no one knows for what!--Was ever dog born capable of that?""Child, "--I began to say, but checked my thought, --"A better dog can easily be bought. "For no--what animal could him replace?Those loving eyes! That fond, confiding face!Those dear, dumb touches! Therefore I was dumb. From word of mine could any comfort come?A bitter sorrow 'tis to lose a bruteFriend, dog or horse, for grief must then be mute, --So many smile to see the rivers shedOf tears for one poor, speechless creature dead. When parents die there's many a word to say--Kind words, consoling_--one can always pray;When children die 'tis natural to tellTheir mother, "Certainly, with them 'tis well!"But for a dog, 'twas all the life he had, Since death is end of dogs, or good or bad. This was his world; he was contented here;Imagined nothing better, naught more dear, Than his young mistress; sought no brighter sphere;Having no sin, asked not to be forgiven;Ne'er guessed at God nor ever dreamed of heaven. Now he has passed away, so much of loveGoes from our life, without one hope above!When a dog dies there's nothing to be saidBut--kiss me, darling!--dear old Smiler's dead. 

Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]

THE CHILD'S HERITAGE

On, there are those, a sordid clan, With pride in gaud and faith in gold, Who prize the sacred soul of manFor what his hands have sold. 

And these shall deem thee humbly bred:They shall not hear, they shall not seeThe kings among the lordly deadWho walk and talk with thee!

A tattered cloak may be thy dole, And thine the roof that Jesus had:The broidered garment of the soulShall keep thee purple-clad!

The blood of men hath dyed its brede, And it was wrought by holy seersWith sombre dream and golden deed, And pearled with women's tears. 

With Eld thy chain of days is one:The seas are still Homeric seas;Thy skies shall glow with Pindar's sun, The stars of Socrates!

Unaged the ancient tide shall surge, The old Spring burn along the bough:For thee, new and old convergeIn one eternal Now!

I give thy feet the hopeful sod, Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath;The glory of the search for GodBe thine in life and death!

Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust;Thy soul, the gift of being free:The torch my fathers gave in trust, Thy father gives to thee!

John G. Neihardt [1881-

A GIRL OF POMPEII

A public haunt they found her in:She lay asleep, a lovely child;The only thing left undefiledWhere all things else bore taint of sin. 

Her supple outlines fixed in clayThe universal law suspend, And turn Time's chariot back, and blendA thousand years with yesterday. 

A sinless touch, austere yet warm, Around her girlish figure pressed, Caught the sweet imprint of her breast, And held her, surely clasped, from harm. 

Truer than work of sculptor's artComes this dear maid of long ago, Sheltered from woeful chance, to showA spirit's lovely counterpart, And bid mistrustful men be sureThat form shall fate of flesh escape, And, quit of earth's corruptions, shapeItself, imperishably pure. 

Edward Sandford Martin [1856-

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY"

Tired of play! Tired of play!What hast thou done this live-long day!The bird is silent and so is the bee, The shadow is creeping up steeple and tree;The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;Twilight gathers, and day is done, --How hast thou spent it, restless one?

Playing! And what hast thou done besideTo tell thy mother at eventide?What promise of morn is left unbroken?What kind word to thy playmate spoken?Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?How with thy faults has duty striven?What hast thou learned by field and hill, By greenwood path and by singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer dayThat will find thee tired, --but not with play!And thou wilt learn, as thou learnest now, With wearied limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creepAnd long to go to thy quiet sleep. 

Well will it be for thee then if thouArt as free from sin and shame as now!Well for thee if thy tongue can tellA tale like this, of a day spent well!If thine open hand hath relieved distress, And thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness--If thou hast forgiven the sore offenceAnd humbled thy heart with penitence;

If Nature's voices have spoken to theeWith her holy meanings, eloquently--If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove--If never a sad, low-spoken wordHath plead with thy human heart unheard--Then, when the night steals on, as nowIt will bring relief to thine aching brow, And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colors have all passed away from her eyes!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

CHILDREN'S SONG

Sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again;Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to knowWhy the weather alters so. 

When the weather's really goodWe go nutting in the wood;When it rains we stay at home, And then sometimes other someOf the neighbors' children come. 

Sometimes we have jam and meat, All the things we like to eat;Sometimes we make do with breadAnd potatoes boiled instead. Once when we were put to bedWe had nowt and mother cried, But that was after father died. 

So, sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again;Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to knowIf things will always alter so. 

Ford Madox Ford [1873-

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN

When a' other bairnies are hushed to their hameBy aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?'Tis the puir doited loonie, --the mitherless bairn!

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed;Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bedNow rests in the mools where her mammie is laid;The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;Recording in heaven the blessings they earnWha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

O, speak him na harshly, --he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learnThat God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn!

William Thom [1798?-1848]

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years?They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west--But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly!They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so?The old man may weep for his to-morrowWhich is lost in Long Ago;The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost:But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they standWeeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's hoary anguish draws and pressesDown the cheeks of infancy;"Your old earth, " they say, "is very dreary;Our young feet" they say, "are very weak;Few paces have we taken, yet are weary--Our grave-rest is very far to seek:Ask the aged why they weep, and not the childrenFor the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. 

"True, " say the children, "it may happenThat we die before our time:Little Alice died last year--her grave is shapenLike a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her:Was no room for any work in the close clay!From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day. 'If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries;Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes:And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled inThe shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens, " say the children, "That we die before our time. "

Alas, alas, the children! they are seekingDeath in life, as best to have!They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty;Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadowsLike our weeds anear the mine?Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine!

"For oh, " say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap;If we cared for any meadows, it were merelyTo drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go;And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground;Or, all day, we drive the wheels of ironIn the factories, round and round. 

"For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning;Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places:Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling:All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day, the iron wheels are droning;And sometimes we could pray, 'O ye wheels, (breaking out in a mad moaning)'Stop! be silent for to-day!'"

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathingFor a moment, mouth to mouth!Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathingOf their tender human youth!Let them feel that this cold metallic motionIs not all the life God fashions or reveals:Let them prove their living souls against the notionThat they live in you, or under you, O wheels!Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark;And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray;So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?When we sob aloud, the human creatures near usPass by, hearing not, or answer not a word!And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)Strangers speaking at the door:Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more?

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm, 'Our Father, ' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father, 'And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within his right hand which is strong. 'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely(For they call Him good and mild)Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child. '

"But no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone;And they tell us, of His image is the masterWho commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children, --"Up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving:We look up for God, but tears have made us blind. "Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach?For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you!They are weary ere they run;They have never seen the sunshine, nor the gloryWhich is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;They sink in man's despair, without its calm;Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm:Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievinglyThe harvest of its memories cannot reap, --Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity. "How long, " they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, --Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path;But the child's sob in the silence curses deeperThan the strong man in his wrath!"

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

THE SHADOW-CHILD

Why do the wheels go whirring round, Mother, mother?Oh, mother, are they giants bound, And will they growl forever?Yes, fiery giants underground, Daughter, little daughter, Forever turn the wheels around, And rumble-grumble ever. 

Why do I pick the threads all day, Mother, mother?While sunshine children are at play?And must I work forever?Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day, Daughter, little daughter, Your hands must pick the threads away, And feel the sunshine never. 

Why do the birds sing in the sun, Mother, mother?If all day long I run and run, Run with the wheels forever?The birds may sing till day is done, Daughter, little daughter, But with the wheels your feet must run--Run with the wheels forever. 

Why do I feel so tired each night, Mother, mother?The wheels are always buzzing bright;Do they grow sleepy never?Oh, baby thing, so soft and white, Daughter, little daughter, The big wheels grind us in their might, And they will grind forever. 

And is the white thread never spun, Mother, mother?And is the white cloth never done, For you and me done never?Oh, yes, our thread will all be spun, Daughter, little daughter, When we lie down out in the sun, And work no more forever. 

And when will come that happy day, Mother, mother?Oh, shall we laugh and sing and playOut in the sun forever?Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day, Daughter, little daughter, Where green grass grows and roses gay, There in the sun forever. 

Harriet Monroe [1860-1936]

MOTHER WEPT

Mother wept, and father sighed;With delight aglowCried the lad, "To-morrow, " cried, "To the pit I go. "

Up and down the place he sped, --Greeted old and young;Far and wide the tidings spread;Clapt his hands and sung. 

Came his cronies; some to gazeWrapped in wonder; someFree with counsel; some with praise:Some with envy dumb. 

"May he, " many a gossip cried, "Be from peril kept. "Father hid his face and sighed, Mother turned and wept. 

Joseph Skipsey [1832-1903]

DUTY

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When Duty whispers low, "Thou must, "The youth replies, "I can. "

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

LUCY GRAYOr Solitude

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see, at break of day, The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor, The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen. 

"To-night will be a stormy night, --You to the town must go;And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour mother through the snow. "

"That, Father, will I gladly do:'Tis scarcely afternoon, --The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a fagot-brand. He plied his work;--and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down:And many a hill did Lucy climb:But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on the hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. 

They wept, --and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;"When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small:And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the low stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed--The marks were still the same--They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITALEmmie

Our doctor had called in another, I never had seen him before, But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at the door, Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands--Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands!Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of himHe was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb, And that I can well believe, for he looked so coarse and so red, I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead, And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawned at his knee--Drenched with the hellish oorali--that ever such things should be!

Here was a boy--I am sure that some of our children would dieBut for the voice of love, and the smile, and the comforting eye--Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seemed out of its place--Caught in a mill and crushed--it was all but a hopeless case:And he handled him gently enough; but his voice and his face were not kind, And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind, And he said to me roughly "The lad will need little more of your care. ""All the more need, " I told him, "to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer;They are all His children here, and I pray for them all as my own:"But he turned to me, "Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone?"Then he muttered half to himself, but I know that I heard him say, "All very well--but the good Lord Jesus has had his day. "

Had? has it come? It has only dawned. It will come by and by. O, how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were a lie?How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of diseaseBut that He said "Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these"?

So he went. And we passed to this ward where the younger children are laid:Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little maid;Empty you see just now! We have lost her who loved her so much--Patient of pain though as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch;Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears, Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child of her years--Nay you remember our Emmie; you used to send her the flowers;How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after hours!

They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are revealedLittle guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field;Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all they can know of the spring, They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an angel's wing;And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crossed on her breast--Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her at rest, Quietly sleeping--so quiet, our doctor said, "Poor little dear, Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she'll never live through it, I fear. "

I walked with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair, Then I returned to the ward; the child didn't see I was there. 

Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vexed!Emmie had heard him. Softly she called from her cot to the next, "He says I shall never live through it; O Annie, what shall I do?"Annie considered. "If I, " said the wise little Annie, "was you, I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie, you see, It's all in the picture there: 'Little children should come to Me. '"--(Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can pleaseOur children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about His knees. )"Yes, and I will, " said Emmie, "but then if I call to the Lord, How should He know that it's me? such a lot of beds in the ward?"That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she considered and said:"Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the bed--The Lord has so much to see to! but, Emmie, you tell it Him plain, It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane. "

I had sat three nights by the child--I could not watch her for four--My brain had begun to reel--I felt I could do it no more. That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it never would pass. There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass, And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tossed about, The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness without;My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knifeAnd fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape with her life;Then in the gray of the morning it seemed she stood by me and smiled, And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see the child. 

He had brought his ghastly tools: we believed her asleep again--Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane;--Say that His day is done! Ah, why should we care what they say?The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had passed away. 

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"IF I WERE DEAD"

"If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!"The dear lips quivered as they spake, And the tears brakeFrom eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child!I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child!And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make?Poor Child, poor Child!And now, unless it beThat sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!Poor Child!

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

THE TOYS

My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him, and dismissedWith hard words and unkissed, --His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yetFrom his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I prayedTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys, How weakly understoodThy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, "I will be sorry for their childishness. "

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

A SONG OF TWILIGHT

Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread;"Mother, mother, mother!" the eager voices calling, "The baby was so sleepy that he had to go to bed!"

Oh, to come home once more, and see the smiling faces, Dark head, bright head, clustered at the pane;Much the years have taken, when the heart its path retraces, But until time is not for me, the image will remain. 

Men and women now they are, standing straight and steady, Grave heart, gay heart, fit for life's emprise;Shoulder set to shoulder, how should they be but ready!The future shines before them with the light of their own eyes. 

Still each answers to my call; no good has been denied me, My burdens have been fitted to the little strength that's mine, Beauty, pride and peace have walked by day beside me, The evening closes gently in, and how can I repine?

But oh, to see once more, when the early dusk is falling, The nursery windows glowing and the children's table spread;"Mother, mother, mother!" the high child voices calling, "He couldn't stay awake for you, he had to go to bed!"

Unknown

LITTLE BOY BLUE

The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands;And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair;And that was the time when our Little Boy BlueKissed them and put them there. 

"Now, don't you go till I come, " he said, "And don't you make any noise!"So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, He dreamt of the pretty toys;And, as he was dreaming, an angel songAwakened our Little Boy Blue--Oh! the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face;And they wonder, as waiting the long years throughIn the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there. 

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

THE DISCOVERER

I have a little kinsmanWhose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is heGreater then Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together!He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tetherOf them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. Ay, he has travelled whitherA winged pilot steered his barkThrough the portals of the dark, Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, Across the unknown sea. 

Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled handWith this command:"Henceforth thou art a rover!Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover. "--With his sweet smile innocentOur little kinsman went. 

Since that time no wordFrom the absent has been heard. Who can tellHow he fares, or answer wellWhat the little one has foundSince he left us, outward bound?Would that he might return!Then should we learnFrom the pricking of his chartHow the skyey roadways part. Hush! does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Some starry offeringOf chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so!We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare averHe is a brave discovererOf climes his elders do not know. He has more learning than appearsOn the scroll of twice three thousand years, More than in the groves is taught, Or from furthest Indies brought;He knows, perchance, how spirits fare, --What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speechIn those lands beyond our reach, --And his eyes beholdThings that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

A CHRYSALIS

My little Madchen found one dayA curious something in her play, That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed;It was not anything that grew, Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew;Had neither legs nor wings, indeed;And yet she was not sure, she said, Whether it was alive or dead. 

She brought in her tiny handTo see if I would understand, And wondered when I made reply, "You've found a baby butterfly. ""A butterfly is not like this, "With doubtful look she answered me. So then I told her what would beSome day within the chrysalis;How, slowly, in the dull brown thingNow still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty shell would flyA pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold. 

"And will it, truly?" questioned she--Her laughing lips and eager eyesAll in a sparkle of surprise--"And shall your little Madchen see?""She shall! I said. How could I tellThat ere the worm within its shellIts gauzy, splendid wings had spread, My little Madchen would be dead?

To-day the butterfly has flown, --She was not here to see it fly, --And sorrowing I wonder whyThe empty shell is mine alone. Perhaps the secret lies in this:I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delightWas but the radiant creature's flight!

Mary Emily Bradley [1835-1898]

MATER DOLOROSA

I'd a dream to-nightAs I fell asleep, O! the touching sightMakes me still to weep:Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep. 

As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came byChildren fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight;Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak. 

Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, O it did not burn!He, to clear my doubt, Said, half-turned about, "Your tears put it out;Mother, never mourn. "

William Barnes [1801-1886]

THE LITTLE GHOST

The stars began to peepGone was the bitter day. She heard the milky ewesBleat to their lambs astray. Her heart cried for her lambLapped cold in the churchyard sod, She could not think on the happy childrenAt play with the Lamb of God. 

She heard the calling ewesAnd the lambs' answer, alas!She heard her heart's blood drip in the nightAs the ewes' milk on the grass. Her tears that burnt like fireSo bitter and slow ran downShe could not think on the new-washed childrenPlaying by Mary's gown. 

Oh who is this comes inOver her threshold stone?And why is the old dog wild with joyWho all day long made moan?This fair little radiant ghost, Her one little son of seven, New 'scaped from the band of merry childrenIn the nurseries of Heaven. 

He was all clad in whiteWithout a speck or stain;His curls had a ring of lightThat rose and fell again. "Now come with me, my own mother, And you shall have great ease, For you shall see the lost childrenGathered to Mary's knees. "

Oh, lightly sprang she upNor waked her sleeping man, And hand in hand with the little ghostThrough the dark night she ran. She is gone swift as a fawn, As a bird homes to its nest, She has seen them lie, the sleepy childrenTwixt Mary's arm and breast. 

At morning she came back;Her eyes were strange to see. She will not fear the long journey, However long it be. As she goes in and outShe sings unto hersel';For she has seen the mothers' childrenAnd knows that it is well. 

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

MOTHERHOOD

The night throbs on; O, let me pray, dear lad!Crush off his name a moment from my mouth. To Thee my eyes would turn, but they go back, Back to my arm beside me, where he lay--So little, Lord, so little and so warm!

I cannot think that Thou hadst need of him!He was so little, Lord, he cannot sing, He cannot praise Thee; all his life had learnedWas to hold fast my kisses in the night. 

Give him to me--he is not happy there!He had not felt this life; his lovely eyesJust knew me for his mother, and he died. 

Hast Thou an angel there to mother him?I say he loves me best--if he forgets, If Thou allow it that my child forgetsAnd runs not out to meet me when I come--

What are my curses to Thee? Thou hast heardThe curse of Abel's mother, and since thenWe have not ceased to threaten at Thy throne, To threat and pray Thee that Thou hold them stillIn memory of us. 

See Thou tend him well, Thou God of all the mothers. If he lackOne of his kisses--ah, my heart, my heart, Do angels kiss in heaven? Give him back!

Forgive me, Lord, but I am sick with grief, And tired of tears, and cold to comforting. Thou art wise, I know, and tender, aye, and good, Thou hast my child, and he is safe in Thee, And I believe--

Ah, God, my child shall goOrphaned among the angels! All alone. So little and alone! He knows not Thee, He only knows his mother--give him back. 

Josephine Daskam Bacon [1876-

THE MOTHER'S PRAYER

The good Lord gave, the Lord has taken from me, Blessed be His name, His holy will be done. The mourners all have gone, all save I, his mother, The little grave lies lonely in the sun. 

Nay! I would not follow, though they did beseech me, For the angels come now waiting for my dead. Heaven's door is open, so my whispers soar there, While the gentle angels lift him from his bed. 

Oh Lord, when Thou gavest he was weak and helpless, Could not rise nor wander from my shielding arm;Lovely is he now and strong with four sweet summers, Laughing, running, tumbling, hard to keep from harm. 

If some tender mother, whose babe on earth is living, Takes his little hand to guide his stranger feet'Mid the countless hosts that cross the floor of heaven, Thou wilt not reprove her for Thy pity sweet. 

If upon her breast she holds his baby beauty, All his golden hair will fall about her hand, Laughing let her fingers pull it into ringlets--Long and lovely ringlets. She will understand. 

Wilful are his ways and full of merry mischief;If he prove unruly, lay the blame on me. Never did I chide him for his noise or riot, Smiled upon his folly, glad his joy to see. 

Each eve shall I come beside his bed so lowly;"Hush-a-by, my baby, " softly shall I sing, So, if he be frightened, full of sleep and anger, The song he loved shall reach him and sure comfort bring. 

Lord, if in my praying, Thou shouldst hear me weeping, Ever was I wayward, always full of tears, Take no heed of this grief. Sweet the gift Thou gavestAll the cherished treasure of those golden years. 

Do not, therefore, hold me to Thy will ungrateful:Soon I shall stand upright, smiling, strong, and brave, With a son in heaven the sad earth forgetting, But 'tis lonely yet, Lord, by the little grave. Oh, 'tis lonely, lonely, by the little grave!

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]

DA LEETLA BOY

Da spreeng ees com'; but oh, da joyEet ees too late!He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait. 

I no can count how manny week, How manny day, dat he ees seeck;How manny night I seet an' holdDa leetla hand dat was so cold. He was so patience, oh, so sweet!Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet;An' all he evra ask ees w'enEes gona com' da spreeng agen. Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, He see, across da alleyway, Da leetla girl dat's livin' dereEes raise her window for da air, An' put outside a leetla potOf--w'at-you-call?--forgat-me-not. So smalla flower, so leetla theeng!But steell eet mak' hees hearta seeng:"Oh, now, at las', ees com' da spreeng!Da leetla plant ees glad for knowDa sun ees com' for mak' eet grow. So, too, I am grow warm and strong. "So lika dat he seeng hees song. But, ah! da night com' down an' denDa weenter ees sneak back agen, An' een da alley all da nightEes fall da snow, so cold, so white, An' cover up da leetla potOf--w'at-you-call?--forgat-me-not. All night da leetla hand I holdEes grow so cold, so cold, so cold!

Da spreeng ees com'; but, oh, da joyEet ees too late!He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait. 

Thomas Augustin Daly [1871-

ON THE MOOR

II met a child upon the moorA-wading down the heather;She put her hand into my own, We crossed the fields together. 

I led her to her father's door--A cottage midst the clover. I left her--and the world grew poorTo me, a childless rover. 

III met a maid upon the moor, The morrow was her wedding. Love lit her eyes with lovelier huesThan the eve-star was shedding. 

She looked a sweet good-bye to me, And o'er the stile went singing. Down all the lonely night I heardBut bridal bells a-ringing. 

IIII met a mother on the moor, By a new grave a-praying. The happy swallows in the blueUpon the winds were playing. 

"Would I were in his grave, " I said, "And he beside her standing!"There was no heart to break if deathFor me had made demanding. 

Cale Young Rice [1872-

EPITAPH OF DIONYSIA

Here doth Dionysia lie:She whose little wanton foot, Tripping (ah, too carelessly!)Touched this tomb, and fell into 't. 

Trip no more shall she, nor fall. And her trippings were so few!Summers only eight in allHad the sweet child wandered through. 

But, already, life's few sunsLove's strong seeds had ripened warm. All her ways were winning ones;All her cunning was to charm. 

And the fancy, in the flower, While the flesh was in the bud, Childhood's dawning sex did dowerWith warm gusts of womanhood. 

Oh what joys by hope begun, Oh what kisses kissed by thought, What love-deeds by fancy done, Death to endless dust hath wrought!

Had the fates been kind as thou, Who, till now, was never cold, Once Love's aptest scholar, nowThou hadst been his teacher bold;

But, if buried seeds upthrowFruits and flowers; if flower and fruitBy their nature fitly showWhat the seeds are, whence they shoot, Dionysia, o'er this tomb, Where thy buried beauties be, From their dust shall spring and bloomLoves and graces like to thee. 

Unknown

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE

The night is late, the house is still;The angels of the hour fulfilTheir tender ministries, and moveFrom couch to couch in cares of love. They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss, Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;And, as they pass, they seem to makeA strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake. "

My listening heart takes up the strain, And gives it to the night again, Fitted with words of lowly praise, And patience learned of mournful days, And memories of the dead child's ways. His will be done, His will be done!Who gave and took away my son, In "the far land" to shine and singBefore the Beautiful, the King, Who every day doth Christmas make, All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. 

For Charlie's sake I will arise;I will anoint me where he lies, And change my raiment, and go inTo the Lord's house, and leave my sinWithout, and seat me at his board, Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. For wherefore should I fast and weep, And sullen moods of mourning keep?I cannot bring him back, nor he, For any calling, come to me. The bond the angel Death did sign, God sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine. 

I'm very poor--this slender stoneMarks all the narrow field I own;Yet, patient husbandman, I tillWith faith and prayers, that precious hill, Sow it with penitential pains, And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;Content if, after all, the spotYield barely one forget-me-not--Whether or figs or thistles makeMy crop, content for Charlie's sake. 

I have no houses, builded well--Only that little lonesome cell, Where never romping playmates come, Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb--An April burst of girls and boys, Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joysBorn with their songs, gone with their toys;Nor ever is its stillness stirredBy purr of cat, or chirp of bird, Or mother's twilight legend, toldOf Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, Or fairy hobbling to the door, Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, To bless the good child's gracious eyes, The good child's wistful charities, And crippled changeling's hunch to makeDance on his crutch, for good child's sake. 

How is it with the child? 'Tis well;Nor would I any miracleMight stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, Or plague his painless countenance:I would not any seer might placeHis staff on my immortal's face, Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, Charm back his pale mortality. No, Shunamite! I would not breakGod's stillness. Let them weep who wake. 

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:No comfort like his mother's breast, No praise like hers; no charm expressedIn fairest forms hath half her zest. For Charlie's sake this bird's caressedThat death left lonely in the nest;For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, As for its birthday, in its best;For Charlie's sake we leave the restTo Him who gave, and who did take, And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. 

John Williamson Palmer [1825-1906]

"ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?"

Each day, when the glow of sunsetFades in the western sky, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go tripping lightly by, I steal away from my husband, Asleep in his easy-chair, And watch from the open doorwayTheir faces fresh and fair. 

Alone in the dear old homesteadThat once was full of life, Ringing with girlish laughter, Echoing boyish strife, We two are waiting together;And oft, as the shadows come, With tremulous voice he calls me, "It is night! are the children home?"

"Yes, love!" I answer him gently, "They're all home long ago;"--And I sing, in my quivering treble, A song so soft and low, Till the old man drops to slumber, With his head upon his hand, And I tell to myself the numberAt home in the better land. 

At home, where never a sorrowShall dim their eyes with tears!Where the smile of God is on themThrough all the summer years!I know, --yet my arms are empty, That fondly folded seven, And the mother-heart within meIs almost starved for heaven. 

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, I only shut my eyes, And the children are all about me, A vision from the skies:The babes whose dimpled fingersLost the way to my breast, And the beautiful ones, the angels, Passed to the world of the blest. 

With never a cloud upon them, I see their radiant brows;My boys that I gave to freedom, --The red sword sealed their vows!In a tangled Southern forest, Twin brothers bold and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for, Thank God! floats over their grave. 

A breath, and the vision is liftedAway on wings of light, And again we two are together, All alone in the night. They tell me his mind is failing, But I smile at idle fears;He is only back with the children, In the dear and peaceful years. 

And still, as the summer sunsetFades away in the west, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go trooping home to rest, My husband calls from his corner, "Say, love, have the children come?"And I answer, with eyes uplifted, "Yes, dear! they are all at home. "

Margaret Sangster [1838-1919]

THE MORNING-GLORY

We wreathed about our darling's headThe morning-glory bright;Her little face looked out beneath, So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, "She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they. "

So always from that happy timeWe called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem--For, sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiledTo catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flowerAnd opens to the day. 

But not so beautiful they rearTheir airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;And not so close their tendrils fineRound their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched pleaClasped all hearts to her own. 

We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added giftTo crown Love's morning hour;And how in her was imaged forthThe love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops roundShines back the heart of day. 

We never could have thought, O God, That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup;We never thought to see her droopHer fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossomingWill soon be coming round--We see the rows of heart-shaped leavesUpspringing from the ground;The tender things the winter killedRenew again their birth, But the glory of our morningHas passed away from earth. 

O Earth! in vain our aching eyesStretch over thy green plain!Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine airHer spirit to sustain;But up in groves of ParadiseFull surely we shall seeOur morning-glory beautifulTwine round our dear Lord's knee. 

Maria White Lowell [1821-1855]

SHE CAME AND WENT

As a twig trembles, which a birdLights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred;--I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven;--I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift spring heapsThe orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps;--I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent;The tent is struck, the vision stays;--I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went. 

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with CarraraCame Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the windowThe noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet AuburnWhere a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"And I told of the good All-fatherWho cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden skyThat arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patienceThat fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hidingThe scar that renewed our woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful FatherAlone can make it fall"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;And she, kissing back, could not knowThat my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow. 

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

"WE ARE SEVEN"

A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:She was eight years old, she said:Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad:Her eyes were fair, and very fair;--Her beauty made me glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?""How many? Seven in all, " she said, And wondering looked at me. 

"And where are they? I pray you tell. "She answered, "Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea;

"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother;And, in the church-yard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother. "

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be. "

Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the church-yard lieBeneath the church-yard tree. "

"You run about, my little Maid;Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five. "

"Their graves are green, they may be seen, "The little Maid replied:"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. 

"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. 

"And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. 

"The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain;And then she went away. 

"So in the church-yard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. 

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side. "

"How many are you, then, " said I, "If they two are in heaven?"Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven. "

"But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!"'Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

MY CHILD

I cannot make him dead!His fair sunshiny headIs ever bounding round my study chair;Yet when my eyes, now dimWith tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes, --he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;I'm stepping toward the hallTo give my boy a call;And then bethink me that--he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that--he is not there!

I know his face is hidUnder the coffin-lid;Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;My hand that marble felt;O'er it in prayer I knelt;Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye, Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that--he is not there!

When, at the cool gray breakOf day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning airMy soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy;Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there!

When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, prayingFor our boy's spirit, though--he is not there!

Not there!--Where, then, is he?The form I used to seeWas but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth pressUpon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked;--he is not there!

He lives!--In all the pastHe lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair;In dreams I see him now;And on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!Father, thy chastening rodSo help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there!

John Pierpont [1785-1866]

THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED

Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, How in the soft June days forever doneYou loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;And when I lifted you, soft came your cry, --"Put me 'way up--'way, 'way up in blue sky"?

I laughed and said I could not;--set you down, Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crownOf bright hair gladdening me as you raced by. Another Father now, more strong than I, Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. 

George Parsons Lathrop [1851-1898]

CHALLENGE

This little child, so white, so calm, Decked for her grave, Encountered death without a qualm. Are you as brave?

So small, and armed with naught besideHer mother's kiss, Alone she stepped, unterrified, Into the abyss. 

"Ah, " you explain, "she did not know--This babe of four--Just what it signifies to go. "Do you know more?

Kenton Foster Murray [18--

TIRED MOTHERS

A little elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee that has so much to bear;A child's dear eyes are looking lovinglyFrom underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touchOf warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;You do not prize this blessing overmuch, --You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness! A year agoI did not see it as I do to-day, --We are so dull and thankless; and too slowTo catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to meThat, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderlyThe little child that brought me only good. 

And if some night when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee, --This restless, curling head from off your breast--This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;If the white feet into, their grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fretAt little children clinging to their gown;Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor, --If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its patter in my house once more, --

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could sayShe was more blissfully content than I. But ah! the dainty pillow next my ownIs never rumpled by a shining head;My singing birdling from its nest has flown, The little boy I used to kiss is dead. 

May Riley Smith [1842-1927]

MY DAUGHTER LOUISE

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, My seat on the sand and her seat on my knees, We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter, My sweet little daughter Louise. We wonder what city the pathway of glory, That broadens away to the limitless west, Leads up to--she minds her of some pretty storyAnd says: "To the city that mortals love best. "Then I say: "It must lead to the far away city, The beautiful City of Rest. "

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, Stand two in the shadow of whispering trees, And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter, My womanly daughter Louise. She steps to the boat with a touch of his fingers, And out on the diamonded pathway they move;The shallop is lost in the distance, it lingers, It waits, but I know that its coming will proveThat it went to the walls of the wonderful city, The magical City of Love. 

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, I wait for her coming from over the seas;I wait but to welcome the dust of my daughter, To weep for my daughter Louise. The path, as of old, reaching out in its splendor, Gleams bright, like a way that an angel has trod;I kiss the cold burden its billows surrender, Sweet clay to lie under the pitiful sod:But she rests, at the end of the path, in the cityWhose "builder and maker is God. "

Homer Greene [1853-

"I AM LONELY"From "The Spanish Gypsy"

The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a treeAll out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely. 

The world is great: I tried to mount the hillAbove the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa wentAnd I am lonely. 

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by. I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cryAnd hurt my heart: my little sister went, And I am lonely. 

The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went, And I am lonely. 

George Eliot [1819-1880]

SONNETSFrom "Mimma Bella"

IHave dark Egyptians stolen Thee away, Oh Baby, Baby, in whose cot we peerAs down some empty gulf that opens sheerAnd fathomless, illumined by no ray?And wilt thou come, on some far distant day, With unknown face, and say, "Behold! I'm here, The child you lost;" while we in sudden fear, Dumb with great doubt, shall find no word to say?One darker than dark gipsy holds thee fast;One whose strong fingers none has forced apartSince first they closed on things that were too fair;Nor shall we see thee other than thou wast, But such as thou art printed in the heart, In changeless baby loveliness still there. 

IITwo springs she saw--two radiant Tuscan springs, What time the wild red tulips are aflameIn the new wheat, and wreaths of young vine frameThe daffodils that every light breeze swings;And the anemones that April bringsMake purple pools, as if Adonis cameJust there to die; and Florence scrolls her nameIn every blossom Primavera flings. Now, when the scented iris, straight and tall, Shall hedge the garden gravel once againWith pale blue flags, at May's exulting call, And when the amber roses, wet with rain, Shall tapestry the old gray villa wall, We, left alone, shall seek one bud in vain. 

IVOh, rosy as the lining of a shellWere the wee hands that now are white as snows;And like pink coral, with their elfin toes, The feet that on life's brambles never fell. And with its tiny smile, adorableThe mouth that never knew life's bitter sloes;And like the incurved petal of a roseThe little ear, now deaf in Death's strong spell. Now, while the seasons in their order roll, And sun and rain pour down from God's great dome, And deathless stars shine nightly overhead, Near other children, with her little doll, She waits the wizard that will never comeTo wake the sleep-struck playground of the dead. 

VIOh, bless the law that veils the Future's face;For who could smile into a baby's eyes, Or bear the beauty of the evening skies, If he could see what cometh on apace?The ticking of the death-watch would replaceThe baby's prattle, for the over-wise;The breeze's murmur would become the criesOf stormy petrels where the breakers race. We live as moves the walker in his sleep, Who walks because he sees not the abyssHis feet are skirting as he goes his way:If we could see the morrow from the steepOf our security, the soul would missIts footing, and fall headlong from to-day. 

VIIIOne day, I mind me, now that she is dead, When nothing warned us of the dark decree, I crooned, to lull her, in a minor key, Such fancies as first came into my head. I crooned them low, beside her little bed;And the refrain was somehow "Come with me, And we will wander by the purple sea;"I crooned it, and--God help me!--felt no dread. O Purple Sea, beyond the stress of storms, Where never ripple breaks upon the shoreOf Death's pale Isles of Twilight as they dream, Give back, give back, O Sea of Nevermore, The frailest of the unsubstantial formsThat leave the shores that are for those that seem!

XXWhat essences from Idumean palm, What ambergris, what sacerdotal wine, What Arab myrrh, what spikenard, would be thine, If I could swathe thy memory in such balm!Oh, for wrecked gold, from depths for ever calm, To fashion for thy name a fretted shrine;Oh, for strange gems, still locked in virgin mine, To stud the pyx, where thought would bring sweet psalm!I have but this small rosary of rhyme, --No rubies but heart's drops, no pearls but tears, To lay upon the altar of thy name, O Mimma Bella;--on the shrine that TimeMakes ever holier for the soul, while yearsObliterate the rolls of human fame. 

Eugene Lee-Hamilton [1845-1907]

ROSE-MARIE OF THE ANGELS

Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-lightRun through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light?

Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy voice as bird-note clearLift and ripple over HeavenAs its mortal sound is given, Swift bird-voice, so young and clear?

How God will be glad of thee, Little Sister Rose-Marie!

Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914]

MAIDENHOOD

MAIDENHOOD

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow liesLike the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with, a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding streamBeautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy visionBeckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar?

Oh, thou child of many prayers!Life hath quicksands, --Life hath snares!Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumberedBirds and blossoms many-numbered;--Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand;Gates of brass cannot withstandOne touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. 

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall stealInto wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine, dartInto many a sunless heartFor a smile of God thou art. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-dayTo-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting, That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry:For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. 

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY

Merry MargaretAs midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower:With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness;So joyously, So maidenly, So womanlyHer demeaningIn every thing, Far, far passingThat I can indite, Or suffice to writeOf merry MargaretAs midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower, As patient and stillAnd as full of good willAs fair Isaphill, Coliander, Sweet pomander, Good Cassander;Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought, Eye that ye can findSo courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower. 

John Skelton [1460?-1529]

ON HER COMING TO LONDON

What's she, so late from Penshurst come, More gorgeous than the mid-day sun, That all the world amazes?Sure 'tis some angel from above, Or 'tis the Cyprian Queen of LoveAttended by the Graces. 

Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame, Or Pallas armed, as on she cameTo assist the Greeks in fight, Or Cynthia, that huntress bold, Or from old Tithon's bed so cold, Aurora chasing night?

No, none of those, yet one that shallCompare, perhaps exceed them all, For beauty, wit, and birth;As good as great, as chaste as fair, A brighter nymph none breathes the air, Or treads upon the earth. 

'Tis Dorothee, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blushing morn, Of noble Sidney's race;Oh! could you see into her mind, The beauties there locked-up outshineThe beauties of her face. 

Fair Dorothea, sent from heavenTo add more wonders to the seven, And glad each eye and ear, Crown of her sex, the Muse's port, The glory of our English court, The brightness of our sphere. 

To welcome her the Spring breathes forthElysian sweets, March strews the earthWith violets and posies, The sun renews his darting fires, April puts on her best attires, And May her crown of roses. 

Go, happy maid, increase the storeOf graces born with you, and moreAdd to their number still;So neither all-consuming age, Nor envy's blast, nor fortune's rageShall ever work you ill. 

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"O, SAW YE BONNY LESLEY"

O saw ye bonny LesleyAs she gaed owre the Border?She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever;For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he couldna scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee;He'd look into thy bonny face, And say, "I canna wrang thee!"

The powers aboon will tent thee;Misfortune sha' na steer thee;Thou'rt like themselves sae lovelyThat ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie!That we may brag we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonny. 

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO A YOUNG LADY

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid!--Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng:With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course;Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes;Pure-bosomed as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face!

William Cowper [1731-1800]

RUTH

She stood breast high among the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened;--such a blushIn the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell. But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim;Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. 

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the Vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf Travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;--I listened, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS

IHow blest the Maid whose heart--yet freeFrom Love's uneasy sovereignty--Beats with a fancy running high, Her simple cares to magnify;Whom Labor, never urged to toil, Hath cherished on a healthful soil;Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf;Whose heaviest sin it is to lookAskance upon her pretty SelfReflected in some crystal brook;Whom grief hath spared--who sheds no tearBut in sweet pity; and can hearAnother's praise from envy clear. 

IISuch (but O lavish Nature! whyThat dark unfathomable eye, Where lurks a Spirit that repliesTo stillest mood of softest skies, Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, Another's first, and then her own?)Such haply, yon Italian Maid, Our Lady's laggard Votaress, Halting beneath the chestnut shadeTo accomplish there her loveliness:Nice aid maternal fingers lend;A Sister serves with slacker hand;Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band. 

IIIHow blest (if truth may entertainCoy fancy with a bolder strain)The Helvetian Girl--who daily braves, In her light skiff, the tossing waves, And quits the bosom of the deepOnly to climb the rugged steep!--Say whence that modulated shout!From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng?Or does the greeting to a routOf giddy Bacchanals belong?Jubilant outcry! rock and gladeResounded--but the voice obeyedThe breath of an Helvetian Maid. 

IVHer beauty dazzles the thick wood;Her courage animates the flood;Her steps the elastic greensward meetsReturning unreluctant sweets;The mountains (as ye heard) rejoiceAloud, saluted by her voice!Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, Be as thou art--for through thy veinsThe blood of Heroes runs its race!And nobly wilt thou brook the chainsThat, for the virtuous, Life prepares;The fetter which the Matron wears;The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares!

"Sweet Highland Girl! a very showerOf beauty was thy earthly dower, "When thou didst flit before mine eyes, Gay Vision under sullen skies, While Hope and Love around thee played, Near the rough falls of Inversneyd!Have they, who nursed the blossom, seenNo breach of promise in the fruit?Was joy, in following joy, as keenAs grief can be in grief's pursuit?When youth had flown did hope still blessThy goings--or the cheerfulnessOf innocence survive to mitigate distress?

VIBut from our course why turn--to treadA way with shadows overspread;Where what we gladliest would believeIs feared as what may most deceive?Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crownedBut heath-bells from thy native ground, Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, Nor take one ray of light from Thee;For in my Fancy thou dost shareThe gift of immortality;And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, The Votaress by Lugano's side;And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep descried!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

The primrwose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The cote where streams do run;An' where do pretty maidens growAn' blow, but where the towerDo rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour. 

If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feaces' smiles, A-trippen on so light o' waight, An' steppen off the stiles;A-gwain to church, as bells do swingAn' ring within the tower, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleaceIs Blackmwore by the Stour. 

If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen showedTheir daughters at the door;You'd cry to bachelors at hwome--"Here, come: 'ithin an hourYou'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour. "

An' if you looked 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avoreTheir smilen mother's feace;You'd cry--"Why if a man would wiveAn' thrive, 'ithout a dower, Then let en look en out a wifeIn Blackmwore by the Stour. "

As I upon my road did passA school-house back in May, There out upon the beaten grassWer maidens at their play;An' as the pretty souls did tweilAn' smile, I cried, "The flowerO' beauty, then, is still in budIn Blackmwore by the Stour. "

William Barnes [1801-1886]

A PORTRAIT"One name is Elizabeth" Ben Jonson

I will paint her as I see her. Ten times have the lilies blownSince she looked upon the sun. 

And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in dutyTo the law of its own beauty. 

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hairKeeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. 

Face and figure of a child, --Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her. 

Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting stillOn the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheatWhen the wind blows over it. 

Only, free from flutteringsOf loud mirth that scorneth measure--Taking love for her chief pleasure. 

Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly--just as she, When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks, --Watering flowers, or reading books. 

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels (you feel) the sun. 

And her smile it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more farThan our common jestings are. 

And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with fallsUsed in lovely madrigals. 

And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unawareWith a halo round her hair. 

And if reader read the poem, He would whisper--"You have done aConsecrated little Una!"

And a dreamer (did you show himThat same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel, with a name!"

And a stranger, --when he sees herIn the street even--smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her, Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to coverThe hard earth, whereon she passes, With the thymy-scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, "God love her!"Ay and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure HE DOTH. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

TO A CHILD OF FANCY

The nests are in the hedgerows, The lambs are on the grass;With laughter sweet as musicThe hours lightfooted pass, My darling child of fancy, My winsome prattling lass. 

Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl, Red little lips disclosingTwin rows of fairy pearl, Cheeks like the apple blossom, Voice lightsome as the merle. 

A whole Spring's fickle changes, In every short-lived day, A passing cloud of April, A flowery smile of May, A thousand quick mutationsFrom graver moods to gay. 

Far off, I see the seasonWhen thy childhood's course is run, And thy girlhood opens widerBeneath the growing sun, And the rose begins to redden, But the violets are done. 

And further still the summer, When thy fair tree, fully grown, Shall bourgeon, and grow splendidWith blossoms of its own, And the fruit begins to gather, But the buttercups are mown. 

If I should see thy autumn, 'Twill not be close at hand, But with a spirit vision, From some far-distant land. Or, perhaps, I hence may see theeAmongst the angels stand. 

I know not what of fortuneThe future holds for thee, Nor if skies fair or cloudedWait thee in days to be, But neither joy nor sorrowShall sever thee from me. 

Dear child, whatever changesAcross our lives may pass, I shall see thee still for ever, Clearly as in a glass, The same sweet child of fancy, The same dear winsome lass. 

Lewis Morris [1833-1907]

DAISY

Where the thistle lifts a purple crownSix foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--O the breath of the distant surf!--

The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea;And with the sea-breeze hand in handCame innocence and she. 

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberryRed for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talkWise, idle, childish things. 

She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:Her skin was like a grape, whose veinsRun snow instead of wine. 

She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way;But there's never a bird, so sweet a songThronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in StorringtonOn the turf and on the spray;But the sweetest flower on Sussex hillsWas the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!She gave me tokens three:--A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry. 

A berry red, a guileless look, A still word, --strings of sand!And yet they made my wild, wild heartFly down to her little hand. 

For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes. 

The fairest things have fleetest end:Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitternessTo him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:--The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day. 

She went her unremembering way, She went and left in meThe pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be. 

She left me marveling why my soulWas sad that she was glad;At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad. 

Still, still I seemed to see her, stillLook up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes. 

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan;For we are born in others' pain, And perish in our own. 

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

TO PETRONILLA WHO HAS PUT UP HER HAIR

Yesterday it blew alway, Yesterday is dead, Now forever must it stayCoiled about your head, Tell me Whence the great CommandHitherward has sped. "Silly boy, as if I knew, "Petronilla said. 

Nay, but I am very sure, Since you left my side, Something has befallen you, You are fain to hide, Homage has been done to you, Innocents have died. "Silly boy, and what of that?"Petronilla cried. 

Petronilla, much I fearScarcely have you weptAll those merry yesterdays, Slaughtered whilst you slept, Slain to bind that pretty crownCloser round your head. "Silly boy, as if I cared, "Petronilla said. 

Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-

THE GYPSY GIRL

Passing I saw her as she stood besideA lonely stream between two barren wolds;Her loose vest hung in rudely gathered foldsOn her swart bosom, which in maiden pridePillowed a string of pearls; among her hairTwined the light bluebell and the stone-crop gay;And not far thence the small encampment lay, Curling its wreathed smoke into the air. She seemed a child of some sun-favored clime;So still, so habited to warmth and rest;And in my wayward musings on past time, When my thought fills with treasured memories, That image nearest borders on the blestCreations of pure art that never dies. 

Henry Alford [1810-1871]

FANNYA Southern Blossom

Come and see her as she stands, Crimson roses in her hands;And her eyesAre as dark as Southern night, Yet than Southern dawn more bright, And a soft, alluring lightIn them lies. 

None deny if she beseechWith that pretty, liquid speechOf the South. All her consonants are slurred, And the vowels are preferred;There's a poem in each wordFrom that mouth. 

Even Cupid is her slave;Of her arrows, half he gaveHer one dayIn a merry, playful hour. Dowered with these and beauty's dower, Strong indeed her magic power, So they say. 

Venus, not to be outdoneBy her generous little son, Shaped the mouthVery like to Cupid's bow. Lack-a-day! Our North can showNo such lovely flowers as growIn the South!

Anne Reeve Aldrich [1866-1892]

SOMEBODY'S CHILD

Just a picture of Somebody's child, --Sweet face set in golden hair, Violet eyes, and cheeks of rose, Rounded chin, with a dimple there, Tender eyes where the shadows sleep, Lit from within by a secret ray, --Tender eyes that will shine like starsWhen love and womanhood come this way:

Scarlet lips with a story to tell, --Blessed be he who shall find it out, Who shall learn the eyes' deep secret well, And read the heart with never a doubt. 

Then you will tremble, scarlet lips, Then you will crimson, loveliest cheeks:Eyes will brighten and blushes will burnWhen the one true lover bends and speaks. 

But she's only a child now, as you see, Only a child in her careless grace:When Love and Womanhood come this wayWill anything sadden the flower-like face?

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

EMILIA

Halfway up the Hemlock valley turnpike, In the bend of Silver Water's arm, Where the deer come trooping down at even, Drink the cowslip pool, and fear no harm, Dwells Emilia, Flower of the fields of Camlet Farm. 

Sitting sewing by the western windowAs the too brief mountain sunshine flies, Hast thou seen a slender-shouldered figureWith a chestnut braid, Minerva-wise, Round her temples, Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes?

When the freshets flood the Silver Water, When the swallow flying northward bravesSleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothillsWhere the windflowers' pale plantation waves--(Fairy gardensSpringing from the dead leaves in their graves), --

Falls forgotten, then, Emilia's needle;Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain, Sing the cuckoo and the English primrose, Outdoors calling with a quaint refrain;And a rainbowSeems to brighten through the gusty rain. 

Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded, Fearless of the showery shifting wind;Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses, And her bright braids in a 'kerchief pinned, Younger sisterOf the damsel-errant Rosalind. 

While she helps to serve the harvest supperIn the lantern-lighted village hall, Moonlight rises on the burning woodland, Echoes dwindle from the distant Fall. Hark, Emilia!In her ear the airy voices call. 

Hidden papers in the dusty garret, Where her few and secret poems lie, --Thither flies her heart to join her treasure, While she serves, with absent-musing eye, Mighty tankardsFoaming cider in the glasses high. 

"Would she mingle with her young companions!"Vainly do her aunts and uncles say;Ever, from the village sports and dances, Early missed, Emilia slips away. Whither vanished?With what unimagined mates to play?

Did they seek her, wandering by the water, They should find her comrades shy and strange:Queens and princesses, and saints and fairies, Dimly moving in a cloud of change:--Desdemona;Mariana of the Moated Grange. 

Up this valley to the fair and marketWhen young farmers from the southward ride, Oft they linger at a sound of chantingIn the meadows by the turnpike side;Long they listen, Deep in fancies of a fairy bride. 

Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876-

TO A GREEK GIRL

With breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come, --Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted;A girlish shape that slips the budIn lines of unspoiled symmetry;A girlish shape that stirs the bloodWith pulse of Spring, Autonoe!

Where'er you pass, --where'er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow;Where'er you go, --where'er you pass, There comes a gladness on the grass;You bring blithe airs where'er you tread, --Blithe airs that blow from down and sea;You wake in me a Pan not dead, --Not wholly dead!--Autonoe!

How sweet with you on some green sodTo wreathe the rustic garden-god;How sweet beneath the chestnut's shadeWith you to weave a basket-braid;To watch across the stricken chordsYour rosy-twinkling fingers flee;To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe!

In vain, --in vain! The years divide:Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams;--A vision, like Alcestis, broughtFrom under-lands of Memory, --A dream of Form in days of Thought, --A dream, --a dream, Autonoe!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

"CHAMBER SCENE"An Exquisite Picture In The Studio Of A Young Artist At Rome

She rose from her untroubled sleep, And put away her soft brown hair, And, in a tone as low and deepAs love's first whisper, breathed a prayer--Her snow-white hands together pressed, Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid, The folded linen on her breast, Just swelling with the charms it hid;And from her long and flowing dressEscaped a bare and slender foot, Whose shape upon the earth did pressLike a new snow-flake, white and "mute";And there, from slumber pure and warm, Like a young spirit fresh from heaven, She bowed her slight and graceful form, And humbly prayed to be forgiven. 

Oh God! if souls unsoiled as theseNeed daily mercy from Thy throne;If she upon her bended knees, Our loveliest and our purest one, --She, with a face so clear and bright, We deem her some stray child of light;--If she, with those soft eyes in tears, Day after day in her first years, Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee, What far, far deeper need have we!How hardly, if she win not heaven, Will our wild errors be forgiven!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

"AH, BE NOT FALSE"

Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor!Be true, be good;Be wise as thou art tender;Be all that Beauty should. 

Not lightly be thy citadel subdued;Not ignobly, not untimely, Take praise in solemn mood;Take love sublimely. 

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]

A LIFE-LESSON

There! little girl, don't cry!They have broken your doll, I know;And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago;But childish troubles will soon pass by. --There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry!They have broken your slate, I know;And the glad, wild waysOf your school-girl daysAre things of the long ago;But life and love will soon come by. --There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry!They have broken your heart, I know;And the rainbow gleamsOf your youthful dreamsAre things of the long ago;But Heaven holds all for which you sigh. --There! little girl, don't cry!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE MAN

THE BREAKINGThe Lord God Speaks To A Youth

Bend now thy body to the common weight:(But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn!Those proud young shoulders, I myself made straight!How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?)

Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee:(But oh, that singing mouth, those radiant eyes!Those dancing feet--that I myself made free!How shall I sadden them to make them wise?)

Nay, then, thou shalt! Resist not--have a care!(Yea, I must work my plans who sovereign sit;Yet do not tremble so! I cannot bear--Though I am God--to see thee so submit!)

Margaret Steele Anderson [1869-1921]

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH

There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain:But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign:Still we feel that something sweetFollowed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain:We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again. 

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

"DAYS OF MY YOUTH"

Days of my youth, Ye have glided away;Hairs of my youth, Ye are frosted and gray;Eyes of my youth, Your keen sight is no more;Cheeks of my youth, Ye are furrowed all o'er;Strength of my youth, All your vigor is gone;Thoughts of my youth, Your gay visions are flown. 

Days of my youth, I wish not your recall;Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall;Eyes of my youth, You much evil have seen;Cheeks of my youth, Bathed in tears have you been;Thoughts of my youth, You have led me astray;Strength of my youth, Why lament your decay?

Days of my age, Ye will shortly be past;Pains of my age, Yet awhile ye can last;Joys of my age, In true wisdom delight;Eyes of my age, Be religion your light;Thoughts of my age, Dread ye not the cold sod;Hopes of my age, Be ye fixed on your God. 

St. George Tucker [1752-1827]

AVE ATQUE VALE

Farewell my Youth! for now we needs must part, For here the paths divide;Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart, --Divergence deep and wide. 

You'll wear no withered roses for my sake, Though I go mourning for you all day long, Finding no magic more in bower or brake, No melody in song. 

Gray Eld must travel in my companyTo seal this severance more fast and sure. A joyless fellowship, i' faith, 'twill be, Yet must we fare together, I and he, Till I shall tread the footpath way no more. 

But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs, On some dim, iridescent day in spring, Then I may dream you are rememberingOur ancient vows. 

Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn, Looks through the dark eyes of the violet, I may re-cross the set, forbidden bourne, I may forgetOur long, long parting for a little while, Dream of the golden splendors of your smile, Dream you remember yet. 

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

TO YOUTH

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?With wing at either shoulder, And smile that never left thy mouthUntil the Hours grew colder:

Then somewhat seemed to whisper nearThat thou and I must part;I doubted it; I felt no fear, No weight upon the heart. 

If aught befell it, Love was byAnd rolled it off again;So, if there ever was a sigh, 'Twas not a sigh of pain. 

I may not call thee back; but thouReturnest when the handOf gentle Sleep waves o'er my browHis poppy-crested wand;

Then smiling eyes bend over mine, Then lips once pressed invite;But sleep hath given a silent sign, And both, alas! take flight. 

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled:Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happinessAre driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vainThe shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, --or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished scene;As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me. 

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"WHEN AS A LAD"

When, as a lad, at break of dayI watched the fishers sail away, My thoughts, like flocking birds, would followAcross the curving sky's blue hollow, And on and on-Into the very heart of dawn!

For long I searched the world! Ah me!I searched the sky, I searched the sea, With much of useless grief and rueing, Those winged thoughts of mine pursuing--So dear were they, So lovely and so far away!

I seek them still and always willUntil my laggard heart is still, And I am free to follow, follow, Across the curving sky's blue hollow, Those thoughts too fleetFor any save the soul's swift feet!

Isabel Ecclestone Mackay [1875-

"AROUND THE CHILD"

Around the child bend all the threeSweet Graces--Faith, Hope, Charity. Around the man bend other facesPride, Envy, Malice, are his Graces. 

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

ALADDIN

When I was a beggarly boy, And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp;When I could not sleep for the cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver brightFor the one that is mine no more. Take, Fortune, whatever you choose;You gave, and may snatch again;I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE QUEST

It was a heavenly time of lifeWhen first I went to Spain, The lovely land of silver mists, The land of golden grain. 

My little ship through unknown seasSailed many a changing day;Sometimes the chilling winds came upAnd blew across her way;

Sometimes the rain came down and hidThe shining shores of Spain, The beauty of the silver mistsAnd of the golden grain. 

But through the rains and through the winds, Upon the untried sea, My fairy ship sailed on and on, With all my dreams and me. 

And now, no more a child, I longFor that sweet time again, When on the far horizon barRose up the shores of Spain. 

O lovely land of silver mists, O land of golden grain, I look for you with smiles, with tears, But look for you in vain!

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]

MY BIRTH-DAY

"My birth-day"--what a different soundThat word had in my youthful ears!And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old;And, as Youth counts the shining linksThat Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinksHow hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said--"were he ordained to runHis long career of life again, He would do all that he had done. "

Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwellsIn sober birth-days, speaks to me;Far otherwise--of time it tellsLavished unwisely, carelessly;Of counsel mocked: of talents, madeHaply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laidUpon unholy, earthly shrines;Of nursing many a wrong desire;Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor-fireThat crossed my pathway, for a star. All this it tells, and, could I traceThe imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, effaceThe lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay!How quickly all should melt away--All--but that Freedom of the Mind, Which hath been more than wealth to me;Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly;And that dear home, that saving-ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

SONNETOn His Having Arrived To The Age of Twenty-Three

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truthThat I to manhood am arrived so near;And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure evenTo that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven:All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye. 

John Milton [1608-1674]

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;The flowers and fruits of love are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preysIs lone as some volcanic isle;No torch is kindled at its blaze--A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here--Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see!The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!)Awake, my spirit! Think through whomThy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood I--unto theeIndifferent should the smile or frownOf beauty be. 

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?The land of honorable deathIs here:--up to the field, and giveAway thy breath!

Seek out--less often sought than found--A soldier's grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. 

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

GROWING GRAY"On a l'age de son caeur. " A. D'Houdetot

A little more toward the light;--Me miserable! Here's one that's white;And one that's turning;Adieu to song and "salad days;"My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, And order mourning. 

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear, --Renounce the gay for the severe, --Be grave, not witty;We have, no more, the right to findThat Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined, --That Chloe's pretty. 

Young Love's for us a farce that's played;Light canzonet and serenadeNo more may tempt us;Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;From aught but sour didactic themesOur years exempt us. 

Indeed! you really fancy so?You think for one white streak we growAt once satiric?A fiddlestick! Each hair's a stringTo which our ancient Muse shall singA younger lyric. 

The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale"Grow rare to youth because we railAt schoolboy dishes?Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chantWhen neither Time nor Tide can grantBelief with wishes. 

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

THE ONE WHITE HAIR

The wisest of the wiseListen to pretty liesAnd love to hear'em told. Doubt not that SolomonListened to many a one, --Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. 

I never was amongThe choir of Wisdom's song, But pretty lies loved IAs much as any king, When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by. 

Alas! and I have notThe pleasant hour forgotWhen one pert lady said, "O Walter! I am quiteBewildered with affright!I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head!"

Another more benignSnipped it away from mine, And in her own dark hairPretended it was found. . . She leaped, and twirled it round. . . Fair as she was, she never was so fair!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE

Our youth began with tears and sighs, With seeking what we could not find;Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined;Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, We sought and knew not what we sought. We marvel, now we look behind:Life's more amusing than we thought!

Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise!Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind!What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought?Ah, old, and worn, and tired we findLife's more amusing than we thought!

Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies, "To mourn for youth we're not inclined;We set our souls on salmon flies, We whistle where we once repined. Confound the woes of human-kind!By Heaven we're "well deceived, " I wot;Who hum, contented or resigned, "Life's more amusing than we thought"!

ENVOYO nate mecum, worn and linedOur faces show, but that is naught;Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind:Life's more amusing than we thought!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

MIDDLE AGE

When that my days were fewer, Some twenty years ago, And all that is was newer, And time itself seemed slow, With ardor all impassioned, I let my hopes fly free, And deemed the world was fashionedMy playing-field to be. 

The cup of joy was filled thenWith Fancy's sparkling wine;And all the things I willed thenSeemed destined to be mine. Friends had I then in plenty, And every friend was true;Friends always are at twenty, And on to twenty-two. 

The men whose hair was sprinkledWith little flecks of gray, Whose faded brows were wrinkled--Sure they had had their day. And though we bore no malice, We knew their hearts were cold, For they had drained their chalice, And now were spent and old. 

At thirty, we admitted, A man may be alive, But slower, feebler witted;And done at thirty-five. If Fate prolongs his earth-days, His joys grow fewer still;And after five more birthdaysHe totters down the hill. 

We were the true immortalsWho held the earth in fee;For us were flung the portalsOf fame and victory. The days were bright and breezy, And gay our banners flew, And every peak was easyTo scale at twenty-two. 

And thus we spent our gay timeAs having much to spend;Swift, swift, that pretty playtimeFlew by and had its end. And lo! without a warningI woke, as others do, One fine mid-winter morning, A man of forty-two. 

And now I see how vainlyIs youth with ardor fired;How fondly, how insanelyI formerly aspired. A boy may still detest age, But as for me I know, A man has reached his best ageAt forty-two or so. 

For youth it is the seasonOf restlessness and strife;Of passion and unreason, And ignorance of life. Since, though his cheeks have roses, No boy can understandThat everything he knows isA graft at second hand. 

But we have toiled and wanderedWith weary feet and numb;Have doubted, sifted, pondered, --How else should knowledge come?Have seen too late for heeding, Our hopes go out in tears, Lost in the dim receding, Irrevocable years. 

Yet, though with busy fingersNo more we wreathe the flowers, An airy perfume lingers, A brightness still is ours. And though no rose our cheeks have, The sky still shines as blue;And still the distant peaks haveThe glow of twenty-two. 

Rudolph Chambers Lehmann [1856-1929]

TO CRITICS

When I was seventeen I heardFrom each censorious tongue, "I'd not do that if I were you;You see you're rather young. "

Now that I number forty years, I'm quite as often toldOf this or that I shouldn't doBecause I'm quite too old. 

O carping world! If there's an ageWhere youth and manhood keepAn equal poise, alas! I mustHave passed it in my sleep. 

Walter Learned [1847-1915]

THE RAINBOW

My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!The Child is father of the Man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

LEAVETAKING

Pass, thou wild light, Wild light on peaks that soGrieve to let goThe day. Lovely thy tarrying, lovely too is night:Pass thou away. 

Pass, thou wild heart, Wild heart of youth that stillHast half a willTo stay. I grow too old a comrade, let us part:Pass thou away. 

William Watson [1858-1935]

EQUINOCTIAL

The sun of life has crossed the line;The summer-shine of lengthened lightFaded and failed, till, where I stand, 'Tis equal day and equal night. 

One after one, as dwindling hours, Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, And soon may barely leave the gleamThat coldly scores a winter's day. 

I am not young; I am not old;The flush of morn, the sunset calm, Paling and deepening, each to each, Meet midway with a solemn charm. 

One side I see the summer fields, Not yet disrobed of all their green;While westerly, along the hills, Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and stormMake battle-ground of this my life!Where, even-matched, the night and dayWage round me their September strife!

I bow me to the threatening gale:I know when that is overpast, Among the peaceful harvest days, An Indian Summer comes at last!

Adeline D. T. Whitney [1824-1906]

"BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF YEARS"From "Atalanta in Calydon"

Before the beginning of years, There came to the making of manTime, with a gift of tears;Grief, with a glass that ran;Pleasure, with pain for leaven;Summer, with flowers that fell;Remembrance, fallen from heaven;And madness, risen from hell;Strength, without hands to smite;Love, that endures for a breath;Night, the shadow of light;And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in handFire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sandFrom under the feet of the years;And froth and drift of the sea, And dust of the laboring earth;And bodies of things to beIn the houses of death and of birth;And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after, And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span, With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy Spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the southThey gathered as unto strife;They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life;Eyesight and speech they wroughtFor the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought, A time to serve and to sin;They gave him light in his ways, And love, and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire;With his lips he travaileth;In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death;He weaves, and is clothed with derisionSows, and he shall not reap;His life is a watch or a visionBetween a sleep and a sleep. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

MAN

Weighing the steadfastness and stateOf some mean things which here below reside, Where birds, like watchful clocks, the noiseless dateAnd intercourse of times divide. Where bees at night get home and hive, and flowers, Early as well as late, Rise with the sun, and set in the same bowers;

I would, said I, my God would giveThe staidness of these things to man! for theseTo His divine appointments ever cleave, And no new business breaks their peace;The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine, The flowers without clothes live, Yet Solomon was never dressed so fine. 

Man hath still either toys, or care;He hath no root, nor to one place is tied, But ever restless and irregularAbout this earth doth run and ride;He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where;He says it is so far, That he hath quite forgot how to go there. 

He knocks at all doors, strays and roams;Nay, hath not so much wit as some stones have, Which in the darkest nights point to their homesBy some hid sense their Maker gave;Man is the shuttle, to whose winding questAnd passage through these loomsGod ordered motion, but ordained no rest. 

Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]

THE PULLEY

When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by--Let us (said He) pour on him all we can;Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way, Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure:When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, Rest in the bottom lay. 

For if I should (said He)Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness;Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to My breast. 

George Herbert [1593-1633]

ODE ON THE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITYFROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

IThere was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seemApparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;--Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

IIThe Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose;The Moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

IIINow, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young Lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep:No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay;Land and SeaGive themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of MayDoth every Beast keep holiday;--Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

IVYe blessed Creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullenWhile Earth herself is adorningThis sweet May morning, And the Children are cullingOn every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:--I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!--But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone:The Pansy at my feetDoth the same tale repeat:Whither is fled the visionary gleam?Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

VOur birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy;The Youth, who daily farther from the EastMust travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision spendidIs on his way attended;At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. 

VIEarth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can, To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VIIBehold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size!See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses, With light upon him from his Father's eyes!See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral;And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song:Then will he fit his tongueTo dialogues of business, love, or strife:But it will not be longEre this be thrown aside, And with new joy and prideThe little Actor cons another part;Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage;As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation. 

VIIIThou, whose exterior semblance doth belieThy Soul's immensity;Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keepThy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, --Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave:Thou, over whom thy ImmortalityBroods like the Day, a master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by;Thou little Child, yet glorious in the mightOf heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provokeThe years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And Custom lie upon thee with a weightHeavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IXO joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live, That nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest--Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:--Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings;Blank misgivings of a CreatureMoving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal NatureDid tremble like a guilty thing surprised:But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;Uphold us, cherish, and have power to makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never;Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thitherAnd see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

XThen sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!And let the young Lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound!We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-dayFeel the gladness of the May!What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind;In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be;In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering;In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XIAnd O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves!Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;I only have relinquished one delightTo live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they:The innocent brightness of a new-born DayIs lovely yet;The Clouds that gather round the setting sunDo take a sober coloring from an eyeThat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE WOMAN

WOMAN

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung, Not she denied him with unholy tongue;She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave, Last at the cross and earliest at the grave. 

Eaton Stannard Barrett [1786-1820]

WOMAN

There in the fane a beauteous creature stands, The first best work of the Creator's hands, Whose slender limbs inadequately bearA full-orbed bosom and a weight of care;Whose teeth like pearls, whose lips like cherries, show, And fawn-like eyes still tremble as they glow. 

From the Sanskrit of Calidasa

SIMPLEX MUNDITIISFrom "Epicoene"

Still to be neat, still to be dressedAs you were going to a feast;Still to be powdered, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all the adulteries of art;They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness:A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction:An erring lace, which here and thereEnthrals the crimson stomacher:A cuff neglectful, and therebyRibbons to flow confusedly:A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat:A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility:Do more bewitch me than when artIs too precise in every part. 

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY

Give place, you ladies, and begone!Boast not yourselves at all!For here at hand approacheth oneWhose face will stain you all. 

The virtue of her lively looksExcels the precious stone;I wish to have none other booksTo read or look upon. 

In each of her two crystal eyesSmileth a naked boy;It would you all in heart sufficeTo see that lamp of joy. 

I think Nature hath lost the mouldWhere she her shape did take;Or else I doubt if Nature couldSo fair a creature make. 

She may be well comparedUnto the Phoenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, That any man can find. 

In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope;In word and eke in deed steadfast. What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far, Who could find such a wight?Her beauty twinkleth like a starWithin the frosty night. 

Her roseal color comes and goesWith such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the roseWithin her lively face. 

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding as a stray. 

The modest mirth that she doth useIs mixed with shamefastness;All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness. 

O Lord! it is a world to seeHow virtue can repair, And deck her in such honesty, Whom Nature made so fair. 

Truly she doth so far exceedOur women nowadays, As doth the gillyflower a weed;And more a thousand ways. 

How might I do to get a graffOf this unspotted tree?For all the rest are plain but chaff, Which seem good corn to be. 

This gift alone I shall her give:When death doth what he can, Her honest fame shall ever liveWithin the mouth of man. 

John Heywood [1497?-1580?]

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT

I know a thing that's most uncommon;(Envy, be silent and attend!)I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend. 

Not warped by passion, awed by rumor;Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly;An equal mixture of good-humorAnd sensible soft melancholy. 

"Has she no faults then, (Envy says), Sir?"Yes, she has one, I must aver:When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear. 

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

PERFECT WOMAN

She was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE SOLITARY-HEARTED

She was a queen of noble Nature's crowning, A smile of hers was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, Like daily beauties of the vulgar race:But if she smiled, a light was on her face, A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, A visitation, bright and transitory. 

But she is changed, --hath felt the touch of sorrow, No love hath she, no understanding friend;O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapped, the rose must bend. The tallest flower that skyward rears its headGrows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, That they should find so base a bridal bed, Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely. 

She had a brother, and a tender father, And she was loved, but not as others areFrom whom we ask return of love, --but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare, Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, Yet no one claimed--as oft, in dewy glades, The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;--The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. 

'Tis vain to say--her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely, And yet she hath no strength to stand alone, --Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, And she did love them. They are passed awayAs Fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed, Or unsphered Angel wofully astray, She glides along--the solitary-hearted. 

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

OF THOSE WHO WALK ALONE

Women there are on earth, most sweet and high, Who lose their own, and walk bereft and lonely, Loving that one lost heart until they die, Loving it only. 

And so they never see beside them growChildren, whose coming is like breath of flowers;Consoled by subtler loves the angels knowThrough childless hours. 

Good deeds they do: they comfort and they blessIn duties others put off till the morrow;Their look is balm, their touch is tendernessTo all in sorrow. 

Betimes the world smiles at them, as 'twere shame, This maiden guise, long after youth's departed;But in God's Book they bear another name--"The faithful-hearted. "

Faithful in life, and faithful unto death, Such souls, in sooth, illume with lustre splendidThat glimpsed, glad land wherein, the Vision saith, Earth's wrongs are ended. 

Richard Burton [1861-

"SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY"

She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tressOr softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that browSo soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

PRELUDESFrom "The Angel in the House"

IUNTHRIFT

Ah, wasteful woman, she that mayOn her sweet self set her own price, Knowing man cannot choose but pay, How has she cheapened paradise;How given for nought her priceless gift, How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine, Which, spent with due, respective thrift, Had made brutes men, and men divine. 

IIHONOR AND DESERT

O Queen, awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give, And comprehend and wear the crownOf thy despised prerogative!I, who in manhood's name at lengthWith glad songs come to abdicateThe gross regality of strength, Must yet in this thy praise abate, That, through thine erring humblenessAnd disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much lessThan fits his fellowship with thee. 

High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow, The coward had grasped the hero's sword, The vilest had been great, hadst thou, Just to thyself, been worth's reward. But lofty honors undersoldSeller and buyer both disgrace;And favors that make folly boldBanish the light from virtue's face. 

IIITHE ROSE OF THE WORLD

Lo, when the Lord made North and South, And sun and moon ordained, He, Forthbringing each by word of mouthIn order of its dignityDid man from the crude clay expressBy sequence, and all else decreed, He formed the woman; nor might lessThan Sabbath such a work succeed. 

And still with favor singled out, Marred less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout, Her countenance angelical:The best things that the best believeAre in her face so kindly writThe faithless, seeing her, conceiveNot only heaven, but hope of it;No idle thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy chequers settled sense, Like alteration of the cloudsOn noonday's azure permanence. 

Pure dignity, composure, ease, Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degreesOf sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus' side, How potent to deject the faceOf him who would affront its pride!

Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Nor spotted thought its taint discloseUnder the protest of a cheekOutbragging Nature's boast, the rose. In mind and manners how discreet;How artless in her very art;How candid in discourse; how sweetThe concord of her lips and heart!

How simple and how circumspect;How subtle and how fancy-free;Though sacred to her love, how deckedWith unexclusive courtesy;How quick in talk to see from farThe way to vanquish or evade;How able her persuasions areTo prove, her reasons to persuade. 

How (not to call true instinct's bentAnd woman's very nature, harm), How amiable and innocentHer pleasure in her power to charm;How humbly careful to attract, Though crowned with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires!

IVTHE TRIBUTE

Boon Nature to the woman bows;She walks in earth's whole glory clad, And, chiefest far herself of shows, All others help her and are glad:No splendor 'neath the sky's proud domeBut serves her for familiar wear;The far-fetched diamond finds its homeFlashing and smouldering in her hair;For her the seas their pearls reveal;Art and strange lands her pomp supplyWith purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli;The worm its golden woof presents;Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments, Which suit her better than themselves;And all, by this their power to give, Proving her right to take, proclaimHer beauty's clear prerogativeTo profit so by Eden's blame. 

VNEAREST THE DEAREST

Till Eve was brought to Adam, heA solitary desert trod, Though in the great societyOf nature, angels, and of God. If one slight column counterweighsThe ocean, 'tis the Maker's law, Who deems obedience better praiseThan sacrifice of erring awe. 

VITHE FOREIGN LAND

A woman is a foreign land, Of which, though there he settle young, A man will ne'er quite understandThe customs, politics, and tongue. The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd and prospects fair, Learn of the language, "How d'ye do, "And go and brag they have been there. The most for leave to trade apply, For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eyeGlean chancewise in the life-long mart. And certain others, few and fit, Attach them to the Court, and seeThe Country's best, its accent hit, And partly sound its polity. 

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

A HEALTH

I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon;To whom the better elementsAnd kindly stars have givenA form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melodyDwells ever in her words;The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flowsAs one may see the burdened beeForth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours;Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers;And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appearsThe image of themselves by turns, --The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will traceA picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing heartsA sound must long remain;But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sighWill not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon--Her health! and would on earth there stoodSome more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. 

Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]

OUR SISTER

Her face was very fair to see, So luminous with purity:--It had no roses, but the hueOf lilies lustrous with their dew--Her very soul seemed shining through!

Her quiet nature seemed to beTuned to each season's harmony. The holy sky bent near to her;She saw a spirit in the stirOf solemn woods. The rills that beatTheir mosses with voluptuous feet, Went dripping music through her thought. Sweet impulse came to her unsoughtFrom graceful things, and beauty tookA sacred meaning in her look. 

In the great Master's steps went sheWith patience and humility. The casual gazer could not guessHalf of her veiled loveliness;Yet ah! what precious things lay hidBeneath her bosom's snowy lid:--What tenderness and sympathy, What beauty of sincerity, What fancies chaste, and loves, that grewIn heaven's own stainless light and dew!

True woman was she day by dayIn suffering, toil, and victory. Her life, made holy and sereneBy faith, was hid with things unseen. She knew what they alone can knowWho live above but dwell below. 

Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]

FROM LIFE

Her thoughts are like a flock of butterflies. She has a merry love of little things, And a bright flutter of speech, whereto she bringsA threefold eloquence--voice, hands and eyes. Yet under all a subtle silence liesAs a bird's heart is hidden by its wings;And you shall search through many wanderingsThe fairyland of her realities. 

She hides herself behind a busy brain--A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood;A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood--Wise with the quiet memory of old pain, As the soft glamor of remembered rainHallows the gladness of a sunlit wood. 

Brian Hooker [1880-

THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died. 

We and the laboring world are passing by:Amid men's souls, that waver and give place, Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face. 

Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;He made the world to be a grassy roadBefore her wandering feet. 

William Butler Yeats [1865-

DAWN OF WOMANHOOD

Thus will I have the woman of my dream. Strong must she be and gentle, like a starHer soul burn whitely; nor its arrowy beam

May any cloud of superstition mar:True to the earth she is, patient and calm. Her tranquil eyes shall penetrate afar

Through centuries, and her maternal armEnfold the generations yet unborn;Nor she, by passing glamor nor alarm, Will from the steadfast way of life be drawn. Gray-eyed and fearless, I behold her gazeOutward into the furnace of the dawn. 

Sacred shall be the purport of her days, Yet human; and the passion of the earthShall be for her adornment and her praise. 

She is most often joyous, with a mirthThat rings true-tempered holy womanhood, She cannot fear the agonies of birth, Nor sit in pallid lethargy and broodUpon the coming seasons of her pain:By her the mystery is understood

Of harvest, and fulfilment in the grain. Yea, she is wont to labor in the field, Delights to heap, at sunset, on the wain

Festoons and coronals of the golden yield. A triumph is the labor of her soul, Sublime along eternity revealed. 

Lo, everlastingly in her control, Under the even measure of her breath, Like crested waves the onward centuries roll. 

Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth, Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer, Nor trembleth at appearances of death. 

She, godlike in her womanhood, will fareCalm-visaged and heroic to the end. The homestead is her most especial care;

She loves the sacred hearth: she will defendHer gods from desecration of the vile. Fierce, like a wounded tigress, she can rend

Whatever may have entered to defile. I see her in the evening by the fire, And in her eyes, illumined from the pile

Of blazing logs, a motherly desireGlows like the moulded passion of a rose;Beautiful is her presence in the bower:

Her spirit is the spirit of repose. Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe:Woman is she indeed, and not of those

That he with sacramental gold must drawDiscreetly to his chamber in the night, Or bind to him with fetters of the law. 

He holds her by a spiritual right. With diamond and with pearl he need not sue;Nor will she deck herself for his delight:

Beauty is the adornment of the true. She shall possess for ornament and gemA flower, the glowworm, or the drop of dew:

More innocently fair than all of them, It will not even shame her if she makeA coronal of stars her diadem. 

Though she is but a vision, I can takeCourage from her. I feel her arrowy beamAlready, for her spirit is awake, And passes down the future like a gleam, --Thus have I made the woman of my dream. 

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

THE SHEPHERDESS

She walks--the lady of my delight--A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep. 

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Into that tender breast at nightThe chastest stars may peep. She walks--the lady of my delight--A shepherdess of sheep. 

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right;She has her soul to keep. She walks--the lady of my delight--A shepherdess of sheep. 

Alice Meynell [1853-1922]

A PORTRAIT

Mother and maid and soldier, bearing bestHer girl's lithe body under matron gray, And opening new eyes on each new dayWith faith concealed and courage unconfessed;Jealous to cloak a blessing in a jest, Clothe beauty carefully in disarray, And love absurdly, that no word betrayThe worship all her deeds make manifest:

Armored in smiles, a motley Britomart--Her lance is high adventure, tipped with scorn;Her banner to the suns and winds unfurled, Washed white with laughter; and beneath her heart, Shrined in a garland of laborious thorn, Blooms the unchanging Rose of all the World. 

Brian Hooker [1880-

THE WIFE

The little Dreams of Maidenhood--I put them all awayAs tenderly as mother wouldThe toys of yesterday, When little children grow to menToo over-wise for play. 

The little dreams I put aside--I loved them every one, And yet since moon-blown buds must hideBefore the noon-day sun, I close them wistfully awayAnd give the key to none. 

O little Dreams of Maidenhood--Lie quietly, nor careIf some day in an idle moodI, searching unawareThrough some closed corner of my heart, Should laugh to find you there. 

Theodosia Garrison [1874-

"TRUSTY, DUSKY, VIVID, TRUE"

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel true and blade straightThe great Artificer made my mate. 

Honor, anger, valor, fire, A love that life could never tire, Death quench, or evil stir, The mighty Master gave to her. 

Teacher, tender comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life, Heart-whole and soul-free, The August Father gave to me. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE SHRINE

There is a shrine whose golden gateWas opened by the Hand of God;It stands serene, inviolate, Though millions have its pavement trod;As fresh, as when the first sunriseAwoke the lark in Paradise. 

'Tis compassed with the dust and toilOf common days, yet should there fallA single speck, a single soilUpon the whiteness of its wall, The angels' tears in tender rainWould make the temple theirs again. 

Without, the world is tired and old, But, once within the enchanted door, The mists of time are backward rolled, And creeds and ages are no more;But all the human-hearted meetIn one communion vast and sweet. 

I enter--all is simply fair, Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne;But in the fragrant morning airA gentle lady sits alone;My mother--ah! whom should I seeWithin, save ever only thee?

Digby Mackworth Dolben [1848-1867]

THE VOICE

As I went down the hill I heardThe laughter of the countryside;For, rain being past, the whole land stirredWith new emotion, like a bride. I scarce had left the grassy lane, When something made me catch my breath:A woman called, and called again, Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

It was my mother's name. A partOf wounded memory sprang to tears, And the few violets of my heartShook in the wind of happier years. Quicker than magic came the faceThat once was sun and moon for me;The garden shawl, the cap of lace, The collie's head against her knee. 

Mother, who findest out a wayTo pass the sentinels, and standBehind my chair at close of day, To touch me--almost--with thy hand, Deep in my breast, how sure, how clear, The lamp of love burns on till death!--How trembles if I chance to hearElizabeth! Elizabeth!

Norman Gale [1862-

MOTHER

I have praised many loved ones in my song, And yet I standBefore her shrine, to whom all things belong, With empty hand. 

Perhaps the ripening future holds a timeFor things unsaid;Not now; men do not celebrate in rhymeTheir daily bread. 

Theresa Helburn [1888-

AD MATREM

Oft in the after days, when thou and IHave fallen from the scope of human view, When, both together, under the sweet sky, We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face;Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of grace. Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true bays, Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!"Make this addition to thy perfect praise, "Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!"So shall I live with Thee, and thy dear fameShall link my love unto thine honored name. 

Julian Fane [1827-1870]

C. L. M. 

In the dark womb where I began, My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birthHer beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her. 

Down in the darkness of the graveShe cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tellWhether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to findHer beauty dusty in the mind. 

If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet, She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her seeMy sense of what she did for me. 

What have I done to keep in mindMy debt to her and womankind?What woman's happier life repaysHer for those months of wretched days?For all my mouthless body leechedEre Birth's releasing hell was reached?

What have I done, or tried, or saidIn thanks to that dear woman dead?Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed. . . O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed. 

John Masefield [1878-

STEPPING WESTWARD

STEPPING WESTWARD

"What, you are stepping westward?"--"Yea. "--'Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roamIn a strange Land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of Chance:Yet who would stop, or fear to advanceThough home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold;Behind, all gloomy to behold;And stepping westward seemed to beA kind of heavenly destiny:I liked the greeting; 'twas a soundOf something without place or bound;And seemed to give me spiritual rightTo travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spakeWas walking by her native lake:The salutation had to meThe very sound of courtesy:Its power was felt; and while my eyeWas fixed upon the glowing Sky, The echo of the voice enwroughtA human sweetness with the thoughtOf travelling through the world that layBefore me in my endless way. 

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

A FAREWELL TO ARMS(To Queen Elizabeth)

His golden locks Time hath to silver turned;O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing:Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. 

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 

And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song, --"Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong. "Goddess, allow this aged man his rightTo be your beadsman now that was your knight. 

George Peele [1558?-1597?]

THE WORLD

The World's a bubble, and the life of ManLess than a span:In his conception wretched, --from the womb, So to the tomb;Curst from his cradle, and brought up to yearsWith cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns on water, or but writes in dust. 

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed, What life is best?Courts are but only superficial schoolsTo dandle fools:The rural parts are turned into a denOf savage men;And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head:Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse:Some would have children; those that have them moanOr wish them gone:What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to pleaseIs a disease;To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil;Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace:--What then remains, but that we still should cryFor being born, or, being born, to die?

Francis Bacon [1561-1626]

"WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY"From "Twelfth Night"

When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads;For the rain it raineth every day. 

A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day. 

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK

When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite;The soul, with nobler resolutions decked, The body stooping does herself erect. No mortal parts are requisite to raiseHer that, unbodied, can her Maker praise. 

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boastOf fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyesConceal that emptiness which age descries. 

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made:Stronger by weakness, wiser, men becomeAs they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they viewThat stand upon the threshold of the new. 

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

A LAMENTThe Night Before His Execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;My crop of corn is but a field of tares;And all my good is but vain hope of gain;The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it is not sprung;The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green;My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;And now I die, and now I am but made;The glass is full, and now my glass is run;And now I live, and now my life is done!

Chidiock Tichborne [1558?-1586]

TOMORROW

In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate beThan a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for Tomorrow. 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail, And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail:A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honors may wait him Tomorrow. 

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completelySecured by a neighboring hill;And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetlyBy the sound of a murmuring rill. And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what Today may afford, And let them spread the table Tomorrow. 

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today, May become everlasting Tomorrow. 

John Collins [1742?-1808]

LATE WISDOM

We've trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade;And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed:By long experience taught, we know--Can rightly judge of friends and foes;Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those. 

Now, 'tis our boast that we can quellThe wildest passions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage. --Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when nowThis bold rebellious race are fled?When all these tyrants rest, and thouArt warring with the mighty dead?

George Crabbe [1754-1832]

YOUTH AND AGE

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding like a bee, --Both were mine! Life went a-mayingWith Nature, Hope, and PoesyWhen I was young!

When I was young?--Ah, woful When!Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:--Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide!Naught cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;Oh! the joys that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and LibertyEre I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that Thou and I were one. I'll think it but a fond conceit--It cannot be that Thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:--And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put onTo make believe that thou art gone?I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size:But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life's a warningThat only serves to make us grieveWhen we are old:

That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismissed, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTSAnd How He Gained Them

"You are old, Father William, " the young man cried;"The few locks which are left you are gray;You are hale, Father William, --a hearty old man:Now tell me the reason, I pray. "

"In the days of my youth, " Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigor at first, That I never might need them at last. "

"You are old, Father William, " the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away;And yet you lament not the days that are gone:Now tell me the reason, I pray. "

"In the days of my youth, " Father William replied, "I remembered that youth could not last;I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past. "

"You are old, Father William, " the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away;You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:Now tell me the reason, I pray. "

"I am cheerful, young man, " Father William replied;"Let the cause thy attention engage;In the days of my youth, I remembered my God, And He hath not forgotten my age. "

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

TO AGE

Welcome, old friend! These many yearsHave we lived door by door:The Fates have laid aside their shearsPerhaps for some few more. 

I was indocile at an ageWhen better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught. 

Little I know from other men, Too little they from me, But thou hast pointed well the penThat writes these lines to thee. 

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, One vile, the other vain;One's scourge, the other's telescope, I shall not see again:

Rather what lies before my feetMy notice shall engage. --He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heatDreads not the frost of Age. 

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

LATE LEAVES

The leaves are falling; so am I;The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;So have I too. Scarcely on any bough is heardJoyous, or even unjoyous, birdThe whole wood through. 

Winter may come: he brings but nigherHis circle (yearly narrowing) to the fireWhere old friends meet. Let him; now heaven is overcast, And spring and summer both are past, And all things sweet. 

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

YEARS

Years, many parti-colored years, Some have crept on, and some have flownSince first before me fell those tearsI never could see fall alone. 

Years, not so many, are to come, Years not so varied, when from youOne more will fall: when, carried home, I see it not, nor hear Adieu. 

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

THE RIVER OF LIFE

The more we live, more brief appearOur life's succeeding stages:A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smoothAlong its grassy borders. 

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange--yet who would changeTime's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have goneAnd left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strengthIndemnifying fleetness;And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportioned to their sweetness. 

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

"LONG TIME A CHILD"

Long time a child, and still a child, when yearsHad painted manhood on my check, was I, --For yet I lived like one not born to die;A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears, No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep; and waking, I waked to sleep no more; at once o'ertakingThe vanguard of my age, with all arrearsOf duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray, For I have lost the race I never ran:A rathe December blights my lagging May;And still I am a child, though I be old:Time is my debtor for my years untold. 

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

THE WORLD I AM PASSING THROUGH

Few, in the days of early youth, Trusted like me in love and truth. I've learned sad lessons from the years;But slowly, and with many tears;For God made me to kindly viewThe world that I was passing through. 

How little did I once believeThat friendly tones could e'er deceive!That kindness, and forbearance long, Might meet ingratitude and wrong!I could not help but kindly viewThe world that I was passing through. 

And though I've learned some souls are base, I would not, therefore, hate the race;I still would bless my fellow men, And trust them, though deceived again. God help me still to kindly viewThe world that I am passing through!

Through weary conflicts I have passed, And struggled into rest at last;Such rest as when the rack has brokeA joint, or nerve, at every stroke. The wish survives to kindly viewThe world that I am passing through. 

From all that fate has brought to meI strive to learn humility, And trust in Him who rules above, Whose universal law is love. Thus only can I kindly viewThe world that I am passing through. 

When I approach the setting sun, And feel my journey nearly done, May earth be veiled in genial light, And her last smile to me seem bright!Help me till then to kindly viewThe world that I am passing through!

And all who tempt a trusting heartFrom faith and hope to drift apart, --May they themselves be spared the painOf losing power to trust again!God help us all to kindly viewThe world that we are passing through!

Lydia Maria Child [1802-1880]

TERMINUS

It is time to be old, To take in sail:--The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: "No more!No farther shootThy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent;Contract thy firmamentTo compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two;Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot;A little whileStill plan and smile, And, --fault of novel germs, --Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeathThe needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins, --Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the Gladiators, halt and numb. "

As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime:"Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed;The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed. "

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

RABBI BEN EZRA

Grow old along with me!The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made:Our times are in his handWho saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?"Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars;Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fearsAnnulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!Rather I prize the doubtLow kinds exist without. Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feedOn joy, to solely seek and find and feast:Such feasting ended, thenAs sure an end to men;Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are alliedTo that which doth provideAnd not partake, effect and not receive!A spark disturbs our clod;Nearer we hold of GodWho gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. 

Then, welcome each rebuffThat turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!Be our joys three-parts pain!Strive, and hold cheap the strain;Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence, --a paradoxWhich comforts while it mocks, --Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me:A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a bruteWhose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?To man, propose this test--Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:I own the Past profuseOf power each side, perfection every turn:Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole:Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"?

Not once beat "Praise be thine!I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too:Perfect I call thy plan:Thanks that I was a man!Maker, remake, complete, --I trust what thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh;Our soul, in its rose-meshPulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest:Would we some prize might holdTo match those manifoldPossessions of the brute, --gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-dayI strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"As the bird wings and sings;Let us cry, "All good thingsAre ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon ageTo grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term:Thence shall I pass, approvedA man, for aye removedFrom the developed brute; a God though in the germ. 

And I shall thereuponTake rest, ere I be goneOnce more on my adventure brave and new:Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue. 

Youth ended, I shall tryMy gain or loss thereby;Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame:Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. 

For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cutsThe deed off, calls the glory from the gray:A whisper from the westShoots--"Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day. "

So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain:The Future I may face now I have proved the Past. "

For more is not reservedTo man, with soul just nervedTo act to-morrow what he learns to-day:Here, work enough to watchThe Master work, and catchHints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

As it was better, youthShould strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made:So, better, age, exemptFrom strife, should know, than temptFurther. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the RightAnd Good and InfiniteBe named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no disputeFrom fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 

Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past!Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate?Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;Ten, who in ears and eyesMatch me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar massCalled "work, " must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price;O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumbAnd finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account;All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packedInto a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped;All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor! and feelWhy time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, --Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day?"

Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall;Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be:Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. 

He fixed thee 'mid this danceOf plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest:Machinery just meantTo give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 

What though the earlier groovesWhich ran the laughing lovesAround thy base, no longer pause and press?What though, about thy rim, Scull-things in order grimGrow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up!To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips a-glow!Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needest thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men;And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I--to the wheel of lifeWith shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily, --mistake my end, to slake thy thirst:

So, take and use thy work:Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!My times be in thy hand!Perfect the cup as planned!Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

HUMAN LIFE

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet;Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing, In current unperceived because so fleet;Sad are our hopes for they were sweet in sowing, But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing;And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet:And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft usOf that which made our childhood sweeter still;And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left usA nearer Good to cure an older Ill:And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize themNot for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them. 

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]

YOUNG AND OLDFrom "The Water Babies"

When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green;And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen;Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away;Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown;And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down:Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among:God grant you find one face thereYou loved when all was young. 

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO

Oh, a wonderful stream is the River Time, As it flows through the realm of Tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broader sweep and a surge sublimeAs it blends with the ocean of Years. 

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow!And the summers like buds between;And the year in the sheaf--so they come and they goOn the River's breast with its ebb and flow, As they glide in the shadow and sheen. 

There's a magical Isle up the River TimeWhere the softest of airs are playing;There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying. 

And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there;There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow--They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so!There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a harp unswept and a lute without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shoreBy the mirage is lifted in air;And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roarSweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the River is fair. 

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed IsleAll the day of our life till night, And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight. 

Benjamin Franklin Taylor [1819-1887]

GROWING OLD

What is it to grow old?Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye?Is it for beauty to forego her wealth?--Yes, but not this alone. 

Is it to feel our strength--Not our bloom only, but our strength--decay?Is it to feel each limbGrow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung?

Yes, this, and more; but not--Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be!'Tis not to have our lifeMellowed and softened as with sunset glow, A golden day's decline. 

'Tis not to see the worldAs from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred;And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more. 

It is to spend long daysAnd not once feel that we were ever young;It is to add, immuredIn the hot prison of the present, monthTo month with weary pain. 

It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Deep in our hidden heartFesters the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion--none. 

It is!--last stage of all--When we are frozen up within, and quiteThe phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghostWhich blessed the living man. 

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

PAST

The clocks are chiming in my heartTheir cobweb chime;Old murmurings of days that die, The sob of things a-drifting by. The clocks are chiming in my heart!

The stars have twinkled, and gone out--Fair candles blown!The hot desires burn low, and wanThose ashy fires, that flamed anon. The stars have twinkled, and gone out!

John Galsworthy [1867-1933]

TWILIGHT

When I was young the twilight seemed too long. How often on the western window-seatI leaned my book against the misty paneAnd spelled the last enchanting lines again, The while my mother hummed an ancient song, Or sighed a little and said: "The hour is sweet!"When I, rebellious, clamored for the light. 

But now I love the soft approach of night, And now with folded hands I sit and dreamWhile all too fleet the hours of twilight seem;And thus I know that I am growing old. 

O granaries of Age! O manifoldAnd royal harvest of the common years!There are in all thy treasure-house no waysBut lead by soft descent and gradual slopeTo memories more exquisite than hope. Thine is the Iris born of olden tears, And thrice more happy are the happy daysThat live divinely in the lingering rays. 

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-

YOUTH AND AGE

Youth hath many charms, --Hath many joys, and much delight;Even its doubts, and vague alarms, By contrast make it bright:And yet--and yet--forsooth, I love Age as well as Youth!

Well, since I love them both, The good of both I will combine, --In women, I will look for Youth, And look for Age, in wine:And then--and then--I'll blessThis twain that gives me happiness!

George Arnold [1834-1865]

FORTY YEARS ON

Forty years on, when afar and asunderParted are those who are singing today, When you look back, and forgetfully wonderWhat you were like in your work and your play;Then, it may be, there will often come o'er youGlimpses of notes like the catch of a song--Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along. Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up!Till the field ring again and again, With the tramp of the twenty-two men, Follow up! Follow up!

Routs and discomfitures, rushes and rallies, Bases attempted, and rescued, and won, Strife without anger, and art without malice, --How will it seem to you forty years on?Then, you will say, not a feverish minuteStrained the weak heart, and the wavering knee, Never the battle raged hottest, but in itNeither the last nor the faintest were we!Follow up! Follow up!

O the great days, in the distance enchanted, Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun, How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted--Hardly believable forty years on!How we discoursed of them, one with another, Auguring triumph, or balancing fate, Loved the ally with the heart of a brother, Hated the foe with a playing at hate!Follow up! Follow up!

Forty years on, growing older and older, Shorter in wind, and in memory long, Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder, What will it help you that once you were strong?God gives us bases to guard or beleaguer, Games to play out, whether earnest or fun, Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager, Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on!Follow up! Follow up!

Edward Ernest Bowen [1836-1901]

DREGS

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof, (This is the end of every song man sings!)The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain, Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;And health and hope have gone the way of loveInto the drear oblivion of lost things. Ghosts go along with us until the end;This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend. With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and waitFor the dropped curtain and the closing gate:This is the end of all the songs man sings. 

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

THE PARADOX OF TIMEA Variation On Ronsard

"Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame!Las! le temps non: mais nous nous en allons!"

Time goes, you say? Ah no!Alas, Time stays, we go;Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours?Time goes, you say?--ah no!

Ours is the eyes' deceitOf men whose flying feetLead through some landscape low;We pass, and think we seeThe earth's fixed surface flee:--Alas, Time stays--we go!

Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age;Time goes, you say?--ah no!

Once, when my voice was strong, I filled the woods with songTo praise your "rose" and "snow";My bird, that sang, is dead;Where are your roses fled?Alas, Time stays--we go!

See, in what traversed ways, What backward Fate delaysThe hopes we used to know;Where are our old desires?--Ah, where those vanished fires?Time goes, you say?--ah no!

How far, how far, O sweet, The past behind our feetLies in the even-glow!Now, on the forward way, Let us fold hands, and pray;Alas, Time stays, --we go!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

AGE

Snow and stars, the same as everIn the days when I was young, --But their silver song, ah never, Never now is sung!

Cold the stars are, cold the earth is, Everything is grim and cold!Strange and drear the sound of mirth is--Life and I are old!

William Winter [1836-1917]

OMNIA SOMNIA

Dawn drives the dreams away, yet some abide. Once, in a tide of pale and sunless weather, I dreamed I wandered on a bare hillside, When suddenly the birds sang all together. 

Still it was Winter, even in the dream;There was no leaf nor bud nor young grass springing;The skies shone cold above the frost-bound stream:It was not Spring, and yet the birds were singing. 

Blackbird and thrush and plaintive willow-wren, Chaffinch and lark and linnet, all were calling;A golden web of music held me then, Innumerable voices, rising, falling. 

O, never do the birds of April singMore sweet than in that dream I still remember:Perchance the heart may keep its songs of SpringEven through the wintry dream of life's December. 

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

THE YEAR'S END

Full happy is the man who comes at lastInto the safe completion of his year;Weathered the perils of his spring, that blastHow many blossoms promising and dear!And of his summer, with dread passions fraughtThat oft, like fire through the ripening corn, Blight all with mocking death and leave distraughtLoved ones to mourn the ruined waste forlorn. But now, though autumn gave but harvest slight, Oh, grateful is he to the powers aboveFor winter's sunshine, and the lengthened nightBy hearth-side genial with the warmth of love. Through silvered days of vistas gold and greenContentedly he glides away, serene. 

Timothy Cole [1852-1931]

AN OLD MAN'S SONG

Ye are young, ye are young, I am old, I am old;And the song has been sungAnd the story been told. 

Your locks are as brownAs the mavis in May, Your hearts are as warmAs the sunshine to-day, But mine white and coldAs the snow on the brae. 

And Love, like a flower, Is growing for you, Hands clasping, lips meeting, Hearts beating so true;While Fame like a starIn the midnight afarIs flashing for you. 

For you the To-come, But for me the Gone-by, You are panting to live, I am waiting to die;The meadow is empty, No flower groweth high, And naught but a socketThe face of the sky. 

Yea, how so we dream, Or how bravely we do;The end is the same, Be we traitor or true:And after the bloomAnd the passion is past, Death cometh at last. 

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

SONGS OF SEVEN

Seven Times One. --EXULTATION

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven;I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter;My birthday lessons are done;The lambs play always, they know no better;They are only one times one. 

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailingAnd shining so round and low;You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing, --You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something wrong in heavenThat God has hidden your face?I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold!O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell?O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapperThat hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it;I will not steal them away;I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, --I am seven times one to-day. 

Seven Times Two. --ROMANCE

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he rangesCome over, come over to me. 

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swellingNo magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of tellingThe fortune of future days

"Turn again, turn again, " once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone;Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearilyAll by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be;No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:You leave the story to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heatherPreparing her hoods of snow;She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:Oh! children take long to grow. 

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late;And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head;"The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said. "

I wait for my story, --the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree;The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh, bring it!Such as I wish it to be. 

Seven Times Three. --LOVE

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate, "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover, --Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, waitTill I listen and hearIf a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?Let the star-clusters grow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. 

"You night-moths that hover, where honey brims overFrom sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discoverTo him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep, --

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night. "By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;But I'll love him more, moreThan e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright. 

Seven Times Four. --MATERNITY

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups!Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small!Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups;Mother shall thread them a daisy chain;Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow, "--Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups!Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks of you now. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups!Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall!Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all!

Seven Times Five. --WIDOWHOOD

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moanBefore I am well awake;"Let me bleed! O let me alone, Since I must not break!"

For children wake, though fathers sleepWith a stone at foot and at head:O sleepless God, forever keep, Keep both living and dead!

I lift mine eyes, and what to seeBut a world happy and fair!I have not wished it to mourn with me, --Comfort is not there. 

Oh, what anear but golden brooms, But a waste of reedy rills!Oh, what afar but the fine gloomsOn the rare blue hills!

I shall not die, but live forlore, --How bitter it is to part!Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more!O my heart, my heart!

No more to hear, no more to see!Oh, that an echo might wakeAnd waft one note of thy psalm to meEre my heart-strings break!

I should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel voices blent;Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear;I could be content!

Or once between the gates of gold, While an entering angel trod, But once, --thee sitting to beholdOn the hills of God!

Seven Times Six. --GIVING IN MARRIAGE

To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose:To see my bright ones disappear, Drawn up like morning dews, --To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch and then to lose:This have I done when God drew nearAmong his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord departIn tears, that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart, --To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child. "

O fond, O fool, and blind!To God I gave with tears;But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears, --O fond, O fool, and blind!God guards in happier spheres;That man will guard where he did bindIs hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views;Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in naught accuse;Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love, --and then to lose. 

Seven Times Seven. --LONGING FOR HOME

A song of a boat:--There was once a boat on a billow:Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boatWent curtsying over the billow, I marked her course till a dancing mote, She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stayed behind in the dear-loved home;And my thoughts all day were about the boat, And my dreams upon the pillow. 

I pray you hear my song of a boatFor it is but short:--My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea, And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me--Ah me!

A song of a nest:--There was once a nest in a hollow:Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm and full to the brim--Vetches leaned over it purple, and dim, With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long:--You shall never light in a summer questThe bushes among--Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever knowA softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own, Ah, happy, happy I!Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grownThey spread out their wings to fly--Oh, one after one they flew awayFar up to the heavenly blue, To the better country, the upper day, And--I wish I was going too. 

I pray you what is the nest to me, My empty nest?And what is the shore where I stood to seeMy boat sail down to the west?Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sailed?Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be:There is the home where my thoughts are sentThe only home for me--Ah me!

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

AUSPEX

My heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it;And when the last shall go, The dreary days, to fill it, Instead of lark or linnet, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow. 

Had they been swallows only, Without the passion strongerThat skyward longs and sings, --Woe's me, I shall be lonelyWhen I can feel no longerThe impatience of their wings!

A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover;But it will not be longBefore their wild confusionFall wavering down to coverThe poet and his song. 

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

LOOKING BACKWARD

THE RETREAT

Happy those early days, when IShined in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white, celestial thought;When yet I had not walked aboveA mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of His bright face;When on some gilded cloud or flowerMy gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity;Before I taught my tongue to woundMy Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to every sense;But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness. 

O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence the enlightened spirit seesThat shady City of Palm-trees. But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way!Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move;And, when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. 

Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]

A SUPERSCRIPTION

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shellCast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seenWhich had Life's form and Love's, but by my spellIs now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dartOne moment through thy soul the soft surpriseOf that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs, --Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apartThy visage to mine ambush at thy heartSleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]

THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN

When to the garden of untroubled thoughtI came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and exploreThe sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak beforeI dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought. Then just within the gate I saw a child, --A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear, --Who held his hands to me and softly smiledWith eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear;"Come in, " he said, "and play awhile with me;I am the little child you used to be. "

Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]

CASTLES IN THE AIR

My thoughts by night are often filledWith visions false as fair:For in the Past alone I buildMy castles in the air. 

I dwell not now on what may be;Night shadows o'er the scene;But still my fancy wanders freeThrough that which might have been. 

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]

SOMETIMES

Across the fields of yesterdayHe sometimes comes to me, A little lad just back from play--The lad I used to be. 

And yet he smiles so wistfullyOnce he has crept within, I wonder if he hopes to seeThe man I might have been. 

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]

THE LITTLE GHOSTS

Where are they gone, and do you knowIf they come back at fall o' dew, The little ghosts of long ago, That long ago were you?

And all the songs that ne'er were sung. And all the dreams that ne'er came true, Like little children dying young--Do they come back to you?

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]

MY OTHER ME

Children, do you ever, In walks by land or sea, Meet a little maidenLong time lost to me?

She is gay and gladsome, Has a laughing face, And a heart as sunny;And her name is Grace. 

Naught she knows of sorrow, Naught of doubt or blight;Heaven is just above her--All her thoughts are white. 

Long time since I lost her, That other Me of mine;She crossed, into Time's shadowOut of Youth's sunshine. 

Now the darkness keeps her;And, call her as I will, The years that lie between usHide her from me still. 

I am dull and pain-worn, And lonely as can be--Oh, children, if you meet her, Send back my other Me!

Grace Denio Litchfield [1849-

A SHADOW BOAT

Under my keel another boatSails as I sail, floats as I float;Silent and dim and mystic still, It steals through that weird nether-world, Mocking my power, though at my willThe foam before its prow is curled, Or calm it lies, with canvas furled. 

Vainly I peer, and fain would seeWhat phantom in that boat may be;Yet half I dread, lest I with ruthSome ghost of my dead past divine, Some gracious shape of my lost youth, Whose deathless eyes once fixed on mineWould draw me downward through the brine!

Arlo Bates [1850-1918]

A LAD THAT IS GONE

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone;Say, could that lad be I?Merry of soul he sailed on a dayOver the sea to Skye. 

Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow;Glory of youth glowed in his soul:Where is that glory now?

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone;Say, could that lad be I?Merry of soul he sailed on a dayOver the sea to Skye. 

Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone!Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that's gone!

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone;Say, could that lad be I?Merry of soul he sailed on a dayOver the sea to Skye. 

Billow and breeze, islands and seas, Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, All that was me is gone. 

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

CARCASSONNE

"I'm growing old, I've sixty years;I've labored all my life in vain. In all that time of hopes and fears, I've failed my dearest wish to gain. I see full well that here belowBliss unalloyed there is for none;My prayer would else fulfilment know--Never have I seen Carcassonne!

"You see the city from the hill, It lies beyond the mountains blue;And yet to reach it one must stillFive long and weary leagues pursue, And, to return, as many more. Had but the vintage plenteous grown--But, ah! the grape withheld its store. I shall not look on Carcassonne!

"They tell me every day is thereNot more or less than Sunday gay;In shining robes and garments fairThe people walk upon their way. One gazes there on castle wallsAs grand as those of Babylon, A bishop and two generals!What joy to dwell in Carcassonne!

"The vicar's right: he says that weAre ever wayward, weak, and blind;He tells us in his homilyAmbition ruins all mankind;Yet could I there two days have spent, While still the autumn sweetly shone, Ah, me! I might have died contentWhen I had looked on Carcassonne. 

"Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, In this my prayer if I offend;One something sees beyond his reachFrom childhood to his journey's end. My wife, our little boy, Aignan, Have travelled even to Narbonne;My grandchild has seen Perpignan;And I--have not seen Carcassonne!"

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, A peasant, double-bent with age. "Rise up, my friend, " said I; "with youI'll go upon this pilgrimage. "We left, next morning, his abode, But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way onThe old man died upon the road. He never gazed on Carcassonne. 

Translated by John R. Thompson from the French ofGustave Nadaud [1820-? ]

CHILDHOOD

Old Sorrow I shall meet again, And Joy, perchance--but never, never, Happy Childhood, shall we twainSee each other's face forever!

And yet I would not call thee back, Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me, Thine old companion, on the rackOf Age, should sadden even thee. 

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

THE WASTREL

Once, when I was little, as the summer night was falling, Among the purple upland fields I lost my barefoot way;The road to home was hidden fast, and frightful shadows, crawlingAlong the sky-line, swallowed up the last kind light of day;And then I seemed to hear youIn the twilight; and be near you;Seemed to hear your dear voice calling--Through the meadows, calling, calling--And I followed and I found you, Flung my tired arms around you, And rested on the mother-breast, returned, tired out from play. 

Down the days from that day, though I trod strange paths unheeding, Though I chased the jack-o'-lanterns of so many maddened years, Though I never looked behind me, where the home-lights were receding, Though I never looked enough ahead to ken the Inn of Fears;Still I knew your heart was near me, That your ear was strained to hear me, That your love would need no pleadingTo forgive me, but was pleadingOf its self that, in disaster, I should run to you the fasterAnd be sure that I was dearer for your sacrifice of tears. 

Now on life's last Summertime the long last dusk is falling, And I, who trod one way so long, can tread no other wayUntil at death's dim crossroads I watch, hesitant, the crawlingNight-passages that maze me with the ultimate dismay. Then when Death and Doubt shall blind me--Even then--I know you'll find me:I shall hear you, Mother, calling--Hear you calling--calling--calling:I shall fight and follow--find youThough the grave-clothes swathe and bind you, And I know your love will answer: "Here's my laddie home from play!"

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-

TROIA FUIT

The world was wide when I was young, My schoolday hills and dales among;But, oh, it needs no Puck to put, With whipping wing and flying foot, A girdle 'round the narrow sphereIn which I labor now and here!

Life's face was fair when careless IFirst loved beneath an April sky, And wept those fine-imagined woesThat youth at nineteen thinks it knows;Now love and woe both run so deepI have not any time to weep. 

No matter; though at last we seeThat what was could not always be, It girds our loins and steels our handsIn duller days and smaller landsTo recollect the country whereThe world was wide and life was fair. 

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-

TEMPLE GARLANDS

There is a temple in my heartWhere moth or rust can never come, A temple swept and set apart, To make my soul a home. 

And round about the doors of itHang garlands that forever last, That gathered once are always sweet;The roses of the Past!

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-

TIME LONG PAST

Like the ghost of a dear friend deadIs Time long past. A tone which is now forever fled, A hope which is now forever past, A love so sweet it could not last, Was Time long past. 

There were sweet dreams in the nightOf Time long past:And, was it sadness or delight, Each day a shadow onward castWhich made us wish it yet might last, --That Time long past. 

There is regret, almost remorse, For Time long past. 'Tis like a child's beloved corseA father watches, till at lastBeauty is like remembrance, castFrom Time long past. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

"I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER"

I remember, I rememberThe house where I was born, The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soonNor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away. 

I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups--Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday, --The tree is living yet!

I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing, And though the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers thenThat is so heavy now, The summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow. 

I remember, I rememberThe fir-trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

MY LOST YOUTH

Often I think of the beautiful townThat is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland songIs haunting my memory still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth, are long, long thoughts. "

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the HesperidesOf all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free;And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward songIs singing and saying still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill;The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old songThrobs in my memory still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide!And the dead captains, as they layIn their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bayWhere they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful songGoes through me with a thrill:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods;And the friendships old and the early lovesCome back with a Sabbath sound, as of dovesIn quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

I remember the gleams and glooms that dartAcross the school-boy's brain;The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in partAre longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful songSings on, and is never still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal songCome over me like a chill:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts"

Strange to me are the forms I meetWhen I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that wereI find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still:"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

"VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND"

Voice of the western wind!Thou singest from afar, Rich with the music of a landWhere all my memories are;But in thy song I only hearThe echo of a toneThat fell divinely on my earIn days forever flown. 

Star of the western sky!Thou beamest from afar, With lustre caught from eyes I knewWhose orbs were each a star;But, oh, those orbs--too wildly bright--No more eclipse thine own, And never shall I find the lightOf days forever flown!

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

LANGSYNE, WHEN LIFE WAS BONNIE"

Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the skies were blue, When ilka thocht took blossom, An' hung its heid wi' dew, When winter wasna winter, Though snaws cam' happin' doon, Langsyne, when life was bonnie, Spring gaed a twalmonth roun'. 

Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the days were lang;When through them ran the musicThat comes to us in sang, We never wearied liltin'The auld love-laden tune;Langsyne, when life was bonnie, Love gaed a twalmonth roun'. 

Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the warld was fair, The leaves were green wi' simmer, For autumn wasna there. But listen hoo they rustle, Wi' an eerie, weary soun', For noo, alas, 'tis winterThat gangs a twalmonth roun'. 

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]

THE SHOOGY-SHOO

I do be thinking, lassie, of the old days now;For oh! your hair is tangled gold above your Irish brow;And oh! your eyes are fairy flax! no other eyes so blue;Come nestle in my arms, and swing upon the shoogy-shoo. 

Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you;Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo. 

When meadow-larks would singing be in old Glentair, Was one sweet lass had eyes of blue and tangled golden hair;She was a wee bit girleen then, dear heart, the like of you, When we two swung the braes among, upon the shoogy-shoo. 

Ah well, the world goes up and down, and some sweet dayIts shoogy-shoo will swing us two where sighs will pass away;So nestle close your bonnie head, and close your eyes so true, And swing with me, and memory, upon the shoogy-shoo. 

Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you;Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo. 

Winthrop Packard [1862-

BABYLON"We shall meet again in Babylon. "

I'm going softly all my years in wisdom if in pain--For, oh, the music stirs my blood as once it did before, And still I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The dancing feet in Babylon, of those who took my floor. 

I'm going silent all my years, but garnered in my brainIs that swift wit which used to flash and cut them like a sword--And now I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The foolish tongues in Babylon, of those who took my word. 

I'm going lonely all my days, who was the first to craveThe second, fierce, unsteady voice, that struggled to speak free--And now I watch in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The pallid loves in Babylon of men who once loved me. 

I'm sleeping early by a flame as one content and gray, But, oh, I dream a dream of dreams beneath a winter moon, I breathe the breath of Babylon, of Babylon, of Babylon, The scent of silks in Babylon that floated to a tune. 

A band of years has flogged me out--an exile's fate is mine, To sit with mumbling crones and still a heart that cries with youth. But, oh, to walk in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The happy streets in Babylon, when once the dream was truth. 

Viola Taylor [18

THE ROAD OF REMEMBRANCE

The old wind stirs the hawthorn tree;The tree is blossoming;Northward the road runs to the sea, And past the House of Spring. 

The folk go down it unafraid;The still roofs rise before;When you were lad and I was maid, Wide open stood the door. 

Now, other children crowd the stair, And hunt from room to room;Outside, under the hawthorn fair, We pluck the thorny bloom. 

Out in the quiet road we stand, Shut in from wharf and mart, The old wind blowing up the land, The old thoughts at our heart. 

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]

THE TRIUMPH OF FORGOTTEN THINGS

There is a pity in forgotten things, Banished the heart they can no longer fill, Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings, Must seek new pleasures still!

There is a patience, too, in things forgot;They wait--they find the portal long unused;And knocking there, it shall refuse them not, --Nor aught shall be refused!

Ah, yes! though we, unheeding years on years, In alien pledges spend the heart's estate, They bide some blessed moment of quick tears--Some moment without date--

Some gleam on flower, or leaf, or beaded dew, Some tremble at the ear of memoried soundOf mother-song, --they seize the slender clew, --The old loves gather round!

When that which lured us once now lureth not, But the tired hands their garnered dross let fall, This is the triumph of the things forgot--To hear the tired heart call!

And they are with us at Life's farthest reach, A light when into shadow all else dips, As, in the stranger's land, their native speechReturns to dying lips!

Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925]

IN THE TWILIGHT

Men say the sullen instrument, That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished stringsMore than he knew or meant;Old summers in its memory glow;The secrets of the wind it sings;It hears the April-loosened springs;And mixes with its moodAll it dreamed when it stoodIn the murmurous pine-woodLong ago!

The magical moonlight thenSteeped every bough and cone;The roar of the brook in the glenCame dim from the distance blown;The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro, With delight as it stood, In the wonderful wood, Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasonsThat only said, Live and rejoice?That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice?When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowingOf the inexhaustible years?Have we not from the earth drawn juicesToo fine for earth's sordid uses?Have I heard, have I seenAll I feel, all I know?Doth my heart overween?Or could it have beenLong ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh meOf a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know notIn what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an earThat cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame itTo make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs in my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover, Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak it and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should once more have a poet, Such as it hadIn the ages glad, Long ago!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

AN IMMORALITY

Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living. 

And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in HungaryTo pass all men's believing. 

Ezra Pound [1885-

THREE SEASONS

"A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old:The crimson wine was poor and coldBy her mouth's richer red. 

"A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the whileHer blush was rippling with a smileLike summer after snow. 

"A cup for memory!"Cold cup that one must drain alone:While autumn winds are up and moanAcross the barren sea. 

Hope, memory, love:Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening grayAnd solitary dove. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays, --All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, --All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her, --All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces--

How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed, --All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles Lamb [1775-1834]

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Fond memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me. 

When I remember allThe friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me. 

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"TEARS, IDLE TEARS"From "The Princess"

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

THE PET NAME

". . . The nameWhich from their lips seemed a caress. " ---Miss Milford's "Dramatic Scenes"

I have a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalmThe solemn font anear. 

It never did to pages woveFor gay romance belong;It never dedicate did moveAs "Sacharissa" unto love, "Orinda" unto song. 

Though I write books, it will be readUpon the leaves of none, And afterward, when I am dead, Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread, Across my funeral-stone. 

This name, whoever chance to call, Perhaps your smile may win:Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fallOver mine eyes and feel withalThe sudden tears within. 

Is there a leaf, that greenly growsWhere summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those, If lasting till they come?

Is there a word, or jest, or game, But time incrusteth roundWith sad associate thoughts the same?And so to me my very nameAssumes a mournful sound. 

My brother gave that name to meWhen we were children twain, When names acquired baptismallyWere hard to utter, as to seeThat life had any pain. 

No shade was on us then, save oneOf chestnuts from the hill;And through the word our laugh did runAs part thereof: the mirth being done, He calls me by it still. 

Nay, do not smile! I hear in itWhat none of you can hear, --The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeatAround, our human cheer. 

I hear the birthday's noisy blissMy sisters' woodland glee, My father's praise I did not missWhen stooping down, he cared to kissThe poet at his knee, --

And voices which, to name me, ayeTheir tenderest tones were keeping, --To some I nevermore can sayAn answer till God wipes awayIn heaven these drops of weeping. 

My name to me a sadness wears:No murmurs cross my mind--Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind. 

Now God be thanked for years enwroughtWith love which softens yet:Now God be thanked for every thoughtWhich is so tender it has caughtEarth's guerdon of regret. 

Earth saddens, never shall removeAffections purely given;And e'en that mortal grief shall proveThe immortality of love, And heighten it with Heaven. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

THREESCORE AND TEN

Who reach their threescore years and ten, As I have mine, without a sigh, Are either more or less than men--Not such am I. 

I am not of them; life to meHas been a strange, bewildering dream, Wherein I knew not things that beFrom things that seem. 

I thought, I hoped, I knew one thing, And had one gift, when I was young--The impulse and the power to sing, And so I sung. 

To have a place in the high choirOf poets, and deserve the same--What more could mortal man desireThan poet's fame?

I sought it long, but never found;The choir so full was and so strongThe jubilant voices there, they drownedMy simple song. 

Men would not hear me then, and nowI care not, I accept my fate, When white hairs thatch the furrowed browCrowns come too late!

The best of life went long agoFrom me; it was not much at best;Only the love that young hearts know, The dear unrest. 

Back on my past, through gathering tears, Once more I cast my eyes, and seeBright shapes that in my better yearsSurrounded me!

They left me here, they left me there, Went down dark pathways, one by one--The wise, the great, the young, the fair;But I went on. 

And I go on! And bad or good, The old allotted years of menI have endured as best I could, Threescore and ten!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

RAIN ON THE ROOF

When the humid shadows hoverOver all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darknessGently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillowOf a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patterOf the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shinglesHas an echo in the heart;And a thousand dreamy fanciesInto busy being start, And a thousand recollectionsWeave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patterOf the rain upon the roof. 

Now in memory comes my mother, As she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamersEre she left them till the dawn;And I feel her fond look on me, As I list to this refrainWhich is played upon the shinglesBy the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother--A serene angelic pair--Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmurOf the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes, to thrill meWith her eyes' delicious blue;And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue:I remember but to love herWith a passion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrateTo the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadenceThat can work with such a spellIn the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, That subdued, subduing strainWhich is played upon the shinglesBy the patter of the rain. 

Coates Kinney [1826-1904]

ALONE BY THE HEARTH

Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, Sit I alone:And, as I gaze in the coals, I rememberDays long agone. Saddening it is when the night has descended, Thus to sit here, Pensively musing on episodes endedMany a year. 

Still in my visions a golden-haired gloryFlits to and fro;She whom I loved--but 'tis just the old story:Dead, long ago. 'Tis but a wraith of love; yet I linger(Thus passion errs), Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger--Once it was hers. 

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, Here, in this roomSave I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted, Sit in the gloom. Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes, Dreary and cold;Over the floor the red fire-light flashesJust as of old. 

Just as of old--but the embers are scattered, Whose ruddy blazeFlashed o'er the floor where the fairy feet patteredIn other days!Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing, Melted away;Often these walls have re-echoed her singing, Now hushed for aye!

Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I wonder?Everything dies!Time and death, sooner or later, must sunderHoliest ties. Years have rolled by; I am wiser and older--Wiser, but yetNot till my heart and its feelings grow colder, Can I forget. 

So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, Sit I alone;And, as I gaze in the coals, I rememberDays long agone!

George Arnold [1834-1865]

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

Oh for one hour of youthful joy!Give back my twentieth spring!I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, Than reign, a gray-beard king. 

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!Away with Learning's crown!Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood streamFrom boyhood's fount of flame!Give me one giddy, reeling dreamOf life all love and fame!

My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped. 

"But is there nothing in thy trackTo bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry backTo find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind!Without thee what were life?One bliss I cannot leave behind:I'll take--my--precious--wife!"

The angel took a sapphire penAnd wrote in rainbow dew, The man would be a boy again, And be a husband, too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears?Remember, all their gifts have fledWith those dissolving years. "

"Why, yes;" for memory would recallMy fond paternal joys;"I could not bear to leave them all--I'll take--my--girl--and--boys. "

The smiling angel dropped his pen, --"Why, this will never do;The man would be a boy again, And be a father, too!"

And so I laughed, --my laughter wokeThe household with its noise, --And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

THE GARRETAfter Beranger

With pensive eyes the little room I view, Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long;With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, And a light heart still breaking into song:Making a mock of life, and all its cares, Rich in the glory of my rising sun, Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

Yes; 'tis a garret--let him know't who will--There was my bed--full hard it was and small;My table there--and I decipher stillHalf a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun;For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

And see my little Jessy, first of all;She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawlAcross the narrow casement, curtain-wise;Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, And when did woman look the worse in none?I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

One jolly evening, when my friends and IMade happy music with our songs and cheers, A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, And distant cannon opened on our ears:We rise, --we join in the triumphant strain, --Napoleon conquers--Austerlitz is won--Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

Let us begone--the place is sad and strange--How far, far off, these happy times appear;All that I have to live I'd gladly changeFor one such month as I have wasted here--To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun, And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, Give me the days when I was twenty-one!

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

AULD LANG SYNE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'?Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne. 

We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine;But we've wandered monie a weary fitSin' auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine;But seas between us braid hae roaredSin' auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine;And we'll tak a right guid willie-waughtFor auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

ROCK ME TO SLEEP

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night!Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore;Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;--Rock me to sleep, mother, --rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!I am so weary of toil and of tears, --Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, --Take them, and give me my childhood again!I have grown weary of dust and decay, --Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap;--Rock me to sleep, mother, --rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between:Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep;--Rock me to sleep, mother, --rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone;No other worship abides and endures, --Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours:None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;--Rock me to sleep, mother, --rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. Fall on your shoulders again as of old;Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny-edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;--Rock me to sleep, mother, --rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last listened your lullaby song:Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;--Rock me to sleep, mother, --rock me to sleep!

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

THE BUCKET

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew!The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well--The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well--The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!Not a full blushing goblet would tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well--The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

Samuel Woodworth [1785-1842]

THE GRAPE-VINE SWING

Lithe and long as the serpent train, Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again, With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see;Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, Spanning the beach with the condor's wing. 

Yet no foe that we fear to seek, --The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace;Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheekAs ever on lover's breast found place;On thy waving train is a playful holdThou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade;While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, And swings and sings in the noonday shade!

O giant strange of our Southern woods!I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods, And the Northern forest beholds thee not;I think of thee still with a sweet regret, As the cordage yields to my playful grasp, --Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet?Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp?

William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870]

THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deepLooked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest belowSounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to knowBefore we could remember anything but the eyesOf the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole. 

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tideThat gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself as I leaped to caressMy shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his tollFrom the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole. 

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy daysWhen the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the journey down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so planeYou could tell by the dent of the heel and the soleThey was lots o' fun on hand at the old swimmin'-hole. But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow rollLike the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole. 

Thare the bulrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;And it mottled the worter with amber and goldTel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered byLike the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controleAs it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole. 

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spotWhare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be--But never again will theyr shade shelter me!And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole. 

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

FORTY YEARS AGO

I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the schoolhouse playground, that sheltered you and me;But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon that green some forty years ago. 

The grass is just as green, Tom; barefooted boys at playWere sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place some forty years ago. 

The old schoolhouse is altered some; the benches are replacedBy new ones, very like the same our jackknives once defaced;But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro;Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago. 

The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree;I have forgot the name just now--you've played the same with me, On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so;The loser had a task to do, there, forty years ago. 

The river's running just as still; the willows on its sideAre larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide;But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts--pretty girls--just forty years ago. 

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low--'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach;And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since forty years ago. 

Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same;Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago. 

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes;I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties;I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strowUpon the graves of those we loved some forty years ago. 

Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea, And none are left of our old class, excepting you and me;But when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope we'll meet with those we loved some forty years ago. 

Unknown[Sometimes called "Twenty Years Ago. "Claimed for A. J. Gault (1818-1903) by his family]

BEN BOLT

Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, --Sweet Alice whose hair was so Brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown?In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, And Alice lies under the stone. 

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill. The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gazeHas followed the olden din. 

Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt. At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Which nigh by the doorstep stood?The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek for in vain;And where once the lords of the forest wavedAre grass and the golden grain. 

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim, And the shaded nook in the running brookWhere the children went to swim?Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry, And of all the boys who were schoolmates thenThere are only you and I. 

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new;But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends--yet I hailYour presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale. 

Thomas Dunn English [1819-1902]

"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK"

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me. 

O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play!O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on, To their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]