Chapter XII: Part I: Poems of Youth and Age (8)

"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 song Awakened 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 through In 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 kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater then Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together! He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. Ay, he has travelled whither A winged pilot steered his bark Through 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 hand With 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 innocent Our little kinsman went.

Since that time no word From the absent has been heard. Who can tell How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound? Would that he might return! Then should we learn From the pricking of his chart How the skyey roadways part. Hush! does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Some starry offering Of chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so! We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know. He has more learning than appears On 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 speech In those lands beyond our reach,-- And his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

A CHRYSALIS

My little Madchen found one day A 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 hand To 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 be Some day within the chrysalis; How, slowly, in the dull brown thing Now still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty shell would fly A pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold.

"And will it, truly?" questioned she-- Her laughing lips and eager eyes All in a sparkle of surprise-- "And shall your little Madchen see?" "She shall! I said. How could I tell That ere the worm within its shell Its 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 why The empty shell is mine alone. Perhaps the secret lies in this: I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delight Was but the radiant creature's flight!

Mary Emily Bradley [1835-1898]

MATER DOLOROSA

I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes 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 by Children 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 peep Gone was the bitter day. She heard the milky ewes Bleat to their lambs astray. Her heart cried for her lamb Lapped cold in the churchyard sod, She could not think on the happy children At play with the Lamb of God.

She heard the calling ewes And the lambs' answer, alas! She heard her heart's blood drip in the night As the ewes' milk on the grass. Her tears that burnt like fire So bitter and slow ran down She could not think on the new-washed children Playing by Mary's gown.

Oh who is this comes in Over her threshold stone? And why is the old dog wild with joy Who all day long made moan? This fair little radiant ghost, Her one little son of seven, New 'scaped from the band of merry children In the nurseries of Heaven.

He was all clad in white Without a speck or stain; His curls had a ring of light That rose and fell again. "Now come with me, my own mother, And you shall have great ease, For you shall see the lost children Gathered to Mary's knees."

Oh, lightly sprang she up Nor waked her sleeping man, And hand in hand with the little ghost Through 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 children Twixt 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 out She sings unto hersel'; For she has seen the mothers' children And 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 learned Was 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 eyes Just 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 forgets And runs not out to meet me when I come--

What are my curses to Thee? Thou hast heard The curse of Abel's mother, and since then We have not ceased to threaten at Thy throne, To threat and pray Thee that Thou hold them still In memory of us.

See Thou tend him well, Thou God of all the mothers. If he lack One 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 go Orphaned 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 gavest All 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 joy Eet 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' hold Da 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'en Ees gona com' da spreeng agen. Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, He see, across da alleyway, Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere Ees raise her window for da air, An' put outside a leetla pot Of--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 know Da 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' den Da weenter ees sneak back agen, An' een da alley all da night Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white, An' cover up da leetla pot Of--w'at-you-call?--forgat-me-not. All night da leetla hand I hold Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold!

Da spreeng ees com'; but, oh, da joy Eet ees too late! He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait.

Thomas Augustin Daly [1871-

ON THE MOOR

I I met a child upon the moor A-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 poor To me, a childless rover.

II I met a maid upon the moor, The morrow was her wedding. Love lit her eyes with lovelier hues Than 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 heard But bridal bells a-ringing.

III I met a mother on the moor, By a new grave a-praying. The happy swallows in the blue Upon the winds were playing.

"Would I were in his grave," I said, "And he beside her standing!" There was no heart to break if death For 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 all Had the sweet child wandered through.

But, already, life's few suns Love'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 dower With 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, now Thou hadst been his teacher bold;

But, if buried seeds upthrow Fruits and flowers; if flower and fruit By their nature fitly show What the seeds are, whence they shoot,

Dionysia, o'er this tomb, Where thy buried beauties be, From their dust shall spring and bloom Loves and graces like to thee.

Unknown

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE

The night is late, the house is still; The angels of the hour fulfil Their tender ministries, and move From 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 make A 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 sing Before 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 in To the Lord's house, and leave my sin Without, 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 stone Marks all the narrow field I own; Yet, patient husbandman, I till With faith and prayers, that precious hill, Sow it with penitential pains, And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; Content if, after all, the spot Yield barely one forget-me-not-- Whether or figs or thistles make My 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 joys Born with their songs, gone with their toys; Nor ever is its stillness stirred By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, Or mother's twilight legend, told Of 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 make Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

How is it with the child? 'Tis well; Nor would I any miracle Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, Or plague his painless countenance: I would not any seer might place His staff on my immortal's face, Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, Charm back his pale mortality. No, Shunamite! I would not break God'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 expressed In fairest forms hath half her zest. For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed That 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 rest To 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 sunset Fades 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 doorway Their faces fresh and fair.

Alone in the dear old homestead That 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 number At home in the better land.

At home, where never a sorrow Shall dim their eyes with tears! Where the smile of God is on them Through all the summer years! I know,--yet my arms are empty, That fondly folded seven, And the mother-heart within me Is 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 fingers Lost 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 lifted Away 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 sunset Fades 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 head The 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 time We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem-- For, sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour; And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round Shines 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 droop Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round-- We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth.

O Earth! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air Her spirit to sustain; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

Maria White Lowell [1821-1855]

SHE CAME AND WENT

As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights 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 heaps The 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 night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where 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-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That 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 curl That 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, I Dwell 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 lie Beneath 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 still The 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 head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet when my eyes, now dim With 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 hall To 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 hid Under 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 break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My 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, praying For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there!

Not there!--Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked;--he is not there!

He lives!--In all the past He 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 rod So 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 done You 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 crown Of 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 beside Her 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 lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of 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 ago I did not see it as I do to-day,-- We are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The 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 fret At 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 say She was more blissfully content than I. But ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is 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 story And 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 prove That 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 city Whose "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 tree All out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by. I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry And 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]

SONNETS From "Mimma Bella"

I Have dark Egyptians stolen Thee away, Oh Baby, Baby, in whose cot we peer As down some empty gulf that opens sheer And 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 apart Since 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.

II Two springs she saw--two radiant Tuscan springs, What time the wild red tulips are aflame In the new wheat, and wreaths of young vine frame The daffodils that every light breeze swings; And the anemones that April brings Make purple pools, as if Adonis came Just there to die; and Florence scrolls her name In every blossom Primavera flings. Now, when the scented iris, straight and tall, Shall hedge the garden gravel once again With 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.

IV Oh, rosy as the lining of a shell Were 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, adorable The mouth that never knew life's bitter sloes; And like the incurved petal of a rose The 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 come To wake the sleep-struck playground of the dead.

VI Oh, 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 replace The baby's prattle, for the over-wise; The breeze's murmur would become the cries Of stormy petrels where the breakers race. We live as moves the walker in his sleep, Who walks because he sees not the abyss His feet are skirting as he goes his way: If we could see the morrow from the steep Of our security, the soul would miss Its footing, and fall headlong from to-day.

VIII One 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 shore Of Death's pale Isles of Twilight as they dream, Give back, give back, O Sea of Nevermore, The frailest of the unsubstantial forms That leave the shores that are for those that seem!

XX What 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 Time Makes ever holier for the soul, while years Obliterate the rolls of human fame.

Eugene Lee-Hamilton [1845-1907]

ROSE-MARIE OF THE ANGELS

Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run 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 clear Lift and ripple over Heaven As 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 lies Like 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 stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon 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 slumbered Birds 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 withstand One 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 steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart For 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-day To-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 worst Times 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 Margaret As 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 womanly Her demeaning In every thing, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write Of merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower, As patient and still And as full of good will As fair Isaphill, Coliander, Sweet pomander, Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought, Eye that ye can find So 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 Love Attended by the Graces.

Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame, Or Pallas armed, as on she came To 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 shall Compare, 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 outshine The beauties of her face.

Fair Dorothea, sent from heaven To 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 forth Elysian sweets, March strews the earth With 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 store Of graces born with you, and more Add to their number still; So neither all-consuming age, Nor envy's blast, nor fortune's rage Shall ever work you ill.

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"O, SAW YE BONNY LESLEY"

O saw ye bonny Lesley As 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 lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There'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 blush In 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 profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of Travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For 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 sang As 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

I How blest the Maid whose heart--yet free From 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 look Askance upon her pretty Self Reflected in some crystal brook; Whom grief hath spared--who sheds no tear But in sweet pity; and can hear Another's praise from envy clear.

II Such (but O lavish Nature! why That dark unfathomable eye, Where lurks a Spirit that replies To 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 shade To 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.

III How blest (if truth may entertain Coy fancy with a bolder strain) The Helvetian Girl--who daily braves, In her light skiff, the tossing waves, And quits the bosom of the deep Only to climb the rugged steep! --Say whence that modulated shout! From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng? Or does the greeting to a rout Of giddy Bacchanals belong? Jubilant outcry! rock and glade Resounded--but the voice obeyed The breath of an Helvetian Maid.

IV Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; Her courage animates the flood; Her steps the elastic greensward meets Returning unreluctant sweets; The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice Aloud, saluted by her voice! Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, Be as thou art--for through thy veins The blood of Heroes runs its race! And nobly wilt thou brook the chains That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; The fetter which the Matron wears; The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares!

"Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower Of 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, seen No breach of promise in the fruit? Was joy, in following joy, as keen As grief can be in grief's pursuit? When youth had flown did hope still bless Thy goings--or the cheerfulness Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?

VI But from our course why turn--to tread A way with shadows overspread; Where what we gladliest would believe Is feared as what may most deceive? Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned But 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 share The 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 grow An' blow, but where the tower Do 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 swing An' ring within the tower, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen showed Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'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 avore Their smilen mother's feace; You'd cry--"Why if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dower, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, There out upon the beaten grass Wer maidens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flower O' beauty, then, is still in bud In 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 blown Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps 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 still On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings Of 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 far Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round her hair.

And if reader read the poem, He would whisper--"You have done a Consecrated little Una!"

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel, with a name!"

And a stranger,--when he sees her In 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 cover The 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 music The 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 disclosing Twin 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 mutations From graver moods to gay.

Far off, I see the season When thy childhood's course is run, And thy girlhood opens wider Beneath 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 splendid With 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 thee Amongst the angels stand.

I know not what of fortune The future holds for thee, Nor if skies fair or clouded Wait thee in days to be, But neither joy nor sorrow Shall sever thee from me.

Dear child, whatever changes Across 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 crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- O the breath of the distant surf!--