Title: Poems Teachers Ask For
Author: Various
Release date: July 26, 2006 [eBook #18909]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Seldom does a book of poems appear that is definitely a response to demand and a reflection of readers' preferences. Of this collection that can properly be claimed. For a decade Normal instructor-primary plans has carried monthly a page entitled "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." The interest in this page has been, and is, phenomenal. Occasionally space considerations or copyright restrictions have prevented compliance with requests, but so far as practicable poems asked for have been printed. Because it has become impossible to furnish many of the earlier issues of the magazine, the publishers decided to select the poems most often requested and, carefully revising these for possible errors, to include them in the present collection. In some cases the desired poems are old favorite dramatic recitations, but many of them are poems that are required or recommended for memorizing in state courses of study. This latter feature will of itself make the book extremely valuable to teachers throughout the country. We are glad to offer here certain poems, often requested, but too long for insertion on our magazine Poetry Page. We are pleased also to be able to include a number of popular copyright poems. Special permission to use these has been granted through arrangement with the authorized publishers, whose courtesy is acknowledged below in detail:
The Bobbs-Merrill Company—The Raggedy Man, from "The Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley," copyright 1918.
Charles Scribner's Sons—Seein' Things and Little Boy Blue, by Eugene Field; Gradatim and Give Us Men, from "The Poetical Works of J.G. Holland"; and You and You, by Edith Wharton, copyright 1919.
Harper and Brothers—Over the Hill to the Poor-House, The Ride of Jennie M'Neal, The Little Black-Eyed Rebel, and The First Settler's Story, by Will Carleton.
The Dodge Publishing Company—The Moo Cow Moo and The Young Man Waited, by Edmund Vance Cooke.
Lothrop, Lee and Shepard Company—The House by the Side of the Road and The Calf Path, by Sam Walter Foss.
Little, Brown and Company—October's Bright Blue Weather, by Helen Hunt Jackson.
Houghton Mifflin Company—Poems by John G. Whittier, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, James T. Fields, and Lucy Larcom.
THE PUBLISHERS.
O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done, |
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; |
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, |
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; |
But, O heart! heart! heart! |
O the bleeding drops of red, |
Where on the deck my Captain lies, |
Fallen, cold and dead. |
O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells; |
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, |
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, |
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; |
Here Captain! dear father! |
This arm beneath your head! |
It is some dream that on the deck |
You've fallen cold and dead. |
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; |
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will; |
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; |
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; |
Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! |
But I, with mournful tread, |
Walk the deck my Captain lies, |
Fallen, cold and dead. |
Walt Whitman. |
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, |
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; |
Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, |
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; |
Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew |
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; |
Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, |
With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm; |
Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd |
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. |
There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, |
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. |
Tennyson, "Locksley Hall," 1842. |
The breaking waves dashed high |
On a stern and rock-bound coast, |
And the woods against a stormy sky |
Their giant branches tossed; |
And the heavy night hung dark |
The hills and waters o'er, |
When a band of exiles moored their bark |
On the wild New England shore. |
Not as the conqueror comes, |
They, the true-hearted, came,— |
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, |
And the trumpet that sings of fame; |
Not as the flying come, |
In silence and in fear; |
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom |
With their hymns of lofty cheer. |
Amidst the storms they sang; |
And the stars heard, and the sea; |
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang |
To the anthem of the free. |
The ocean eagle soared |
From his nest by the white wave's foam; |
And the rocking pines of the forest roared— |
This was their welcome home! |
There were men with hoary hair |
Amidst that pilgrim band: |
Why had they come to wither there |
Away from their childhood's land? |
There was woman's fearless eye, |
Lit by her deep love's truth; |
There was manhood's brow serenely high, |
And the fiery heart of youth. |
What sought they thus afar? |
Bright jewels of the mine? |
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— |
They sought a faith's pure shrine. |
Ay, call it holy ground,— |
The soil where first they trod! |
They have left unstained what there they found— |
Freedom to worship God! |
Felicia Hemans. |
Once there was a little boy |
Whose name was Robert Reese, |
And every Friday afternoon |
He had to speak a piece. |
So many poems thus he learned |
That soon he had a store |
Of recitations in his head |
And still kept learning more. |
Now this it is what happened: |
He was called upon one week |
And totally forgot the piece |
He was about to speak. |
His brain he vainly cudgeled |
But no word was in his head, |
And so he spoke at random, |
And this is what he said; |
My beautiful, my beautiful, |
Who standest proudly by, |
It was the schooner Hesperus |
The breaking waves dashed high. |
Why is the Forum crowded? |
What means this stir in Rome? |
Under a spreading chestnut tree |
There is no place like home. |
When Freedom from her mountain height |
Cried, "Twinkle, little star," |
Shoot if you must this old gray head, |
King Henry of Navarre. |
If you're waking, call me early |
To be or not to be, |
Curfew must not ring to-night, |
Oh, woodman, spare that tree. |
Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on! |
And let who will be clever, |
The boy stood on the burning deck |
But I go on for ever. |
The Kid has gone to the Colors |
And we don't know what to say; |
The Kid we have loved and cuddled |
Stepped out for the Flag to-day. |
We thought him a child, a baby |
With never a care at all, |
But his country called him man-size |
And the Kid has heard the call. |
He paused to watch the recruiting, |
Where, fired by the fife and drum, |
He bowed his head to Old Glory |
And thought that it whispered: "Come!" |
The Kid, not being a slacker, |
Stood forth with patriot-joy |
To add his name to the roster— |
And God, we're proud of the boy! |
The Kid has gone to the Colors; |
It seems but a little while |
Since he drilled a schoolboy army |
In a truly martial style, |
But now he's a man, a soldier, |
And we lend him a listening ear, |
For his heart is a heart all loyal, |
Unscourged by the curse of fear. |
His dad, when he told him, shuddered, |
His mother—God bless her!—cried; |
Yet, blest with a mother-nature, |
She wept with a mother-pride, |
But he whose old shoulders straightened |
Was Granddad—for memory ran |
To years when he, too, a youngster, |
Was changed by the Flag to a man! |
W.M. Herschell. |
It's noon when Thirty-five is due, |
An' she comes on time like a flash of light, |
An' you hear her whistle "Too-tee-too!" |
Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight. |
Bill Madden's drivin' her in to-day, |
An' he's calling his sweetheart far away— |
Gertrude Hurd lives down by the mill; |
You might see her blushin'; she knows it's Bill. |
"Tudie, tudie! Toot-ee! Tudie, tudie! Tu!" |
Six-five, A.M. there's a local comes, |
Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east; |
An' the way her whistle sings and hums |
Is a livin' caution to man and beast. |
Every one knows who Jack White calls,— |
Little Lou Woodbury, down by the falls; |
Summer or Winter, always the same, |
She hears her lover callin' her name— |
"Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Lou-iee!" |
But at one fifty-one, old Sixty-four— |
Boston express, runs east, clear through— |
Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar |
With the softest whistle that ever blew. |
An' away on the furthest edge of town |
Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown |
Shine like the starlight, bright and clear, |
When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear, |
"You-oo! Su-u-u-u-u-e!" |
Along at midnight a freight comes in, |
Leaves Berlin sometime—I don't know when; |
But it rumbles along with a fearful din |
Till it reaches the Y-switch there and then |
The clearest notes of the softest bell |
That out of a brazen goblet fell |
Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams; |
To her like a wedding-bell it seems— |
"Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!" |
Tom Willson rides on the right-hand side, |
Givin' her steam at every stride; |
An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear, |
For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear— |
"Lu-Lu! Loo-Loo! Loo-oo!" |
So it goes all day an' all night |
Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore; |
Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right |
For folks to do courtin' with such a roar. |
But the engineers their kisses will blow |
From a whistle valve to the girls they know, |
An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell; |
With the "Too-too-too" and the swinging bell. |
R.J. Burdette. |
She stood at the bar of justice, |
A creature wan and wild, |
In form too small for a woman, |
In features too old for a child; |
For a look so worn and pathetic |
Was stamped on her pale young face, |
It seemed long years of suffering |
Must have left that silent trace. |
"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her |
With kindly look yet keen,— |
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." |
And your age?"—"I am turned fifteen." |
"Well, Mary," and then from a paper |
He slowly and gravely read, |
"You are charged here—I'm sorry to say it— |
With stealing three loaves of bread. |
"You look not like an offender, |
And I hope that you can show |
The charge to be false. Now, tell me, |
Are you guilty of this, or no?" |
A passionate burst of weeping |
Was at first her sole reply. |
But she dried her eyes in a moment, |
And looked in the judge's eye. |
"I will tell you just how it was, sir: |
My father and mother are dead, |
And my little brothers and sisters |
Were hungry and asked me for bread. |
At first I earned it for them |
By working hard all day, |
But somehow, times were bad, sir, |
And the work all fell away. |
"I could get no more employment. |
The weather was bitter cold, |
The young ones cried and shivered— |
(Little Johnny's but four years old)— |
So what was I to do, sir? |
I am guilty, but do not condemn. |
I took—oh, was it stealing?— |
The bread to give to them." |
Every man in the court-room— |
Gray-beard and thoughtless youth— |
Knew, as he looked upon her, |
That the prisoner spake the truth; |
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, |
Out from their eyes sprung tears, |
And out from their old faded wallets |
Treasures hoarded for years. |
The judge's face was a study, |
The strangest you ever saw, |
As he cleared his throat and murmured |
Something about the law; |
For one so learned in such matters, |
So wise in dealing with men, |
He seemed, on a simple question, |
Sorely puzzled, just then. |
But no one blamed him or wondered, |
When at last these words he heard, |
"The sentence of this young prisoner |
Is, for the present, deferred." |
And no one blamed him or wondered |
When he went to her and smiled |
And tenderly led from the court-room, |
Himself, the "guilty" child. |
The sea! the sea! the open sea! |
The blue, the fresh, the ever free! |
Without a mark, without a bound, |
It runneth the earth's wide regions round; |
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies, |
Or like a cradled creature lies. |
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! |
I am where I would ever be; |
With the blue above and the blue below, |
And silence wheresoe'er I go. |
If a storm should come and awake the deep |
What matter? I shall ride and sleep. |
I love, oh, how I love to ride |
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, |
When every mad wave drowns the moon, |
Or whistles aloud his tempest tune, |
And tells how goeth the world below, |
And why the southwest blasts do blow. |
I never was on the dull, tame shore, |
But I loved the great sea more and more, |
And back I flew to her billowy breast, |
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; |
And a mother she was, and is, to me, |
For I was born on the open sea! |
I've lived, since then, in calm and strife, |
Full fifty summers a sailor's life, |
With wealth to spend and a power to range, |
But never have sought nor sighed for change; |
And Death, whenever he comes to me, |
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea. |
Barry Cornwall. |
Two brown heads with tossing curls, |
Red lips shutting over pearls, |
Bare feet, white and wet with dew, |
Two eyes black, and two eyes blue; |
Little girl and boy were they, |
Katie Lee and Willie Grey. |
They were standing where a brook, |
Bending like a shepherd's crook, |
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks |
Of willow fringed its mossy banks; |
Half in thought, and half in play, |
Katie Lee and Willie Grey. |
They had cheeks like cherries red; |
He was taller—'most a head; |
She, with arms like wreaths of snow, |
Swung a basket to and fro |
As she loitered, half in play, |
Chattering to Willie Grey. |
"Pretty Katie," Willie said— |
And there came a dash of red |
Through the brownness of his cheek— |
"Boys are strong and girls are weak, |
And I'll carry, so I will, |
Katie's basket up the hill." |
Katie answered with a laugh, |
"You shall carry only half"; |
And then, tossing back her curls, |
"Boys are weak as well as girls." |
Do you think that Katie guessed |
Half the wisdom she expressed? |
Men are only boys grown tall; |
Hearts don't change much, after all; |
And when, long years from that day, |
Katie Lee and Willie Grey |
Stood again beside the brook, |
Bending like a shepherd's crook,— |
Is it strange that Willie said, |
While again a dash of red |
Crossed the brownness of his cheek, |
"I am strong and you are weak; |
Life is but a slippery steep, |
Hung with shadows cold and deep. |
"Will you trust me, Katie dear,— |
Walk beside me without fear? |
May I carry, if I will, |
All your burdens up the hill?" |
And she answered, with a laugh, |
"No, but you may carry half." |
Close beside the little brook, |
Bending like a shepherd's crook, |
Washing with its silver hands |
Late and early at the sands, |
Is a cottage, where to-day |
Katie lives with Willie Grey. |
In a porch she sits, and lo! |
Swings a basket to and fro— |
Vastly different from the one |
That she swung in years agone, |
Thisis long and deep and wide, |
And has—rockers at the side. |
Still sits the school-house by the road, |
A ragged beggar sunning; |
Around it still the sumachs grow, |
And blackberry vines are running. |
Within, the master's desk is seen, |
Deep scarred by raps official; |
The warping floor, the battered seats, |
The jack-knife's carved initial; |
The charcoal frescoes on its wall; |
Its door's worn sill, betraying |
The feet that, creeping slow to school, |
Went storming out to playing! |
Long years ago a winter sun |
Shone over it at setting; |
Lit up its western window-panes, |
And low eaves' icy fretting. |
It touched the tangled golden curls, |
And brown eyes full of grieving, |
Of one who still her steps delayed |
When all the school were leaving. |
For near her stood the little boy |
Her childish favor singled: |
His cap pulled low upon a face |
Where pride and shame were mingled. |
Pushing with restless feet the snow |
To right and left, he lingered;— |
As restlessly her tiny hands |
The blue-checked apron fingered. |
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt |
The soft hand's light caressing, |
And heard the tremble of her voice, |
As if a fault confessing. |
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word: |
I hate to go above you, |
Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,— |
"Because, you see, I love you!" |
Still memory to a gray-haired man |
That sweet child-face is showing. |
Dear girl: the grasses on her grave |
Have forty years been growing! |
He lives to learn, in life's hard school, |
How few who pass above him |
Lament their triumph and his loss, |
Like her,—because they love him. |
John Greenleaf Whittier. |
God give us men; a time like this demands |
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands. |
Men whom the lust of office cannot kill; |
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; |
Men who possess opinions and a will; |
Men who have honor; men who will not lie; |
Men who can stand before a demagogue, |
And brave his treacherous flatteries without winking; |
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog, |
In public duty and in private thinking; |
For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds, |
Its large professions, and its little deeds, |
Mingle in selfish strife—lo! Freedom weeps, |
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps. |
J.G. Holland. |
"What is the real good?" I asked in musing mood. |
Order, said the law court; |
Knowledge, said the school; |
Truth, said the wise man; |
Pleasure, said the fool; |
Love, said the maiden; |
Beauty, said the page; |
Freedom, said the dreamer; |
Home, said the sage; |
Fame, said the soldier; |
Equity, the seer. |
Spake my heart full sadly: |
"The answer is not here." |
Then within my bosom |
Softly this I heard: |
"Each heart holds the secret: |
Kindness is the word." |
John Boyle O'Reilly. |
I haf von funny leedle poy |
Vot gomes shust to my knee,— |
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue |
As efer you dit see. |
He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings |
In all barts off der house. |
But vot off dot? He vas mine son, |
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. |
He gets der measels und der mumbs, |
Und eferyding dot's oudt; |
He sbills mine glass off lager bier, |
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut; |
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese— |
Dot vas der roughest chouse; |
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy |
But leedle Yawcob Strauss. |
He dakes der milkban for a dhrum, |
Und cuts mine cane in dwo |
To make der schticks to beat it mit— |
Mine cracious, dot vas drue! |
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart |
He kicks oup sooch a touse; |
But nefer mind der poys vas few |
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. |
He asks me questions sooch as dese: |
Who baints mine nose so red? |
Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt |
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? |
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp |
Vene'er der glim I douse? |
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain |
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? |
I somedimes dink I schall go vild |
Mit sooch a grazy poy, |
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest |
Und beaceful dimes enshoy. |
But ven he vas asleep in ped, |
So quiet as a mouse, |
I prays der Lord, "Dake any dings, |
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." |
Charles F. Adams. |
We shall do so much in the years to come, |
But what have we done to-day? |
We shall give out gold in princely sum, |
But what did we give to-day? |
We shall lift the heart and dry the tear, |
We shall plant a hope in the place of fear, |
We shall speak with words of love and cheer, |
But what have we done to-day? |
We shall be so kind in the after while, |
But what have we been to-day? |
We shall bring to each lonely life a smile, |
But what have we brought to-day? |
We shall give to truth a grander birth, |
And to steadfast faith a deeper worth, |
We shall feed the hungering souls of earth, |
But whom have we fed to-day? |
Nixon Waterman. |
My name is Tommy, an' I hates |
That feller of my sister Kate's, |
He's bigger'n I am an' you see |
He's sorter lookin' down on me, |
An' I resents it with a vim; |
I think I am just as good as him. |
He's older, an' he's mighty fly, |
But's he's a kid, an' so am I. |
One time he came,—down by the gate, |
I guess it must have been awful late,— |
An' Katie, she was there, an' they |
Was feelin' very nice and gay, |
An' he was talkin' all the while |
About her sweet an' lovin' smile, |
An' everythin' was as nice as pie, |
An' they was there, an' so was I. |
They didn't see me, 'cause I slid |
Down underneath a bush, an' hid, |
An' he was sayin' that his love |
Was greater'n all the stars above |
Up in the glorious heavens placed; |
An' then His arms got 'round her waist, |
An' clouds were floatin' in the sky, |
And they was there, an' so was I. |
I didn't hear just all they said, |
But by an' by my sister's head |
Was droopin' on his shoulder, an' |
I seen him holdin' Katie's hand, |
An' then he hugged her closer, some, |
An' then I heerd a kiss—yum, yum; |
An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh, |
An' sorter coughed,—an' so did I. |
An' then that feller looked around |
An' seed me there, down on the ground, |
An'—was he mad? well, betcher boots |
I gets right out of there an' scoots. |
An' he just left my sister Kate |
A-standin' right there by the gate; |
An' I seen blood was in his eye, |
An' he runned fast—an' so did I. |
I runned the very best I could, |
But he cotched up—I's 'fraid he would— |
An' then he said he'd teach me how |
To know my manners, he'd allow; |
An' then he shaked me awful. Gee! |
He jest—he frashed the ground with me. |
An' then he stopped it by and by, |
'Cause he was tired—an' so was I, |
An' then he went back to the gate |
An' couldn't find my sister Kate |
'Cause she went in to bed, while he |
Was runnin' 'round an' thumpin' me. |
I got round in a shadder dim, |
An' made a face, an' guffed at him; |
An' then the moon larfed, in the sky, |
'Cause he was there, an' so was I. |
Joseph Bert Smiley. |
There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave, |
There are souls that are pure and true; |
Then give to the world the best you have, |
And the best will come back to you. |
Give love, and love to your life will flow, |
A strength in your utmost need; |
Have faith, and a score of hearts will show |
Their faith in your work and deed. |
Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind; |
And honor will honor meet, |
And the smile which is sweet will surely find |
A smile that is just as sweet. |
Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn; |
You will gather in flowers again |
The scattered seeds from your thought outborne, |
Though the sowing seemed in vain. |
For life is the mirror of king and slave; |
'Tis just what we are and do; |
Then give to the world the best you have, |
And the best will come back to you. |
Madeline S. Bridges. |
If you sit down at set of sun |
And count the deeds that you have done, |
And, counting, find |
One self-denying act, one word that eased the heart of him that heard; |
One glance most kind, which felt like sunshine where it went, |
Then you may count that day well spent. |
But if through, all the livelong day |
You've eased no heart by yea or nay, |
If through it all you've nothing done that you can trace |
That brought the sunshine to one face, |
No act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost, |
Then count that day as worse than lost. |
Say not the struggle nought availeth, |
The labor and the wounds are vain, |
The enemy faints not, nor faileth, |
And as things have been they remain. |
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; |
It may be, in yon smoke concealed, |
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, |
And, but for you, possess the field. |
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, |
Seem here no painful inch to gain, |
Far back, through creeks and inlets making, |
Comes silent, flooding in, the main, |
And not by eastern windows only, |
When daylight comes, comes in the light, |
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, |
But westward, look, the land is bright. |
A.H. Clough. |
There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, |
Beside the river Dee; |
He worked and sang from morn till night— |
No lark more blithe than he; |
And this the burden of his song |
Forever used to be: |
"I envy nobody—no, not I— |
And nobody envies me!" |
"Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal, |
"As wrong as wrong can be; |
For could my heart be light as thine, |
I'd gladly change with thee. |
And tell me now, what makes thee sing, |
With voice so loud and free, |
While I am sad, though I'm a king, |
Beside the river Dee?" |
The miller smiled and doffed his cap, |
"I earn my bread," quoth he; |
"I love my wife, I love my friend, |
I love my children three; |
I owe no penny I cannot pay, |
I thank the river Dee |
That turns the mill that grinds the corn |
That feeds my babes and me." |
"Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while, |
"Farewell, and happy be; |
But say no more, if thou'dst be true |
That no one envies thee; |
Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, |
Thy mill my kingdom's fee; |
Such men as thou art England's boast, |
O miller of the Dee!" |
Charles Mackay. |
All things bright and beautiful, |
All creatures great and small, |
All things wise and wonderful,— |
The Lord God made them all. |
Each little flower that opens, |
Each little bird that sings,— |
He made their glowing colors, |
He made their tiny wings. |
The rich man in his castle, |
The poor man at his gate, |
God made them, high or lowly, |
And ordered their estate. |
The purple-headed mountain, |
The river running by, |
The morning, and the sunset |
That lighteth up the sky, |
The cold wind in the winter, |
The pleasant summer sun, |
The ripe fruits in the garden,— |
He made them, every one. |
The tall trees in the greenwood, |
The meadows where we play, |
The rushes by the water |
We gather every day,— |
He gave us eyes to see them, |
And lips that we might tell |
How great is God Almighty, |
Who hath made all things well. |
Cecil Frances Alexander. |
Who won the war? |
'T was little Belgium stemmed the tide |
Of ruthless hordes who thought to ride |
Her borders through and prostrate France |
Ere yet she'd time to raise her lance. |
'T was plucky Belgium. |
Who won the war? |
Italia broke the galling chain |
Which bound her to the guilty twain; |
Then fought 'gainst odds till one of these |
Lay prone and shattered at her knees. |
'T was gallant Italy. |
Who won the war? |
Old England's watch dogs of the main |
Their vigil kept, and not in vain; |
For not a ship their wrath dared brave |
Save those which skulked beneath the wave. |
'T was mighty England. |
Who won the war? |
'T was France who wrote in noble rage |
The grandest words on history's page, |
"They shall not pass"—the devilish Hun; |
And he could never pass Verdun. |
'T was sturdy France. |
Who won the war? |
In darkest hour there rose a cry, |
"Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!" |
Thank God! they came across the sea, |
Two million men and victory! |
'T was glorious America. |
Who won the war? |
No one of these; not one, but all |
Who answered Freedom's clarion call. |
Each humble man who did his bit |
In God's own book of fame is writ. |
These won the war. |
Woodbury Pulsifer. |
Bob went lookin' for a job— |
Didn't want a situation; didn't ask a lofty station: |
Didn't have a special mission for a topnotcher's position; |
Didn't have such fine credentials—but he had the real essentials— |
Had a head that kept on workin' and two hands that were not shirkin'; |
Wasn't either shirk or snob; |
Wasn't Mister—just plain Bob, |
Who was lookin' for a job. |
Bob went lookin' for a job; |
And he wasn't scared or daunted when he saw a sign—"Men Wanted," |
Walked right in with manner fittin' up to where the Boss was sittin', |
And he said: "My name is Bob, and I'm lookin' for a job; |
And if you're the Boss that hires 'em, starts 'em working and that fires 'em, |
Put my name right down here, Neighbor, as a candidate for labor; |
For my name is just plain 'Bob, |
And my pulses sort o' throb |
For that thing they call a job." |
Bob kept askin' for a job, |
And the Boss, he says: "What kind?" And Bob answered: "Never mind; |
For I am not a bit partic'ler and I never was a stickler |
For proprieties in workin'—if you got some labor lurkin' |
Anywhere around about kindly go and trot it out. |
It's, a job I want, you see— |
Any kind that there may be |
Will be good enough for me." |
Well, sir, Bob he got a job. |
But the Boss went 'round all day in a dreamy sort of way; |
And he says to me: "By thunder, we have got the world's Eighth Wonder! |
Got a feller name of Bob who just asked me for a job— |
Never asks when he engages about overtime in wages; |
Never asked if he'd get pay by the hour or by the day; |
Never asked me if it's airy work and light and sanitary; |
Never asked me for my notion of the chances of promotion; |
Never asked for the duration of his annual vacation; |
Never asked for Saturday half-a-holiday with pay; |
Never took me on probation till he tried the situation; |
Never asked me if it's sittin' work or standin', or befittin' |
Of his birth and inclination—he just filed his application, |
Hung his coat up on a knob, |
Said his name was just plain Bob— |
And went workin' at a job!" |
James W. Foley. |
Whatever I do and whatever I say, |
Aunt Tabitha tells me it isn't the way |
When she was a girl (forty summers ago); |
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. |
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice! |
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice! |
And besides, I forget half the things I am told; |
But they all will come back to me—when I am old. |
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, |
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; |
She would never endure an impertinent stare— |
It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there. |
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own, |
But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; |
So I take a lad's arm—just for safety you know— |
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they didn't do so. |
How wicked we are, and how good they were then! |
They kept at arm's length those detestable men; |
What an era of virtue she lived in!—But stay— |
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day? |
If the men were so wicked, I'll ask my papa |
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma; |
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows? |
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose? |
I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, |
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been! |
And her grand-aunt—it scares me—how shockingly sad |
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad! |
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can, |
Let me perish —to rescue some wretched young man! |
Though when to the altar a victim I go, |
Aunt Tabitha'll tell me she never did so! |
The rivers of France are ten score and twain, |
But five are the names that we know: |
The Marne, the Vesle, the Oureq and the Aisne, |
And the Somme of the swampy flow. |
The rivers of France, from source to sea, |
Are nourished by many a rill, |
But these five, if ever a drouth there be |
The fountains of sorrow would fill. |
The rivers of France shine silver white, |
But the waters of five are red |
With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight |
For freedom that ever was shed. |
The rivers of France sing soft as they run, |
But five have a song of their own, |
That hymns the fall of the arrogant one |
And the proud cast down from his throne. |
The rivers of France all quietly take |
To sleep in the house of their birth, |
But the carnadined wave of five shall break |
On the uttermost strands of earth. |
Five rivers of France—see! their names are writ |
On a banner of crimson and gold, |
And the glory of those who fashioned it |
Shall nevermore cease to be told. |
H.J.M., in London "Times." |
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 ranges, |
Come over, come over to me. |
Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling |
No magical sense conveys, |
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling |
The fortune of future days. |
"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. |
While a boy listened alone; |
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily |
All 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 heather, |
Preparing 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. |
Jean Ingelow. |
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 son, and O sweet little daughters, |
Maybe he thinks on 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! |
Jean Ingelow. |
If you cannot on the ocean |
Sail among the swiftest fleet, |
Rocking on the highest billows, |
Laughing at the storms you meet, |
You can stand among the sailors, |
Anchored yet within the bay, |
You can lend a hand to help them, |
As they launch their boats away. |
If you are too weak to journey |
Up the mountain steep and high, |
You can stand within the valley, |
While the multitudes go by; |
You can chant in happy measure, |
As they slowly pass along; |
Though they may forget the singer, |
They will not forget the song. |
If you have not gold and silver |
Ever ready to command, |
If you cannot towards the needy |
Reach an ever-open hand, |
You can visit the afflicted, |
O'er the erring you can weep, |
You can be a true disciple, |
Sitting at the Savior's feet. |
If you cannot in the conflict, |
Prove yourself a soldier true, |
If where fire and smoke are thickest, |
There's no work for you to do, |
When the battle-field is silent, |
You can go with careful tread, |
You can bear away the wounded, |
You can cover up the dead. |
Do not then stand idly waiting |
For some greater work to do, |
Fortune is a lazy goddess, |
She will never come to you. |
Go and toil in any vineyard, |
Do not fear to do or dare, |
If you want a field of labor, |
You can find it anywhere. |
Ellen H. Gates. |
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn |
In the peace of their self-content; |
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, |
In a fellowless firmament; |
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths |
Where highways never ran; |
But let me live by the side of the road |
And be a friend to man. |
Let me live in a house by the side of the road, |
Where the race of men go by, |
The men who are good and the men who are bad, |
As good and as bad as I. |
I would not sit in the scorner's seat, |
Or hurl the cynic's ban; |
Let me live in a house by the side of the road |
And be a friend to man. |
I see from my house by the side of the road, |
By the side of the highway of life, |
The men who press with the ardor of hope, |
The men who are faint with the strife. |
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears, |
Both parts of an infinite plan; |
Let me live in my house by the side of the road |
And be a friend to man. |
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead |
And mountains of wearisome height; |
That the road passes on through the long afternoon |
And stretches away to the night. |
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, |
And weep with the strangers that moan. |
Nor live in my house by the side of the road |
Like a man who dwells alone. |
Let me live in my house by the side of the road |
Where the race of men go by; |
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, |
Wise, foolish—so am I. |
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, |
Or hurl the cynic's ban? |
Let me live in my house by the side of the road |
And be a friend to man. |
Sam Walter Foss. |
A fire-mist and a planet, |
A crystal and a cell, |
A jellyfish and a saurian, |
And caves where the cavemen dwell; |
Then a sense of law and beauty, |
And a face turned from the clod,— |
Some call it Evolution, |
And others call it God. |
A haze in the far horizon, |
The infinite, tender sky; |
The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, |
And the wild geese sailing high; |
And all over upland and lowland |
The charm of the goldenrod,— |
Some of us call it Nature, |
And others call it God. |
Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, |
When the moon is new and thin, |
Into our hearts high yearnings |
Come welling and surging in,— |
Come from the mystic ocean. |
Whose rim no foot has trod,— |
Some of us call it Longing, |
And others call it God. |
A picket frozen on duty, |
A mother starved for her brood, |
Socrates drinking the hemlock, |
And Jesus on the rood; |
The millions who, humble and nameless, |
The straight, hard pathway trod,— |
Some call it Consecration, |
And others call it God. |
William Herbert Carruth. |
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! |
Long has it waved on high, |
And many an eye has danced to see |
That banner in the sky; |
Beneath it rung the battle shout, |
And burst the cannon's roar;— |
The meteor of the ocean air |
Shall sweep the clouds no more! |
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, |
Where knelt the vanquished foe, |
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, |
And waves were white below, |
No more shall feel the victor's tread, |
Or know the conquered knee;— |
The harpies of the shore shall pluck |
The eagle of the sea! |
Oh, better that her shattered hulk |
Should sink beneath the wave! |
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, |
And there should be her grave; |
Nail to the mast her holy flag, |
Set every threadbare sail, |
And give her to the god of storms, |
The lightning and the gale! |
Oliver Wendell Holmes. |
I think, of all the things at school |
A boy has got to do, |
That studyin' hist'ry, as a rule, |
Is worst of all, don't you? |
Of dates there are an awful sight, |
An' though I study day an' night, |
There's only one I've got just right— |
That's fourteen ninety-two. |
Columbus crossed the Delaware |
In fourteen ninety-two; |
We whipped the British, fair an' square, |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
At Concord an' at Lexington. |
We kept the redcoats on the run, |
While the band played Johnny Get Your Gun, |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
Pat Henry, with his dyin' breath— |
In fourteen ninety-two— |
Said, "Gimme liberty or death!" |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
An' Barbara Frietchie, so 'tis said, |
Cried, "Shoot if you must this old, gray head, |
But I'd rather 'twould be your own instead!" |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock |
In fourteen ninety-two, |
An' the Indians standin' on the dock |
Asked, "What are you goin' to do?" |
An' they said, "We seek your harbor drear |
That our children's children's children dear |
May boast that their forefathers landed here |
In fourteen ninety-two." |
Miss Pocahontas saved the life— |
In fourteen ninety-two— |
Of John Smith, an' became his wife |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
An' the Smith tribe started then an' there, |
An' now there are John Smiths ev'rywhere, |
But they didn't have any Smiths to spare |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone |
In fourteen ninety-two, |
An' I think the cow jumped over the moon |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
Ben Franklin flew his kite so high |
He drew the lightnin' from the sky, |
An' Washington couldn't tell a lie, |
In fourteen ninety-two. |
Nixon Waterman. |
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! |
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! |
Humanity with all its fears, |
With all the hopes of future years, |
Is hanging breathless on thy fate! |
We know what Master laid thy keel, |
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, |
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, |
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, |
In what a forge and what a heat |
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! |
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, |
'Tis of the wave and not the rock; |
'Tis but the flapping of the sail, |
And not a rent made by the gale! |
In spite of rock and tempest's roar, |
In spite of false lights on the shore, |
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! |
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, |
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, |
Our faith truiumphant o'er our fears, |
Are all with thee,—are all with thee! |
H.W. Longfellow. |
You's as stiff an' as cold as a stone, |
Little cat! |
Dey's done frowed you out an' left you alone, |
Little cat! |
I's a-strokin' you's fur, |
But you don't never purr |
Nor hump up anywhere, |
Little cat. |
W'y is dat? |
Is you's purrin' an' humpin'-up done? |
An' w'y fer is you's little foot tied, |
Little cat? |
Did dey pisen you's tummick inside, |
Little cat? |
Did dey pound you wif bricks, |
Or wif big nasty sticks, |
Or abuse you wif kicks, |
Little cat? |
Tell me dat, |
Did dey holler at all when you cwied? |
Did it hurt werry bad w'en you died, |
Little cat? |
Oh, w'y didn't yo wun off and hide, |
Little cat? |
I is wet in my eyes, |
'Cause I most always cwies |
W'en a pussy cat dies, |
Little cat, |
Tink of dat, |
An' I's awfully solly besides! |
Dest lay still dere in de sof gwown', |
Little cat, |
W'ile I tucks de gween gwass all awoun', |
Little cat. |
Dey can't hurt you no more |
W'en you's tired an' so sore, |
Dest sleep twiet, you pore |
Little cat, |
Wif a pat, |
An' fordet all de kicks of de town. |
Marion Short. |
When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, |
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, |
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or two, |
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew! |
And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; |
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; |
They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter and Paul; |
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all. |
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; |
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; |
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, |
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are! |
Rudyard Kipling. |
Sleep, baby, sleep! |
Thy father's watching the sheep, |
Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, |
And down drops a little dream for thee. |
Sleep, baby, sleep! |
Sleep, baby, sleep! |
The large stars are the sheep, |
The little stars are the lambs, I guess, |
The bright moon is the shepherdess. |
Sleep, baby, sleep! |
Sleep, baby, sleep! |
Thy Savior loves His sheep; |
He is the Lamb of God on high |
Who for our sakes came down to die. |
Sleep, baby, sleep! |
Elizabeth Prentiss. |
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 me |
The 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 eyes |
They are plotting and planning together |
To take me by surprise. |
A sudden rush from the stairway, |
A sudden raid from the hall! |
By three doors left unguarded |
They enter my castle wall! |
They climb up into my turret |
O'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 Bingen |
In 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 am |
Is 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 dungeon |
In 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 W. Longfellow. |
They drive home the cows from the pasture, |
Up through the long shady lane, |
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, |
That are yellow with ripening grain. |
They find, in the thick waving grasses, |
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. |
They gather the earliest snowdrops, |
And the first crimson buds of the rose. |
They toss the new hay in the meadow, |
They gather the elder-bloom white, |
They find where the dusky grapes purple |
In the soft-tinted October light. |
They know where the apples hang ripest, |
And are sweeter than Italy's wines; |
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest |
On the long, thorny blackberry vines. |
They gather the delicate sea-weeds, |
And build tiny castles of sand; |
They pick up the beautiful sea shells— |
Fairy barks that have drifted to land. |
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, |
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings, |
And at night time are folded in slumber |
By a song that a fond mother sings. |
Those who toil bravely are strongest; |
The humble and poor become great; |
And so from these brown-handed children |
Shall grow mighty rulers of state. |
The pen of the author and statesman,— |
The noble and wise of the land,— |
The sword, and the chisel, and palette, |
Shall be held in the little brown hand. |
Mary H. Krout. |
The little cares that fretted me, |
I lost them yesterday |
Among the fields above the seas, |
Among the winds at play; |
Among the lowing of the herds, |
The rustling of the trees, |
Among the singing of the birds, |
The humming of the bees. |
The foolish fears of what might happen,— |
I cast them all away |
Among the clover-scented grass, |
Among the new-mown hay; |
Among the husking of the corn, |
Where drowsy poppies nod, |
Where ill thoughts die and good are born, |
Out in the fields with God. |
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. |
Old Ironsides at anchor lay, |
In the harbor of Mahon; |
A dead calm rested on the bay,— |
The waves to sleep had gone; |
When little Hal, the Captain's son, |
A lad both brave and good, |
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, |
And on the main truck stood! |
A shudder shot through every vein,— |
All eyes were turned on high! |
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, |
Between the sea and sky; |
No hold had he above, below; |
Alone he stood in air: |
To that far height none dared to go,— |
No aid could reach him there. |
We gazed, but not a man could speak,— |
With horror all aghast,— |
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,— |
We watched the quivering mast. |
The atmosphere grew thick and hot, |
And of a lurid hue;— |
As riveted unto the spot, |
Stood officers and crew. |
The father came on deck:—he gasped, |
"Oh, God; thy will be done!" |
Then suddenly a rifle grasped, |
And aimed it at his son. |
"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave! |
Jump, or I fire," he said; |
"That only chance your life can save; |
Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed. |
He sunk,—he rose,—he lived,—he moved,— |
And for the ship struck out. |
On board we hailed the lad beloved, |
With many a manly shout. |
His father drew, in silent joy, |
Those wet arms round his neck, |
And folded to his heart his boy,— |
Then fainted on the deck. |
Morris. |
I shot an arrow into the air, |
It fell to earth, I knew not where; |
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight |
Could not follow it in its flight. |
I breathed a song into the air, |
It fell to earth, I knew not where; |
For who has sight so keen and strong, |
That it can follow the flight of song? |
Long, long afterward, in an oak |
I found the arrow, still unbroke; |
And the song, from beginning to end, |
I found again in the heart of a friend. |
H.W. Longfellow. |
When you come to the end of a perfect day |
And you sit alone with your thought |
While the chimes ring out with a carol gay |
For the joy that the day has brought, |
Do you think what the end of a perfect day |
Can mean to a tired heart? |
When the sun goes down with a flaming ray |
And the dear friends have to part? |
Well, this is the end of a perfect day, |
Near the end of a journey, too; |
But it leaves a thought that is big and strong, |
With a wish that is kind and true; |
For mem'ry has painted this perfect day |
With colors that never fade, |
And we find, at the end of a perfect day, |
The soul of a friend we've made. |
Carrie Jacobs Bond. |
Out where the handclasp's a little stronger, |
Out where a smile dwells a little longer, |
That's where the West begins. |
Out where the sun's a little brighter, |
Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter, |
Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, |
That's where the West begins. |
Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, |
Out where friendship's a little truer, |
That's where the West begins. |
Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, |
Where there is laughter in every streamlet flowing, |
Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, |
That's where the West begins. |
Out where the world is in the making, |
Where fewer hearts with despair are aching; |
That's where the West begins. |
Where there is more of singing and less of sighing, |
Where there is more of giving and less of buying, |
And a man makes friends without half trying— |
That's where the West begins. |
Arthur Chapman. |
When the teacher gets cross, and her blue eyes gets black, |
And the pencil comes down on the desk with a whack, |
We chillen all sit up straight in a line, |
As if we had rulers instead of a spine, |
And it's scary to cough, and it a'n't safe to grin, |
When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. |
When the teacher gets cross, the tables get mixed, |
The ones and the twos begins to play tricks. |
The pluses and minuses is just little smears, |
When the cry babies cry their slates full of tears, |
And the figgers won't add,—but just act up like sin, |
When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. |
When the teacher gets cross, the reading gets bad. |
The lines jingle round till the' chillen is sad. |
And Billy boy puffs and gets red in the face, |
As if he and the lesson were running a race, |
Until she hollers out, "Next!" as sharp as a pin, |
When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. |
When the teacher gets good, her smile is so bright, |
That the tables gets straight, and the reading gets right. |
The pluses and minuses comes trooping along, |
And the figgers add up and stop being wrong, |
And we chillen would like, but we dassent, to shout, |
When the teacher gets good, and the dimples comes out. |
Your Flag and my Flag! |
And, oh, how much it holds— |
Your land and my land— |
Secure within its folds! |
Your heart and my heart |
Beat quicker at the sight; |
Sun-kissed and wind-tossed, |
Red and blue and white. |
The one Flag—the great Flag—the Flag for me and you— |
Glorified all else beside—the red and white and blue! |
Your Flag and my Flag! |
To every star and stripe |
The drums beat as hearts beat |
And fifers shrilly pipe! |
Your Flag and my Flag— |
A blessing in the sky; |
Your hope and my hope— |
It never hid a lie! |
Home land and far land and half the world around, |
Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound! |
Wilbur D. Nesbit. |
What's the matter, stummick? Ain't I always been your friend? |
Ain't I always been a pardner to you? All my pennies don't I spend |
In getting nice things for you? Don't I give you lots of cake? |
Say, stummick, what's the matter, You had to go an' ache? |
Why, I loaded you with good things yesterday; |
I gave you more corn an' chicken than you'd ever had before; |
I gave you fruit an' candy, apple pie an' chocolate cake, |
An' last night when I got to bed you had to go an' ache. |
Say, what's the matter with you? Ain't you satisfied at all? |
I gave you all you wanted; you was hard jes' like a ball, |
An' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin'; yet last night |
You ached most awful, stummick! That ain't treatin' me jest right. |
I've been a friend to you, I have! Why ain't you a friend o' mine? |
They gave me castor oil becoz you made me whine. |
I'm feelin' fine this mornin'; yes it's true; |
But I tell you, stummick, you better appreciate things I do for you. |
Heaven is not reached at a single bound; |
But we build the ladder by which we rise |
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, |
And we mount to the summit round by round, |
I count this thing to be grandly true: |
That a noble deed is a step toward God, |
Lifting a soul from the common sod |
To a purer air and a broader view. |
We rise by things that are under our feet; |
By what we have mastered of good and gain, |
By the pride deposed and the passion slain, |
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. |
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, |
When the morning calls us to life and light; |
But our hearts grow weary, and ere he night |
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. |
We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, |
And we think that we mount the air on wings, |
Beyond the recall of sensual things, |
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. |
Only in dreams is a ladder thrown |
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; |
But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, |
And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone. |
Heaven is not reached at a single bound; |
But we build the ladder by which we rise |
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, |
And we mount to the summit round by round. |
J.G. Holland. |
Mr. Finney had a turnip |
And it grew behind the barn; |
It grew there, and it grew there, |
And the turnip did no harm, |
It grew and it grew, |
Till it could get no taller; |
Mr. Finney pulled it up |
And put it in his cellar. |
It lay there and it lay there, |
Till it began to rot; |
His daughter Sallie took it up, |
And put it in the pot. |
She boiled it, and she boiled it, |
As long as she was able; |
His daughter Peggy fished it out. |
And put it on the table. |
Mr. Finney and his wife. |
They sat down to sup, |
And they ate, and they ate, |
Until they ate the turnip up. |
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 were 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 of our deep-plunged 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. |
By the rude bridge that arched the flood, |
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, |
Here once the embattled farmers stood, |
And fired the shot heard round the world. |
The foe long since in silence slept; |
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; |
And Time the ruined bridge has swept |
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. |
On this green bank, by this soft stream, |
We set to-day a votive stone, |
That memory may their deed redeem, |
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. |
Spirit, that made these heroes dare |
To die, to leave their children free, |
Bid Time and Nature gently spare |
The shaft we raise to them and thee. |
Ralph Waldo Emerson. |
I live for those who love me, |
Whose hearts are kind and true, |
For the heaven that smiles above me, |
And awaits my spirit, too; |
For the human ties that bind me, |
For the task by God assigned me, |
For the bright hopes left behind me, |
And the good that I can do. |
I live to learn their story |
Who've suffered for my sake, |
To emulate their glory, |
And to follow in their wake; |
Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, |
The noble of all ages, |
Whose deeds crowd history's pages, |
And Time's great volume make. |
I live to hold communion |
With all that is divine, |
To feel there is a union |
'Twixt Nature's heart and mine; |
To profit by affliction, |
Reap truths from fields of fiction, |
Grow wiser from conviction, |
And fulfill each grand design. |
I live to hail that season, |
By gifted minds foretold, |
When men shall rule by reason, |
And not alone by gold; |
When man to man united, |
And every wrong thing righted, |
The whole world shall be lighted |
As Eden was of old. |
I live for those who love me, |
For those who know me true, |
For the heaven that smiles above me, |
And awaits my spirit, too; |
For the cause that lacks assistance, |
For the wrong that needs resistance, |
For the future in the distance, |
And the good that I can do. |
George Linnaeus Banks. |
Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing |
Ever made by the Hand above— |
A woman's heart and a woman's life, |
And a woman's wonderful love? |
Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing |
As a child might ask for a toy; |
Demanding what others have died to win, |
With the reckless dash of a boy? |
You have written my lesson of duty out, |
Man-like you have questioned me— |
Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, |
Until I shall question thee. |
You require your mutton shall always be hot, |
Your socks and your shirts shall be whole. |
I require your heart to be true as God's stars, |
And pure as heaven your soul. |
You require a cook for your mutton and beef; |
I require a far better thing— |
A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts— |
I look for a man and a king. |
A king for a beautiful realm called home, |
And a man that the Maker, God, |
Shall look upon as He did the first, |
And say, "It is very good." |
I am fair and young, but the rose will fade |
From my soft, young cheek one day— |
Will you love then, 'mid the falling leaves, |
As you did 'mid the bloom of May? |
Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep |
I may launch my all on its tide? |
A loving woman finds heaven or hell |
On the day she is made a bride. |
I require all things that are grand and true, |
All things that a man should be; |
If you give this all, I would stake my life |
To be all you demand of me. |
If you cannot do this, a laundress and cook |
You can hire with little to pay; |
But a woman's heart and a woman's life |
Are not to be won that way. |
Lena Lathrop. |
A bunch of golden keys is mine |
To make each day with gladness shine. |
"Good morning!" that's the golden key |
That unlocks every door for me. |
When evening comes, "Good night!" I say, |
And close the door of each glad day. |
When at the table "If you please" |
I take from off my bunch of keys. |
When friends give anything to me, |
I'll use the little "Thank you" key. |
"Excuse me," "Beg your pardon," too, |
When by mistake some harm I do. |
Or if unkindly harm I've given, |
With "Forgive me" key I'll be forgiven. |
On a golden ring these keys I'll bind, |
This is its motto: "Be ye kind." |
I'll often use each golden key, |
And so a happy child I'll be. |
I know a place where the sun is like gold, |
And the cherry blooms burst like snow; |
And down underneath is the loveliest nook, |
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. |
One leaf is for faith, and one is for hope, |
And one is for love, you know; |
And God put another one in for luck— |
If you search, you will find where they grow. |
But you must have faith and you must have hope, |
You must love and be strong, and so |
If you work, if you wait, you will find the place |
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. |
Ella Higginson. |
NOTE: A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.
Not understood, we move along asunder, |
Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep |
Along the years. We marvel and we wonder, |
Why life is life, and then we fall asleep, |
Not understood. |
Not understood, we gather false impressions, |
And hug them closer as the years go by, |
Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; |
And thus men rise and fall and live and die, |
Not understood. |
Not understood, poor souls with stunted visions |
Often measure giants by their narrow gauge; |
The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision |
Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age, |
Not understood. |
Not understood, the secret springs of action |
Which lie beneath the surface and the show |
Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction |
We judge our neighbors, and they often go |
Not understood. |
Not understood, how trifles often change us— |
The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight— |
Destroy long years of friendship and estrange us, |
And on our souls there falls a freezing blight— |
Not understood. |
Not understood, how many hearts are aching |
For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day |
How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking, |
How many noble spirits pass away |
Not understood. |
O God! that men would see a little clearer, |
Or judge less hardly when they cannot see! |
O God! that men would draw a little nearer |
To one another! They'd be nearer Thee, |
And understood. |
Who fed me from her gentle breast |
And hushed me in her arms to rest, |
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? |
My mother. |
When sleep forsook my open eye, |
Who was it sung sweet lullaby |
And rocked me that I should not cry? |
My mother. |
Who sat and watched my infant head |
When sleeping in my cradle bed, |
And tears of sweet affection shed? |
My mother. |
When pain and sickness made me cry, |
Who gazed upon my heavy eye, |
And wept, for fear that I should die? |
My mother. |
Who ran to help me when I fell |
And would some pretty story tell, |
Or kiss the part to make it well? |
My mother. |
Who taught my infant lips to pray, |
To love God's holy word and day, |
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way? |
My mother. |
And can I ever cease to be |
Affectionate and kind to thee |
Who wast so very kind to me,— |
My mother. |
Oh, no, the thought I cannot bear; |
And if God please my life to spare |
I hope I shall reward thy care, |
My mother. |
When thou art feeble, old and gray, |
My healthy arms shall be thy stay, |
And I will soothe thy pains away, |
My mother. |
And when I see thee hang thy head, |
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, |
And tears of sweet affection shed,— |
My mother. |
O suns and skies and clouds of June, |
And flowers of June together, |
Ye cannot rival for one hour |
October's bright blue weather; |
When loud the bumblebee makes haste, |
Belated, thriftless vagrant, |
And goldenrod is dying fast, |
And lanes with grapes are fragrant; |
When gentians roll their fringes tight |
To save them for the morning, |
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs |
Without a sound of warning; |
When on the ground red apples lie |
In piles like jewels shining, |
And redder still on old stone walls |
Are leaves of woodbine twining; |
When all the lovely wayside things |
Their white-winged seeds are sowing, |
And in the fields, still green and fair, |
Late aftermaths are growing; |
When springs run low, and on the brooks, |
In idle, golden freighting, |
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush |
Of woods, for winter waiting; |
When comrades seek sweet country haunts, |
By twos and threes together, |
And count like misers hour by hour, |
October's bright blue weather. |
O suns and skies and flowers of June, |
Count all your boasts together, |
Love loveth best of all the year |
October's bright blue weather. |
Helen Hunt Jackson. |
I come from haunts of coot and hern, |
I make a sudden sally, |
And sparkle out among the fern, |
To bicker down a valley. |
By thirty hills I hurry down, |
Or slip between the ridges, |
By twenty thorps, a little town, |
And half a hundred bridges. |
Till last by Philip's farm I flow |
To join the brimming river, |
For men may come and men may go, |
But I go on forever. |
I chatter over stony ways, |
In little sharps and trebles, |
I bubble into eddying bays, |
I babble on the pebbles. |
With many a curve my banks I fret |
By many a field and fallow, |
And many a fairy foreland set |
With willow-weed and mallow. |
I chatter, chatter as I flow |
To join the brimming river, |
For men may come and men may go, |
But I go on forever. |
I wind about, and in and out, |
With here a blossom sailing, |
And here and there a lusty trout, |
And here and there a grayling, |
And here and there a foamy flake |
Upon me as I travel |
With many a silvery waterbreak |
Above the golden gravel, |
And draw them all along, and flow |
To join the brimming river, |
For men may come and men may go, |
But I go on forever. |
I steal by lawns and grassy plots, |
I slide by hazel covers; |
I move the sweet forget-me-nots |
That grow for happy lovers. |
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, |
Among my skimming swallows; |
I make the netted sunbeam dance |
Against my sandy shallows. |
I murmur under moon and stars, |
In brambly wildernesses; |
I linger by my shingly bars; |
I loiter round my cresses; |
And out again I curve and flow |
To join the brimming river, |
For men may come and men may go, |
But I go on forever. |
Alfred, Lord Tennyson. |
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, |
Sails the unshadowed main,— |
The venturous bark that flings |
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings |
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, |
And coral reefs lie bare, |
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. |
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; |
Wrecked is the ship of pearl! |
And every chambered cell, |
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, |
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, |
Before thee lies revealed,— |
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! |
Year after year beheld the silent toil |
That spread his lustrous coil; |
Still, as the spiral grew, |
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, |
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, |
Built up its idle door, |
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. |
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, |
Child of the wandering sea, |
Cast from her lap, forlorn! |
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born |
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! |
While on mine ear it rings, |
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:— |
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, |
As the swift seasons roll! |
Leave thy low-vaulted past! |
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, |
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, |
Till thou at length art free, |
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! |
Oliver Wendell Holmes. |
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 G. Rosetti. |
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea |
In a beautiful pea-green boat; |
They took some honey, and plenty of money, |
Wrapped up in a five-pound note. |
The Owl looked up to the moon above |
And sang to a small guitar, |
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! |
What a beautiful Pussy you are,— |
You are, |
What a beautiful Pussy you are!" |
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! |
How wonderful sweet you sing! |
Oh, let us be married,—too long we have tarried,— |
But what shall we do for a ring?" |
They sailed away for a year and a day |
To the land where the Bong-tree grows, |
And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood |
With a ring in the end of his nose,— |
His nose, |
With a ring in the end of his nose. |
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling |
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." |
So they took it away, and were married next day |
By the turkey who lives on the hill. |
They dined upon mince and slices of quince |
Which they ate with a runcible spoon, |
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand |
They danced by the light of the moon,— |
The moon, |
They danced by the light of the moon. |
Edward Lear. |
When I consider how my light is spent |
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, |
And that one talent which is death to hide, |
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent |
To serve therewith my Maker, and present |
My true account, lest He, returning, chide; |
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" |
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent |
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need |
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best |
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state |
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, |
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; |
They also serve who only stand and wait." |
John Milton. |
Where the pools are bright and deep, |
Where the gray trout lies asleep, |
Up the river and o'er 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 trace 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 away |
Little sweet maidens from their play, |
Or love to banter and fight so well, |
That's the thing I never could tell. |
But this I know, I love to play, |
Through the meadow, among the hay, |
Up the water and o'er the lea, |
That's the way for Billy and me. |
James Hogg. |