II

WHEN the golden day is done,Through the closing portal,Child and garden, flower and sun,Vanish all things mortal.As the blinding shadows fall,As the rays diminish,Under evening's cloak, they allRoll away and vanish.Garden darkened, daisy shut,Child in bed, they slumber—Glow-worm in the highway rut,Mice among the lumber.In the darkness houses shine,Parents move with candles;Till on all, the night divineTurns the bedroom handles.Till at last the day beginsIn the east a-breaking,In the hedges and the whinsSleeping birds a-waking.In the darkness shapes of things,Houses, trees, and hedges,Clearer grow; and sparrow's wingsBeat on window ledges.These shall wake the yawning maid;She the door shall open—Finding dew on garden gladeAnd the morning broken.There my garden grows againGreen and rosy painted,As at eve behind the paneFrom my eyes it fainted.Just as it was shut away,Toy-like, in the even,Here I see it glow with dayUnder glowing heaven.Every path and every plot,Every bush of roses,Every blue forget-me-notWhere the dew reposes,"Up!" they cry, "the day is comeOn the smiling valleys;We have beat the morning drum;Playmate, join your allies!"

BIRDS all the sunny dayFlutter and quarrelHere in the arbour-likeTent of the laurel.Here in the forkThe brown nest is seated;Four little blue eggsThe mother keeps heated.While we stand watching her,Staring like gabies,Safe in each egg are theBird's little babies.Soon the frail eggs they shallChip, and upspringingMake all the April woodsMerry with singing.Younger than we are,O children, and frailer,Soon in blue air they'll be,Singer and sailor.We, so much older,Taller and stronger,We shall look down on theBirdies no longer.They shall go flyingWith musical speechesHigh overhead in theTops of the beeches.In spite of our wisdomAnd sensible talking,We on our feet must goPlodding and walking.

ALL the names I know from nurse:Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,And the lady Hollyhock.Fairy places, fairy things,Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,Tiny trees for tiny dames—These must all be fairy names!Tiny woods below whose boughsShady fairies weave a house;Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,Where the braver fairies climb!Fair are grown-up people's trees,But the fairest woods are these;Where, if I were not so tall,I should live for good and all.

GREAT is the sun, and wide he goesThrough empty heaven without repose;And in the blue and glowing daysMore thick than rain he showers his raysThough closer still the blinds we pullTo keep the shady parlour cool,Yet he will find a chink or twoTo slip his golden fingers through.The dusty attic spider-cladHe, through the keyhole, maketh glad;And through the broken edge of tiles,Into the laddered hayloft smiles.Meantime his golden face aroundHe bares to all the garden ground,And sheds a warm and glittering lookAmong the ivy's inmost nook.Above the hills, along the blue,Round the bright air with footing true,To please the child, to paint the rose,The gardener of the World, he goes.

WHEN the grass was closely mown,Walking on the lawn alone,In the turf a hole I foundAnd hid a soldier underground.Spring and daisies came apace;Grasses hide my hiding place;Grasses run like a green seaO'er the lawn up to my knee.Under grass alone he lies,Looking up with leaden eyes,Scarlet coat and pointed gun,To the stars and to the sun.When the grass is ripe like grainWhen the scythe is stoned again,When the lawn is shaven clear,Then my hole shall reappear.I shall find him, never fear,I shall find my grenadier;But for all that's gone and come,I shall find my soldier dumb.He has lived, a little thing,In the grassy woods of spring;Done, if he could tell me true,Just as I should like to do.He has seen the starry hoursAnd the springing of the flowers;And the fairy things that passIn the forests of the grass.In the silence he has heardTalking bee and ladybird,And the butterfly has flownO'er him as he lay alone.Not a word will he disclose,Not a word of all he knows.I must lay him on the shelf,And make up the tale myself.

IN the other gardensAnd all up the vale,From the autumn bonfiresSee the smoke trail!Pleasant summer overAnd all the summer flowers,The red fire blazes,The grey smoke towers.Sing a song of seasons!Something bright in all!Flowers in the summerFires in the fall!

THE gardener does not love to talk,He makes me keep the gravel walk;And when he puts his tools away,He locks the door and takes the key.Away behind the currant rowWhere no one else but cook may go,Far in the plots, I see him dig,Old and serious, brown and big.He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,Nor wishes to be spoken to.He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,And never seems to want to play.Silly gardener! summer goes,And winter comes with pinching toes,When in the garden bare and brownYou must lay your barrow down.Well now, and while the summer stays,To profit by these garden days,O how much wiser you would beTo play at Indian wars with me!

DEAR Uncle Jim, this garden groundThat now you smoke your pipe around,Has seen immortal actions doneAnd valiant battles lost and won.Here we had best on tip-toe tread,While I for safety march ahead,For this is that enchanted groundWhere all who loiter slumber sound.Here is the sea, here is the sand,Here is simple Shepherd's Land,Here are the fairy hollyhocks,And there are Ali Baba's rocks.But yonder, see! apart and high,Frozen Siberia lies; where I,With Robert Bruce and William Tell,Was bound by an enchanter's spell.There, then, awhile in chains we lay,In wintry dungeons, far from day;But ris'n at length, with might and main,Our iron fetters burst in twain.Then all the horns were blown in town;And to the ramparts clanging down,All the giants leaped to horseAnd charged behind us through the gorse.On we rode, the others and I,Over the mountains blue, and byThe Silver River, the sounding sea,And the robber woods of Tartary.A thousand miles we galloped fast,And down the witches' lane we passed,And rode amain, with brandished sword,Up to the middle, through the ford.Last we drew rein—a weary three—Upon the lawn, in time for tea,And from our steeds alighted downBefore the gates of Babylon.

If two may read arightThese rhymes of old delightAnd house and garden play,You two, my cousins, and you only, may.You in a garden greenWith me were king and queen,Were hunter, soldier, tar,And all the thousand things that children are.Now in the elders' seatWe rest with quiet feet,And from the window-bayWe watch the children, our successors, play."Time was," the golden headIrrevocably said;But time which none can bind,While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.

YOU too, my mother, read my rhymesFor love of unforgotten times,And you may chance to hear once moreThe little feet along the floor.

CHIEF of our aunts—not only I,But all your dozen of nurslings cry—What did the other children do?And what were childhood, wanting you?

THE red room with the giant bedWhere none but elders laid their head;The little room where you and IDid for awhile together lieAnd, simple suitor, I your handIn decent marriage did demand;The great day nursery, best of all,With pictures pasted on the wallAnd leaves upon the blind—A pleasant room wherein to wakeAnd hear the leafy garden shakeAnd rustle in the wind—And pleasant there to lie in bedAnd see the pictures overhead—The wars about Sebastopol,The grinning guns along the wall,The daring escalade,The plunging ships, the bleating sheep,The happy children ankle-deepAnd laughing as they wade:All these are vanished clean away,And the old manse is changed today;It wears an altered faceAnd shields a stranger race.The river, on from mill to mill,Flows past our childhood's garden still;But ah! we children never moreShall watch it from the water-door!Below the yew—it still is there—Our phantom voices haunt the airAs we were still at play,And I can hear them call and say:"How far is it to Babylon?"Ah, far enough, my dear,Far, far enough from here—Yet you have farther gone!"Can I get there by candlelight?"So goes the old refrain.I do not know—perchance you might—But only, children, hear it right,Ah, never to return again!The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,Shall break on hill and plain,And put all stars and candles out,Ere we be young again.To you in distant India, theseI send across the seas,Nor count it far across.For which of us forgetsThe Indian cabinets,The bones of antelope, the wings of albatross,The pied and painted birds and beans,The junks and bangles, beads and screens,The gods and sacred bells,And the loud-humming, twisted shells?The level of the parlour floorWas honest, homely, Scottish shore;But when we climbed upon a chair,Behold the gorgeous East was there!Be this a fable; and beholdMe in the parlour as of old,And Minnie just above me setIn the quaint Indian cabinet!Smiling and kind, you grace a shelfToo high for me to reach myself.Reach down a hand, my dear, and takeThese rhymes for old acquaintance' sake.

Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed,Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read.Then shall you discover, that your name was printed downBy the English printers, long before, in London town.In the great and busy city where the East and West are met,All the little letters did the English printer set;While you thought of nothing, and were still too young to play,Foreign people thought of you in places far away.Ay, and while you slept, a baby, over all the English landsOther little children took the volume in their hands;Other children questioned, in their homes across the seas:Who was little Louis, won't you tell us, mother, please?

Now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play,Seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of Monterey,Watching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze,Tiny sandy-pipers, and the huge Pacific seas.And remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you,Long ere you could read it, how I told you what to do;And that while you thought of no one, nearly half the world awaySome one thought of Louis on the beach of Monterey!

AS from the house your mother seesYou playing round the garden trees,So you may see, if you will lookThrough the windows of this book,Another child, far, far away,And in another garden, play.But do not think you can at all,By knocking on the window, callThat child to hear you. He intentIs all on his play-business bent.He does not hear; he will not look,Nor yet be lured out of this book.For, long ago, the truth to say,He has grown up and gone away,And it is but a child of airThat lingers in the garden there.

Transcriber's Notes:Punctuation was left exactly as it appears in the original text. Thus, for example, the first stanza of "Summer Sun" has no closing punctuation.List of Books, the first "By" was changed to match the font-style of the remaining titles.Page 10, "II." changed to "III." (III. TO AUNTIE)

Punctuation was left exactly as it appears in the original text. Thus, for example, the first stanza of "Summer Sun" has no closing punctuation.

List of Books, the first "By" was changed to match the font-style of the remaining titles.

Page 10, "II." changed to "III." (III. TO AUNTIE)

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