"LEWIS CARROLL"
He thought he saw a BuffaloUpon the chimney-piece:He looked again, and found it wasHis Sister's Husband's Niece."Unless you leave this house," he said,"I'll send for the Police."He thought he saw a RattlesnakeThat questioned him in Greek:He looked again, and found it wasThe Middle of Next Week."The one thing I regret," he said,"Is that it cannot speak!"He thought he saw a Banker's ClerkDescending from the 'bus:He looked again, and found it wasA Hippopotamus."If this should stay to dine," he said,"There won't be much for us!"He thought he saw a KangarooThat worked a coffee-mill;He looked again, and found it wasA Vegetable-Pill."Were I to swallow this," he said,"I should be very ill."He thought he saw a Coach and FourThat stood beside his bed:He looked again, and found it wasA Bear without a Head."Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!It's waiting to be fed!"He thought he saw an AlbatrossThat fluttered round the Lamp:He looked again, and found it wasA Penny Postage-Stamp."You'd best be getting home," he said:"The nights are very damp!"He thought he saw a Garden DoorThat opened with a key:He looked again, and found it wasA Double-Rule-of-Three:"And all its mystery," he said,"Is clear as day to me!"He thought he saw an ArgumentThat proved he was the Pope:He looked again, and found it wasA Bar of Mottled Soap."A fact so dread," he faintly said,"Extinguishes all hope!"
Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was an English minister and the writer of many hymns still included in our hymn books. He had a notion that verse might be used as a means of religious and ethical instruction for children, and wrote some poems as illustrations of his theory so that they might suggest to better poets how to carry out the idea. But Watts did this work so well that two or three of his poems and several of his stanzas have become common possessions. They are dominated, of course, by the heavy didactic moralizing, but are all so genuine and true that young readers feel their force and enjoy them.
ISAAC WATTS
How doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gather honey all the dayFrom every opening flower!How skilfully she builds her cell,How neat she spreads the wax!And labors hard to store it wellWith the sweet food she makes.In works of labor or of skill,I would be busy too;For Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do.In books, or work, or healthful play,Let my first years be past,That I may give for every daySome good account at last.
O 'tis a lovely thing for youthTo walk betimes in wisdom's way;To fear a lie, to speak the truth,That we may trust to all they say.But liars we can never trust,Though they should speak the thing that's true;And he that does one fault at first,And lies to hide it, makes it two.
(From "Against Lying")
Whatever brawls disturb the street,There should be peace at home;Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,Quarrels should never come.Birds in their little nests agree:And 'tis a shameful sight,When children of one familyFall out, and chide, and fight.
(From "Love between Brothers and Sisters")
How proud we are! how fond to showOur clothes, and call them rich and new!When the poor sheep and silk-worm woreThat very clothing long before.The tulip and the butterflyAppear in gayer coats than I;Let me be dressed fine as I will,Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.Then will I set my heart to findInward adornings of the mind;Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,These are the robes of richest dress.
(From "Against Pride in Clothes")
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,For God hath made them so;Let bears and lions growl and fight,For 'tis their nature to.But, children, you should never letSuch angry passions rise;Your little hands were never madeTo tear each other's eyes.
(From "Against Quarreling and Fighting")
Most of the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) is within the range of children's interests and comprehension. Three poems are given here, "The Skeleton in Armor," as representative of Longfellow's large group of narrative poems, "The Day Is Done," as an expression of the value of poetry in everyday life, and "The Psalm of Life," as the finest and most popular example of his hortatory poems.
"The Skeleton in Armor" is one of Longfellow's first and best American art ballads. In Newport, Rhode Island, is an old stone tower known as the "Round Tower," which some people think was built by the Northmen, though it probably was not. In 1836 workmen unearthed a strange skeleton at Fall River, Massachusetts. It was wrapped in bark and coarse cloth. On the breast was a plate of brass, and around the waist was a belt of brass tubes. Apparently it was not the skeleton of an Indian, and people supposed it might have been that of one of the old Norsemen. Longfellow used these two historic facts as a basis for the plot of his poem, which he wrote in 1840.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?"Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber."I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse!For this I sought thee."Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the ger-falcon;And, with my skates fast-bound.Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on."Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow."But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders."Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing."Once, as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning, yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor."I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted."Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory:When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrel standTo hear my story."While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly."She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-new's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,—Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!—When on the white-sea strand,Waving his armèd hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen."Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us."And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,Death without quarter!Mid-ships with iron-keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water."As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden;So toward the open main,Beating the sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden."Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward."There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!"Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,Oh, death was grateful!"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal!to the Northland!Skoal!"—Thus the tale ended.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The day is done, and the darknessFalls from the wings of Night.As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in its flight.I see the lights of the villageGleam through the rain and the mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er meThat my soul cannot resist:A feeling of sadness and longing,That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow onlyAs the mist resembles the rain.Come, read to me some poem,Some simple and heartfelt lay,That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the thoughts of day.Not from the grand old masters,Not from the bards sublime,Whose distant footsteps echoThrough the corridors of Time.For, like strains of martial music,Their mighty thoughts suggestLife's endless toil and endeavor;And to-night I long for rest.Read from some humbler poet,Whose songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start;Who, through long days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,Still heard in his soul the musicOf wonderful melodies.Such songs have power to quietThe restless pulse of care,And come like the benedictionThat follows after prayer.Then read from the treasured volumeThe poem of thy choice,And lend to the rhyme of the poetThe beauty of thy voice.And the night shall be filled with music,And the cares that infest the day,Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal away.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!—For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each tomorrowFind us farther than today.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife.Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.
Historians usually mention Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) only as an English novelist, but it seems probable that eventually he will be remembered chiefly for his work in juvenile literature. HisWater Babiesis popular with children of the fourth and fifth grade, while his book of Greek myths entitledThe Heroesis a classic for older children. The next two poems are popular with both adults and children. Kingsley was a minister and his church was located in Devon so that the tragedies of the sea among the fisher folk were often brought to his attention. Both these poems deal with such tragedies.
CHARLES KINGSLEY
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,—Out into the west as the sun went down;Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep;And there's little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are watching and wringing their hands,For those who will never come back to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,—And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,—And good-by to the bar and its moaning.
CHARLES KINGSLEY
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!"The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she."Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden's hairAbove the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee."They rowed her in across the sailing foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!
The next two poems, by Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), are very well-known songs. "What Does Little Birdie Say" is the mother's song in "Sea Dreams." "Sweet and Low" is one of the best of the lyrics in "The Princess," and a favorite among the greatest lullabies.
ALFRED TENNYSON
What does little birdie say,In her nest at peep of day?"Let me fly," says little birdie,"Mother, let me fly away.""Birdie, rest a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger."So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away.What does little baby say,In her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,"Let me rise and fly away.""Baby, sleep a little longer,Till the little limbs are stronger."If she sleeps a little longer,Baby too shall fly away.
ALFRED TENNYSON
Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest on mother's breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
This poem is a great poet's expression of what a poet's ideal of his mission should be. It is summed up in the last two lines. An interesting comparison could be made of the purpose of poetry as reflected here with that suggested by Longfellow in No.342.
ALFRED TENNYSON
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,He pass'd by the town and out of the street,A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,And waves of shadow went over the wheat,And he sat him down in a lonely place,And chanted a melody loud and sweet,That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,And the lark drop down at his feet.The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,The snake slipt under a spray,The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,And stared, with his foot on the prey,And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,But never a one so gay,For he sings of what the world will beWhen the years have died away."
Those who live near the sea know that outside a harbor a bar is formed of earth washed down from the land. At low tide this may be so near the surface as to be dangerous to ships passing in and out, and the waves may beat against it with a moaning sound. In his eighty-first year Tennyson wrote "Crossing the Bar" to express his thought about death. He represents the soul as having come from the boundless deep of eternity into this world-harbor of Time and Place, and he represents death as the departure from the harbor. He would have no lingering illness to bar the departure. He would have the end of life's day to be peaceful and without sadness of farewell, for he trusts that his journey into the sea of eternity will be guided by "my Pilot." This poem may be somewhat beyond the comprehension of eighth-grade pupils, but they can perceive the beauty of the imagery and music, and later in life it will be a source of hope and comfort.
ALFRED TENNYSON
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the barWhen I put out to sea,But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;For though from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar.
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was an English essayist, journalist, and poet. His one universally known poem is "Abou Ben Adhem." The secret of its appeal is no doubt the emphasis placed on the idea that a person's attitude toward his fellows is more important than mere professions. The line "Write me as one that loves his fellow men" is on Hunt's tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery, London.
LEIGH HUNT
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,And saw, within the moonlight in his room,Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,An angel writing in a book of gold:Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,And to the presence in the room he said,"What writest thou?"—the vision rais'd its head,And with a look made all of sweet accord,Answer'd, "The names of those that love the Lord.""And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,Write me as one that loves his fellow men."The angel wrote, and vanished. The next nightIt came again with a great wakening light,And show'd the names whom love of God had blest,And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Cincinnatus Heine Miller, generally known as Joaquin Miller (1841-1912), revealed in his verse much of the restless energy of Western America, where most of his life was passed. "Columbus" is probably his best known poem. "For Those Who Fail" suggests the important truth that he who wins popular applause is not usually the one who most deserves to be honored.
JOAQUIN MILLER
"All honor to him who shall win the prize,"The world has cried for a thousand years;But to him who tries and who fails and dies,I give great honor and glory and tears.O great is the hero who wins a name,But greater many and many a time,Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame,And lets God finish the thought sublime.And great is the man with a sword undrawn,And good is the man who refrains from wine;But the man who fails and yet fights on,'Lo! he is the twin-born brother of mine!
Numerous poems have been written about the futility of searching on earth for a place of perfect happiness. The next poem, by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), seems to deal with this subject. Some lines from Longfellow are good to suggest its special message:
"No endeavor is in vain,Its reward is in the doing,And the rapture of pursuingIs the prize the vanquished gain."
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Gaily bedight,A gallant knight,In sunshine and in shadowHad journeyed long,Singing a song,In search of Eldorado.But he grew old—This knight so bold—And o'er his heart a shadowFell as he foundNo spot of groundThat looked like Eldorado.And, as his strengthFailed him at length,He met a pilgrim shadow—"Shadow," said he,"Where can it be—This land of Eldorado?""Over the mountainsOf the Moon,Down the Valley of the ShadowRide, boldly ride,"The Shade replied,"If you seek for Eldorado!"
Lord Byron (1788-1824) was the most popular of English poets in his day. His fame has since declined, although his fiery, impetuous nature, expressing itself in rapid verse of great rhetorical and satiric power, still reaches kindred spirits. His "Prisoner of Chillon" is often studied in the upper grades. It is full of the passion for freedom which was the dominating idea in Byron's work as it was in his life. He gave his life for this idea, striving to help the Greeks gain their independence. The poem which follows is from an early work calledHebrew Melodies. We learn from II Chronicles 32:21 that Sennacherib, King of Assyria, having invaded Judah, Hezekiah cried unto heaven, "And the Lord sent an angel, which cut off the mighty men of valor, and the leaders and captains in the camp of the King of Assyria. So he returned with shame of face to his own land." Byron's title seems to indicate that Sennacherib was himself destroyed. The fine swinging measure of the lines, and the vivid picture of the destroyed hosts in contrast to the brilliant glory of their triumphant invasion, are two of the chief elements in its appeal.
LORD BYRON
The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,The host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.
The next two poems may represent the youth and the maturity of America's first great nature poet, William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), although neither is in the style that characterizes his nature verse.He wrote "To a Waterfowl" in 1815. When he had completed his study of law, he set out on foot to find a village where he might begin work as a lawyer. He was poor and without friends. At the end of a day's journey, when he began to feel discouraged, he saw a wild duck flying alone high in the sky. Then the thought came to him that he would be guided aright, just as the bird was, and he wrote "To a Waterfowl," the most artistic of all his poems. The poem is suitable for the seventh or eighth grade.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fannedAt that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome landThough the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
Bryant wrote this poem in 1849 after he had been planting fruit trees on his country place on Long Island.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Come, let us plant the apple-tree.Cleave the tough greensward with the spade:Wide let its hollow bed be made;There gently lay the roots, and thereSift the dark mould with kindly care,And press it o'er them tenderly,As, round the sleeping infant's feet,We softly fold the cradle-sheet;So plant we the apple-tree.What plant we in this apple-tree?Buds, which the breath of summer daysShall lengthen into leafy sprays;Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;We plant, upon the sunny lea,A shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple-tree.What plant we in this apple-tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springsTo load the May-wind's restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple-tree.What plant we in this apple-tree?Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,And redden in the August noon,And drop, when gentle airs come by,That fan the blue September sky,While children come, with cries of glee,And seek them where the fragrant grassBetrays their bed to those who pass,At the foot of the apple-tree.And when, above this apple-tree,The winter stars are quivering bright,And winds go howling through the night,Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,And guests in prouder homes shall see,Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vineAnd golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple-tree.The fruitage of this apple-treeWinds and our flag of stripe and starShall bear to coasts that lie afar,Where men shall wonder at the view,And ask in what fair groves they grew;And sojourners beyond the seaShall think of childhood's careless day,And long, long hours of summer play,In the shade of the apple-tree.Each year shall give this apple-treeA broader flush of roseate bloom,A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.The years shall come and pass, but weShall hear no longer, where we lie,The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,In the boughs of the apple-tree.And time shall waste this apple-tree.Oh, when its agèd branches throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the tasks of mercy be,Amid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this apple-tree?"Who planted this old apple-tree?"The children of that distant dayThus to some agèd man shall say;And, gazing on its mossy stem,The gray-haired man shall answer them:"A poet of the land was he,Born in the rude but good old times;'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes,On planting the apple-tree."
The next poem, by the English poet Thomas Edward Brown (1830-1897), deserves to be classed with the most beautiful and artistic verse in our language. Students will notice the allusion to the biblical tradition that God walked in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the evening.
THOMAS EDWARD BROWN
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!Rose plot,Fringed pool,Ferned grot—The veriest schoolOf peace; and yet the foolContends that God is not—Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?Nay, but I have a sign;'T is very sure God walks in mine.
William Wordsworth (1770-1850) ranks very high among English poets. He endeavored to bring poetry close to actual life and to get rid of the stilted language of conventional verse. The struggle was long and difficult, but Wordsworth lived long enough to know that the world had realized his greatness. Many of his poems are suitable for use with children. Their simplicity, their directness, and their utter sincerity made many of them, while not written especially for the young, seem as if directly addressed to the childlike mind. "We are Seven," "Lucy Gray," and "Michael" belong to this number, as do the two masterpieces among short poems which are quoted here. "How many people," exclaims Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, "have been waked to a quicker consciousness of life by Wordsworth's simple lines about the daffodils, and what he says of the thoughts suggested to him by 'the meanest flower that blows'!" In both poems the imagery is of the utmost importance. Through it the reader is able to put himself with the poet and see things as the poet saw them. In "The Daffodils" the flowers, jocund in the breeze, drive away the melancholy mood with which the poet had approached them and enable him to carry away a picture in his memory that can be drawn upon for help on future occasions of gloom. In "The Solitary Reaper" the weird and haunting notes of the song coming to his ear in an unknown tongue suggest possible ideas back of the strong feeling which he recognizes in the singer. Here also, the poet's memory carries something away,