"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone,Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne."Shine on me, my lord; I only am come,Of all your servants, to welcome you home.I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear,To catch the first shine of your golden hair.""Must I thank you then," said the king, "Sir Lark,For flying so high and hating the dark?You ask a full cup for half a thirst:Half was love of me, and half love to be first.There's many a bird makes no such haste,But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud,And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;But he flew up higher, and thought, "AnonThe wrath of the king will be over and gone;And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold,Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."So he flew—with the strength of a lark he flew;But, as he rose, the cloud rose too;And not one gleam of the golden hairCame through the depths of the misty air;Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore,The strong sun-seeker could do no more.His wings had had no chrism of gold;And his feathers felt withered and worn and old;He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone.And there on his nest, where he left her, aloneSat his little wife on her little eggs,Keeping them warm with wings and legs.Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!Full in her face was shining the king."Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he;"Upis not always the best way to me.While you have been singing so high and away,I've been shining to your little wife all day."He had set his crown all about the nest,And out of the midst shone her little brown breast;And so glorious was she in russet gold,That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold.He popped his head under her wing, and layAs still as a stone, till King Sun was away.George MacDonald.
"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone,Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne."Shine on me, my lord; I only am come,Of all your servants, to welcome you home.I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear,To catch the first shine of your golden hair."
"Must I thank you then," said the king, "Sir Lark,For flying so high and hating the dark?You ask a full cup for half a thirst:Half was love of me, and half love to be first.There's many a bird makes no such haste,But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."
And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud,And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;But he flew up higher, and thought, "AnonThe wrath of the king will be over and gone;And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold,Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."
So he flew—with the strength of a lark he flew;But, as he rose, the cloud rose too;And not one gleam of the golden hairCame through the depths of the misty air;Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore,The strong sun-seeker could do no more.
His wings had had no chrism of gold;And his feathers felt withered and worn and old;He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone.And there on his nest, where he left her, aloneSat his little wife on her little eggs,Keeping them warm with wings and legs.
Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!Full in her face was shining the king."Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he;"Upis not always the best way to me.While you have been singing so high and away,I've been shining to your little wife all day."
He had set his crown all about the nest,And out of the midst shone her little brown breast;And so glorious was she in russet gold,That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold.He popped his head under her wing, and layAs still as a stone, till King Sun was away.
George MacDonald.
How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stairThat leans thro' cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth,And all alone in the empyreal airFills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth;How far he seems, how farWith the light upon his wings,Is it a bird or starThat shines and sings?* * * *And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers;In streams of gold and purple he is drown'd;Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers,As tho' the stormy drops were turned to sound:And now he issues thro',He scales a cloudy tower;Faintly, like falling dew,His fast notes shower.* * * *Frederick Tennyson.
How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stairThat leans thro' cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth,And all alone in the empyreal airFills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth;How far he seems, how farWith the light upon his wings,Is it a bird or starThat shines and sings?
* * * *
And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers;In streams of gold and purple he is drown'd;Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers,As tho' the stormy drops were turned to sound:And now he issues thro',He scales a cloudy tower;Faintly, like falling dew,His fast notes shower.
* * * *
Frederick Tennyson.
[10]By courtesy of John Lane.
[10]By courtesy of John Lane.
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loudFar in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth!Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!James Hogg.(The Ettrick Shepherd.)
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loudFar in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth!Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
James Hogg.
(The Ettrick Shepherd.)
When Nature had made all her birds,With no more cares to think on,She gave a rippling laugh, and outThere flew a Bobolinkon.She laughed again; out flew a mate;A breeze of Eden bore themAcross the fields of Paradise,The sunrise reddening o'er them.Incarnate sport and holiday,They flew and sang forever;Their souls through June were all in tune,Their wings were weary never.Their tribe, still drunk with air and light,And perfume of the meadow,Go reeling up and down the sky,In sunshine and in shadow.One springs from out the dew-wet grass;Another follows after;The morn is thrilling with their songsAnd peals of fairy laughter.From out the marshes and the brook,They set the tall reeds swinging,And meet and frolic in the air,Half prattling and half singing.When morning winds sweep meadow-landsIn green and russet billows.And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs.And silver all the willows,I see you buffeting the breeze,Or with its motion swaying,Your notes half drowned against the wind,Or down the current playing.When far away o'er grassy flats,Where the thick wood commences,The white-sleeved mowers look like specks,Beyond the zigzag fences,And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleamWhite in the pale blue distance,I hear the saucy minstrels stillIn chattering persistence.When eve her domes of opal firePiles round the blue horizon,Or thunder rolls from hill to hillA Kyrie Eleison,Still merriest of the merry birds,Your sparkle is unfading,—Pied harlequins of June,—no endOf song and masquerading.* * * *Hope springs with you: I dread no moreDespondency and dulness;For Good Supreme can never failThat gives such perfect fulness.The life that floods the happy fieldsWith song and light and colorWill shape our lives to richer states,And heap our measures fuller.Christopher Pearse Cranch.
When Nature had made all her birds,With no more cares to think on,She gave a rippling laugh, and outThere flew a Bobolinkon.
She laughed again; out flew a mate;A breeze of Eden bore themAcross the fields of Paradise,The sunrise reddening o'er them.
Incarnate sport and holiday,They flew and sang forever;Their souls through June were all in tune,Their wings were weary never.
Their tribe, still drunk with air and light,And perfume of the meadow,Go reeling up and down the sky,In sunshine and in shadow.
One springs from out the dew-wet grass;Another follows after;The morn is thrilling with their songsAnd peals of fairy laughter.
From out the marshes and the brook,They set the tall reeds swinging,And meet and frolic in the air,Half prattling and half singing.
When morning winds sweep meadow-landsIn green and russet billows.And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs.And silver all the willows,
I see you buffeting the breeze,Or with its motion swaying,Your notes half drowned against the wind,Or down the current playing.
When far away o'er grassy flats,Where the thick wood commences,The white-sleeved mowers look like specks,Beyond the zigzag fences,
And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleamWhite in the pale blue distance,I hear the saucy minstrels stillIn chattering persistence.
When eve her domes of opal firePiles round the blue horizon,Or thunder rolls from hill to hillA Kyrie Eleison,
Still merriest of the merry birds,Your sparkle is unfading,—Pied harlequins of June,—no endOf song and masquerading.
* * * *
Hope springs with you: I dread no moreDespondency and dulness;For Good Supreme can never failThat gives such perfect fulness.
The life that floods the happy fieldsWith song and light and colorWill shape our lives to richer states,And heap our measures fuller.
Christopher Pearse Cranch.
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 rocky 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 fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though 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.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 rocky 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 fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though 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.
William Cullen Bryant.
[11]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
[11]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will dropFrom low-hung branches; little space they stop,But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek,Then off at once, as in a wanton freak;Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings,Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.Were I in such a place, I sure should prayThat naught less sweet might call my thoughts awayThan the soft rustle of a maiden's gownFanning away the dandelion's down.John Keats.
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will dropFrom low-hung branches; little space they stop,But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek,Then off at once, as in a wanton freak;Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings,Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.Were I in such a place, I sure should prayThat naught less sweet might call my thoughts awayThan the soft rustle of a maiden's gownFanning away the dandelion's down.
John Keats.
Across the narrow beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I;And fast I gather, bit by bit,The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,—One little sandpiper and I.Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky;Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong;He scans me with a fearless eye;Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.Comrade, where wilt thou be to-nightWhen the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky;For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?Celia Thaxter.
Across the narrow beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I;And fast I gather, bit by bit,The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,—One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky;Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong;He scans me with a fearless eye;Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-nightWhen the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky;For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
Celia Thaxter.
He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls;And like a thunderbolt he falls.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls;And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
I wish you were a pleasant wren,And I your small accepted mate;How we'd look down on toilsome men!We'd rise and go to bed at eightOr it may be not quite so late.Then you should see the nest I'd build,The wondrous nest for you and me;The outside rough perhaps, but filledWith wool and down; ah, you should seeThe cosy nest that it would be.We'd have our change of hope and fear,Some quarrels, reconcilements sweet:I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,Or hop about on active feet,And fetch you dainty bits to eat.We'd be so happy by the day.So safe and happy through the night,We both should feel, and I should say,It's all one season of delight,And we'll make merry whilst we may.Perhaps some day there'd be an eggWhen spring had blossomed from the snow:I'd stand triumphant on one leg;Like chanticleer I'd almost crowTo let our little neighbours know.Next you should sit and I would singThrough lengthening days of sunny spring;Till, if you wearied of the task,I'd sit; and you should spread your wingFrom bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.Fancy the breaking of the shell,The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,The untried proud paternal swell;And you with housewife-matron airEnacting choicer bills of fare.Fancy the embryo coats of down,The gradual feathers soft and sleek;Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,With virgin warblings in their beak,They too go forth to soar and seek.So would it last an April throughAnd early summer fresh with dew,Then should we part and live as twain:Love-time would bring me back to youAnd build our happy nest again.Christina G. Rossetti.
I wish you were a pleasant wren,And I your small accepted mate;How we'd look down on toilsome men!We'd rise and go to bed at eightOr it may be not quite so late.
Then you should see the nest I'd build,The wondrous nest for you and me;The outside rough perhaps, but filledWith wool and down; ah, you should seeThe cosy nest that it would be.
We'd have our change of hope and fear,Some quarrels, reconcilements sweet:I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,Or hop about on active feet,And fetch you dainty bits to eat.
We'd be so happy by the day.So safe and happy through the night,We both should feel, and I should say,It's all one season of delight,And we'll make merry whilst we may.
Perhaps some day there'd be an eggWhen spring had blossomed from the snow:I'd stand triumphant on one leg;Like chanticleer I'd almost crowTo let our little neighbours know.
Next you should sit and I would singThrough lengthening days of sunny spring;Till, if you wearied of the task,I'd sit; and you should spread your wingFrom bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.
Fancy the breaking of the shell,The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,The untried proud paternal swell;And you with housewife-matron airEnacting choicer bills of fare.
Fancy the embryo coats of down,The gradual feathers soft and sleek;Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,With virgin warblings in their beak,They too go forth to soar and seek.
So would it last an April throughAnd early summer fresh with dew,Then should we part and live as twain:Love-time would bring me back to youAnd build our happy nest again.
Christina G. Rossetti.
Whither away, Robin,Whither away?Is it through envy of the maple-leaf,Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,Thou wilt not stay?The summer days were long, yet all too briefThe happy season thou hast been our guest:Whither away?Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of May.Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring?Whither away?Whither away, Swallow,Whither away?Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest?Not one short day?Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forthAnd wanton far from them who love thee best?Whither away?Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Whither away, Robin,Whither away?Is it through envy of the maple-leaf,Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,Thou wilt not stay?The summer days were long, yet all too briefThe happy season thou hast been our guest:Whither away?
Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of May.Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring?Whither away?
Whither away, Swallow,Whither away?Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest?Not one short day?Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forthAnd wanton far from them who love thee best?Whither away?
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep.I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets blow.Not a pine in the grove is there seen,But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;Not a beech's more beautiful green,But a sweetbrier entwines it around.Not my fields in the prime of the year,More charms than my cattle unfold;Not a brook that is limpid and clear,But it glitters with fishes of gold.I have found out a gift for my fair,I have found where the wood pigeons breed,But let me such plunder forbear,She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;For he ne'er could be true, she averred,Who would rob a poor bird of its young;And I loved her the more when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.William Shenstone.
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep.I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets blow.
Not a pine in the grove is there seen,But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;Not a beech's more beautiful green,But a sweetbrier entwines it around.Not my fields in the prime of the year,More charms than my cattle unfold;Not a brook that is limpid and clear,But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I have found out a gift for my fair,I have found where the wood pigeons breed,But let me such plunder forbear,She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;For he ne'er could be true, she averred,Who would rob a poor bird of its young;And I loved her the more when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.
William Shenstone.
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill,Chirping round my winter fire,Of thy song I never tire,Weary others as they will;For thy song with Summer's filled—Filled with sunshine, filled with June;Firelight echo of that noonHeard in fields when all is stilledIn the golden light of May,Bringing scents of new-mown hay,Bees, and birds, and flowers away:Prithee, haunt my fireside still,Voice of Summer, keen and shrill!William C. Bennett.
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill,Chirping round my winter fire,Of thy song I never tire,Weary others as they will;For thy song with Summer's filled—Filled with sunshine, filled with June;Firelight echo of that noonHeard in fields when all is stilledIn the golden light of May,Bringing scents of new-mown hay,Bees, and birds, and flowers away:Prithee, haunt my fireside still,Voice of Summer, keen and shrill!
William C. Bennett.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with fun,He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.John Keats.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with fun,He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
John Keats.
"And pray, who are you?"Said the violet blueTo the Bee, with surpriseAt his wonderful size,In her eye-glass of dew."I, madam," quoth he,"Am a publican Bee,Collecting the taxOf honey and wax.Have you nothing for me?"John B. Tabb.
"And pray, who are you?"Said the violet blueTo the Bee, with surpriseAt his wonderful size,In her eye-glass of dew.
"I, madam," quoth he,"Am a publican Bee,Collecting the taxOf honey and wax.Have you nothing for me?"
John B. Tabb.
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,Catching your heart up at the feel of June,—Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;And you, warm little housekeeper, who classWith those who think the candles come too soon,Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tuneNick the glad silent moments as they pass!O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,One to the fields, the other to the hearth,Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts; and both seem given to earthTo sing in thoughtful ears their natural song,—In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.Leigh Hunt.
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,Catching your heart up at the feel of June,—Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;And you, warm little housekeeper, who classWith those who think the candles come too soon,Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tuneNick the glad silent moments as they pass!O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,One to the fields, the other to the hearth,Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts; and both seem given to earthTo sing in thoughtful ears their natural song,—In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
Leigh Hunt.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plushI hear the level bee:A jar across the flowers goes,Their velvet masonryWithstands until the sweet assaultTheir chivalry consumes,While he, victorious, tilts awayTo vanquish other blooms.His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast, a single onyxWith chrysoprase, inlaid.His labor is a chant,His idleness a tune;Oh, for a bee's experienceOf clovers and of noon!Emily Dickinson.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plushI hear the level bee:A jar across the flowers goes,Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assaultTheir chivalry consumes,While he, victorious, tilts awayTo vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast, a single onyxWith chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,His idleness a tune;Oh, for a bee's experienceOf clovers and of noon!
Emily Dickinson.
Burly, dozing humble-bee,Where thou art is clime for me.Let them sail for Porto Rique,Far-off heats through seas to seek;I will follow thee alone,Thou animated torrid zone!Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,Let me chase thy waving lines;Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,Singing over shrubs and vines.Insect lover of the sun,Joy of thy dominion!Sailor of the atmosphere;Swimmer through the waves of air;Voyager of light and noon;Epicurean of June,—Wait, I prithee, till I comeWithin earshot of thy hum,—All without is martyrdom.When the south wind, in May days,With a net of shining hazeSilvers the horizon wall,And with softness touching all,Tints the human countenanceWith a color of romance,And, infusing subtle heats,Turns the sod to violets,Thou, in sunny solitudes,Rover of the underwoods,The green silence dost displaceWith thy mellow, breezy bass.Hot midsummer's petted crone,Sweet to me thy drowsy toneTells of countless sunny hours,Long days, and solid banks of flowers;Of gulfs of sweetness without boundIn Indian wildernesses found;Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.Aught unsavory or uncleanHath my insect never seen;But violets and bilberry bells,Maple-sap and daffodels,Grass with green flag half-mast high,Succory to match the sky,Columbine with horn of honey,Scented fern, and agrimony,Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongueAnd brier-roses, dwelt among;All beside was unknown waste,All was picture as he passed.Wiser far than human seer,Yellow-breeched philosopher!Seeing only what is fair,Sipping only what is sweet,Thou dost mock at fate and care,Leave the chaff and take the wheat;When the fierce northwestern blastCools sea and land so far and fast,Thou already slumberest deep;Woe and want thou canst outsleep:Want and woe, which torture us,Thy sleep makes ridiculous.Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Burly, dozing humble-bee,Where thou art is clime for me.Let them sail for Porto Rique,Far-off heats through seas to seek;I will follow thee alone,Thou animated torrid zone!Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,Let me chase thy waving lines;Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun,Joy of thy dominion!Sailor of the atmosphere;Swimmer through the waves of air;Voyager of light and noon;Epicurean of June,—Wait, I prithee, till I comeWithin earshot of thy hum,—All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,With a net of shining hazeSilvers the horizon wall,And with softness touching all,Tints the human countenanceWith a color of romance,And, infusing subtle heats,Turns the sod to violets,Thou, in sunny solitudes,Rover of the underwoods,The green silence dost displaceWith thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone,Sweet to me thy drowsy toneTells of countless sunny hours,Long days, and solid banks of flowers;Of gulfs of sweetness without boundIn Indian wildernesses found;Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavory or uncleanHath my insect never seen;But violets and bilberry bells,Maple-sap and daffodels,Grass with green flag half-mast high,Succory to match the sky,Columbine with horn of honey,Scented fern, and agrimony,Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongueAnd brier-roses, dwelt among;All beside was unknown waste,All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,Yellow-breeched philosopher!Seeing only what is fair,Sipping only what is sweet,Thou dost mock at fate and care,Leave the chaff and take the wheat;When the fierce northwestern blastCools sea and land so far and fast,Thou already slumberest deep;Woe and want thou canst outsleep:Want and woe, which torture us,Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Innocent eyes not oursAnd made to look on flowers,Eyes of small birds, and insects small;Morn after summer mornThe sweet rose on her thornOpens her bosom to them all.The last and least of things,That soar on quivering wings,Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight,Have just as clear a rightTo their appointed portion of delightAs queens or kings.Christina G. Rossetti.
Innocent eyes not oursAnd made to look on flowers,Eyes of small birds, and insects small;Morn after summer mornThe sweet rose on her thornOpens her bosom to them all.The last and least of things,That soar on quivering wings,Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight,Have just as clear a rightTo their appointed portion of delightAs queens or kings.
Christina G. Rossetti.
Lo, the lilies of the field,How their leaves instruction yield!Hark to Nature's lesson givenBy the blessed birds of heaven!Every bush and tufted treeWarbles sweet philosophy:Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,God provideth for the morrow.Say, with richer crimson glowsThe kingly mantle than the rose?Say, have kings more wholesome fareThan we citizens of air?Barns nor hoarded grain have we,Yet we carol merrily.Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,God provideth for the morrow.One there lives, whose guardian eyeGuides our humble destiny;One there lives, who, Lord of all,Keeps our feathers lest they fall.Pass we blithely then the time,Fearless of the snare and lime,Free from doubt and faithless sorrow:God provideth for the morrow.Reginald Heber.
Lo, the lilies of the field,How their leaves instruction yield!Hark to Nature's lesson givenBy the blessed birds of heaven!Every bush and tufted treeWarbles sweet philosophy:Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,God provideth for the morrow.
Say, with richer crimson glowsThe kingly mantle than the rose?Say, have kings more wholesome fareThan we citizens of air?Barns nor hoarded grain have we,Yet we carol merrily.Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,God provideth for the morrow.
One there lives, whose guardian eyeGuides our humble destiny;One there lives, who, Lord of all,Keeps our feathers lest they fall.Pass we blithely then the time,Fearless of the snare and lime,Free from doubt and faithless sorrow:God provideth for the morrow.
Reginald Heber.
"With his flute of reeds a strangerWanders piping through the village,Beckons to the fairest maiden,And she follows where he leads her,Leaving all things for the stranger."
"With his flute of reeds a strangerWanders piping through the village,Beckons to the fairest maiden,And she follows where he leads her,Leaving all things for the stranger."
The ancient arrowmaker is left standing lonely at the door of his wigwam, but Laughing Water and Hiawatha have gone to make a new household among the myriad homes of earth.
It matters not whether the inglenook be in wigwam or cabin, cottage or palace, ifLove Dwells Withinbe graven upon the threshold, for "where a true wife comes, there home is always around her." She is the Domina or House Lady, and under the benediction of her gaze arise sweet order, peace, and restful charm. The "gudeman," too; "his very foot has music in't when he comes up the stair," and like the fire on the hearth he diffuses warmth and comfort and good cheer. By and by a cradle swings to and fro in the sheltered corner of the fireside; baby feet have come to stray on life's untrodden brink; baby eyes whose speech make dumb the wise smile up into the mother's as she sings her lullaby:
"The Queen has sceptre, crown, and ball,You are my sceptre, crown, and all.And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby."
"The Queen has sceptre, crown, and ball,You are my sceptre, crown, and all.And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby."
The dog and the cat snooze peacefully on the hearth, the kettle hums, the kitchen clock ticks drowsily. The circle of love widens to take in all who are helping to make home beautiful—the farm boy, the milkmaid, and even the whinnying mare and friendly cow.
The poetry of the inglenook is simple, unpretentious, humble, but it has a tender charm of its own because it sings of a heaven far on this side of the stars:
"By men called home."
"By men called home."
O Fortunate, O happy day,When a new household finds its placeAmong the myriad homes of earth,Like a new star just sprung to birth,And rolled on its harmonious wayInto the boundless realms of space!* * * *Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.From "The Hanging of the Crane."
O Fortunate, O happy day,When a new household finds its placeAmong the myriad homes of earth,Like a new star just sprung to birth,And rolled on its harmonious wayInto the boundless realms of space!
* * * *
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
From "The Hanging of the Crane."
For there are two heavens, sweet,Both made of love,—one, inconceivableEv'n by the other, so divine it is;The other, far on this side of the stars,By men called home.Leigh Hunt.
For there are two heavens, sweet,Both made of love,—one, inconceivableEv'n by the other, so divine it is;The other, far on this side of the stars,By men called home.
Leigh Hunt.
Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping,That lures the bird home to her nest?Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,To cuddle and croon it to rest?What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning,Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearningFor the brotherly hand-grip of peace?Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrillsAround us, beneath, and above?'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes—But the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,Like a picture so fair to the sight?That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,Till the little lambs leap with delight?'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,Though 'tis sung, by the angels above,In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!Lewis Carroll.
Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping,That lures the bird home to her nest?Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,To cuddle and croon it to rest?What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!
Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning,Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearningFor the brotherly hand-grip of peace?Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrillsAround us, beneath, and above?'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes—But the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!
Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,Like a picture so fair to the sight?That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,Till the little lambs leap with delight?'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,Though 'tis sung, by the angels above,In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!
Lewis Carroll.
My heart is like a fountain trueThat flows and flows with love to you.As chirps the lark unto the treeSo chirps my pretty babe to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.There's not a rose where'er I seek,As comely as my baby's cheek.There's not a comb of honey-bee,So full of sweets as babe to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.There's not a star that shines on high,Is brighter than my baby's eye.There's not a boat upon the sea,Can dance as baby does to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.No silk was ever spun so fineAs is the hair of baby mine—My baby smells more sweet to meThan smells in spring the elder tree.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.A little fish swims in the well,So in my heart does baby dwell.A little flower blows on the tree,My baby is the flower to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball,You are my sceptre, crown and all.For all her robes of royal silk,More fair your skin, as white as milk.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.Ten thousand parks where deer run,Ten thousand roses in the sun,Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea,My baby more precious is to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.West of England Lullaby.
My heart is like a fountain trueThat flows and flows with love to you.As chirps the lark unto the treeSo chirps my pretty babe to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
There's not a rose where'er I seek,As comely as my baby's cheek.There's not a comb of honey-bee,So full of sweets as babe to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
There's not a star that shines on high,Is brighter than my baby's eye.There's not a boat upon the sea,Can dance as baby does to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
No silk was ever spun so fineAs is the hair of baby mine—My baby smells more sweet to meThan smells in spring the elder tree.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
A little fish swims in the well,So in my heart does baby dwell.A little flower blows on the tree,My baby is the flower to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball,You are my sceptre, crown and all.For all her robes of royal silk,More fair your skin, as white as milk.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
Ten thousand parks where deer run,Ten thousand roses in the sun,Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea,My baby more precious is to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
West of England Lullaby.