Thomas Walsh
His Garden! His bright candelabra treesEn fête. His lilacs steeped in joy! His skyLimpid and blue! The same flecked shadows lieAthwart this path he paced. His reveriesFloat in the air. His moods, his ecstasiesStill linger charmed. Pale butterflies flit by—Were one his soul it had not found on highBanquet more choice than those infinitiesHe daily knew. And now no one to hearThe hovering hours, the singing grass, to feelThe wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to seeGod's shadow bend down from eternity—His garden empty! Yet I gently stealLest I disturb his dreams still smiling near.
His Garden! His bright candelabra treesEn fête. His lilacs steeped in joy! His skyLimpid and blue! The same flecked shadows lieAthwart this path he paced. His reveriesFloat in the air. His moods, his ecstasiesStill linger charmed. Pale butterflies flit by—Were one his soul it had not found on highBanquet more choice than those infinitiesHe daily knew. And now no one to hearThe hovering hours, the singing grass, to feelThe wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to seeGod's shadow bend down from eternity—His garden empty! Yet I gently stealLest I disturb his dreams still smiling near.
Gertrude Huntington McGiffert
O that a nest, my mate! were once more ours,Where we, by vain and barren change untutored,Could have grave friendships with wise trees and flowers,And live the great, green life of field and orchard!From the cold birthday of the daffodils,E'en to that listening pause that is November,O to confide in woods, confer with hills,And then—then, to that palmland you remember,Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's ruleAre one vast violet breaking into lilies;There where we spent our first strange wedded Yule,In the far, golden, fire-hearted Antilles.
O that a nest, my mate! were once more ours,Where we, by vain and barren change untutored,Could have grave friendships with wise trees and flowers,And live the great, green life of field and orchard!
From the cold birthday of the daffodils,E'en to that listening pause that is November,O to confide in woods, confer with hills,And then—then, to that palmland you remember,
Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's ruleAre one vast violet breaking into lilies;There where we spent our first strange wedded Yule,In the far, golden, fire-hearted Antilles.
William Watson
FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERBERT'S POEMS
Year after year, from dusk to dusk,How sweet this English garden grows,Steeped in two centuries' sun and musk,Walled from the world in gray repose,Harbor of honey-freighted bees,And wealthy with the rose.Here pinks with spices in their throatsNod by the bitter marigold;Here nightingales with haunting notes,When west and east with stars are bold,From out the twisted hawthorn-trees,Sing back the weathers old.All tuneful winds do down it pass;The leaves a sudden whiteness show,And delicate noises fill the grass;The only flakes its spaces knowAre petals blown off briers long,And heaped on blades below.Ah! dawn and dusk, year after year,'Tis more than these that keeps it rare!We see the saintly Master here,Pacing along the alleys fair,And catch the throbbing of a songAcross the amber air!
Year after year, from dusk to dusk,How sweet this English garden grows,Steeped in two centuries' sun and musk,Walled from the world in gray repose,Harbor of honey-freighted bees,And wealthy with the rose.
Here pinks with spices in their throatsNod by the bitter marigold;Here nightingales with haunting notes,When west and east with stars are bold,From out the twisted hawthorn-trees,Sing back the weathers old.
All tuneful winds do down it pass;The leaves a sudden whiteness show,And delicate noises fill the grass;The only flakes its spaces knowAre petals blown off briers long,And heaped on blades below.
Ah! dawn and dusk, year after year,'Tis more than these that keeps it rare!We see the saintly Master here,Pacing along the alleys fair,And catch the throbbing of a songAcross the amber air!
Lizette Woodworth Reese
As one whose road winds upward turns his faceUnto the valleys where he late hath stood,Leaning upon his staff in peace to broodOn many a beauty of the distant place,So I in this cool garden pause a space,Reviewing many things in many a mood,Accumulating friends in solitudeFrom the assembly of my thoughts and days.
As one whose road winds upward turns his faceUnto the valleys where he late hath stood,Leaning upon his staff in peace to broodOn many a beauty of the distant place,So I in this cool garden pause a space,Reviewing many things in many a mood,Accumulating friends in solitudeFrom the assembly of my thoughts and days.
Arthur Upson
Grandmother's gathering boneset to-day;In the garret she'll dry and hang it away.Next winter I'll "need" some boneset tea—I wish she wouldn't think always of me!
Grandmother's gathering boneset to-day;In the garret she'll dry and hang it away.Next winter I'll "need" some boneset tea—I wish she wouldn't think always of me!
Edith M. Thomas
What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald lightLay on my heart that touch of elfin might?What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling,To blur my page with swift remembering?Borne in a country basket marketward,Their message is a music spirit-heard,A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and runOf tawny singing water in the sun.Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knewDown by the mint-fringed brook that wandered throughMy mellow meadows set with linden-treesLoud with the summer jargon of the bees.Their magic has its way with me untilI see the storm's dark wing shadow the hillAs once I saw: and draw sharp breath again,To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain.O sudden urging sweetness in the air,Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere,Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith,And vanished summers sigh upon your breath.
What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald lightLay on my heart that touch of elfin might?
What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling,To blur my page with swift remembering?
Borne in a country basket marketward,Their message is a music spirit-heard,
A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and runOf tawny singing water in the sun.
Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knewDown by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through
My mellow meadows set with linden-treesLoud with the summer jargon of the bees.
Their magic has its way with me untilI see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill
As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again,To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain.
O sudden urging sweetness in the air,Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere,
Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith,And vanished summers sigh upon your breath.
Grace Hazard Conkling
Black, comely, of abiding cheer,Three times a week she fares,Townward from gabled Windermere,To sell her dainty wares.Green balms she brings from winding lanes,And some in handfuls tall,Of the old days of Annes and Janes,Grown by a kitchen wall.Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs,With spears of violet;And the spiced bloom of elder-twigsIn a field's hollow set.My snatch of May I get from her,In white buds off a tree;June in one whiff of lavender,That breaks my heart for me.The swaying boughs of Windermere,Each gust that takes the grass,High over the town roar I hear,When that old stall I pass.What homely memories are mine,At sight of her quaint stalks;Of grave dusks mellowing like wineDown long, box-bordered walks;Of garret windows eastward thrust,Of rafters shining dim,And heaped with herbs as gray as dustAll scented to the brim.This lady of the market-place,Three times a week and more,I pray her seasons thick with grace;And ever at her door,Shut from the road by wall of stone,And ample cherry trees,A garden fair as Herrick's own,And just as full of bees!
Black, comely, of abiding cheer,Three times a week she fares,Townward from gabled Windermere,To sell her dainty wares.
Green balms she brings from winding lanes,And some in handfuls tall,Of the old days of Annes and Janes,Grown by a kitchen wall.
Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs,With spears of violet;And the spiced bloom of elder-twigsIn a field's hollow set.
My snatch of May I get from her,In white buds off a tree;June in one whiff of lavender,That breaks my heart for me.
The swaying boughs of Windermere,Each gust that takes the grass,High over the town roar I hear,When that old stall I pass.
What homely memories are mine,At sight of her quaint stalks;Of grave dusks mellowing like wineDown long, box-bordered walks;
Of garret windows eastward thrust,Of rafters shining dim,And heaped with herbs as gray as dustAll scented to the brim.
This lady of the market-place,Three times a week and more,I pray her seasons thick with grace;And ever at her door,
Shut from the road by wall of stone,And ample cherry trees,A garden fair as Herrick's own,And just as full of bees!
Lizette Woodworth Reese
Gray walls that lichen stains,That take the sun and the rains,Old, stately, and wise:Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered,In ancient ways yet ordered;South walks where the loud bee pliesDaylong till Summer flies—Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.Gay cottage gardens, glad,Comely, unkempt, and mad,Jumbled, jolly, and quaint;Nooks where some old man dozes;Currants and beans and rosesMingling without restraint;A wicket that long lacks paint—Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.Sprawling for elbow-room,Spearing straight spikes of bloom,Clean, wayward, and tough;Sweet and tall and slender,True, enduring, and tender,Buoyant and bold and bluff,Simplest, sanest of stuff—Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England.
Gray walls that lichen stains,That take the sun and the rains,Old, stately, and wise:Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered,In ancient ways yet ordered;South walks where the loud bee pliesDaylong till Summer flies—Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.
Gay cottage gardens, glad,Comely, unkempt, and mad,Jumbled, jolly, and quaint;Nooks where some old man dozes;Currants and beans and rosesMingling without restraint;A wicket that long lacks paint—Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.
Sprawling for elbow-room,Spearing straight spikes of bloom,Clean, wayward, and tough;Sweet and tall and slender,True, enduring, and tender,Buoyant and bold and bluff,Simplest, sanest of stuff—Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England.
W. W. Blair Fish
I went into my garden at break of Delight,Before Joy had risen in the Eastern sky,To see how many cucumbers had happened over night,And how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high.I went into my garden when Rest had fallen awayFrom the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green,To see how far the beans had travelled up into the day,And whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean.I went into my garden when Mirth was laughing lowThrough the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines,Through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row,Where early in the every day the dew shakes and shines.Oh, Rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold,From the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night,But the big, round Joy was rising, busy and bold,When I went into my garden at break of Delight!
I went into my garden at break of Delight,Before Joy had risen in the Eastern sky,To see how many cucumbers had happened over night,And how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high.
I went into my garden when Rest had fallen awayFrom the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green,To see how far the beans had travelled up into the day,And whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean.
I went into my garden when Mirth was laughing lowThrough the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines,Through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row,Where early in the every day the dew shakes and shines.
Oh, Rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold,From the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night,But the big, round Joy was rising, busy and bold,When I went into my garden at break of Delight!
Marguerite Wilkinson
In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat,There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat;But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round,And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground.Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one.He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun."We both are round and yellow, we both are bright," said he,"A stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see."Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck,Perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,—her nerves were quite a wreck.Near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean,The young cucumbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green.A big whitedaikonhid in earth beneath his leafy crest;And mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest.Above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kindsWith pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds.There, in a spot that feels the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weavesGreat webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves.Its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink,And lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink.Now, life went on in harmony and pleasing indolenceTill Mrs. Squash had vertigo and tumbled off the fence;But not to earth she fell! Alas,—but down, with all her force,Upon old Father Pumpkin's head, and cracked his skull, of course.At this a fearful din arose. The pods began to split,Cucumbers turned a sickly hue, thedaikonhad a fit,The sweet potatoes rent the ground,—the egg-plant dropped his loom,While every polished berry seemed to gain an added gloom.And, worst of all, there came a man, who once had planted them.He dug that little family up by root and leaf and stem,He piled them high in baskets, in a most unfeeling way—All this was told me by the cook,—we ate the last to-day.
In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat,There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat;But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round,And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground.
Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one.He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun."We both are round and yellow, we both are bright," said he,"A stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see."
Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck,Perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,—her nerves were quite a wreck.Near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean,The young cucumbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green.
A big whitedaikonhid in earth beneath his leafy crest;And mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest.Above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kindsWith pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds.
There, in a spot that feels the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weavesGreat webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves.Its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink,And lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink.
Now, life went on in harmony and pleasing indolenceTill Mrs. Squash had vertigo and tumbled off the fence;But not to earth she fell! Alas,—but down, with all her force,Upon old Father Pumpkin's head, and cracked his skull, of course.
At this a fearful din arose. The pods began to split,Cucumbers turned a sickly hue, thedaikonhad a fit,The sweet potatoes rent the ground,—the egg-plant dropped his loom,While every polished berry seemed to gain an added gloom.
And, worst of all, there came a man, who once had planted them.He dug that little family up by root and leaf and stem,He piled them high in baskets, in a most unfeeling way—All this was told me by the cook,—we ate the last to-day.
Mary McNeil Fenollosa
When skies are blue and days are brightA kitchen-garden's my delight,Set round with rows of decent boxAnd blowsy girls of hollyhocks.Before the lark his Lauds hath doneAnd ere the corncrake's southward gone;Before the thrush good-night hath saidAnd the young Summer's put to bed.The currant-bushes' spicy smell,Homely and honest, likes me well,The while on strawberries I feast,And raspberries the sun hath kissed.Beans all a-blowing by a rowOf hives that great with honey go,With mignonette and heaths to yieldThe plundering bee his honey-field.Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borageAnd the delicious mint and sage,Rosemary, marjoram, and rue,And thyme to scent the winter through.Here are small apples growing round,And apricots all golden-gowned,And plums that presently will flushAnd show their bush a Burning Bush.Cherries in nets against the wall,Where Master Thrush his madrigalSings, and makes oath a churl is heWho grudges cherries for a fee.Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. HereShall Beauty make her pomander,Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothesThat wrap her as the leaves the rose.Take roses red and lilies white,A kitchen-garden's my delight;Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves,And its tall cote of irised doves.
When skies are blue and days are brightA kitchen-garden's my delight,Set round with rows of decent boxAnd blowsy girls of hollyhocks.
Before the lark his Lauds hath doneAnd ere the corncrake's southward gone;Before the thrush good-night hath saidAnd the young Summer's put to bed.
The currant-bushes' spicy smell,Homely and honest, likes me well,The while on strawberries I feast,And raspberries the sun hath kissed.
Beans all a-blowing by a rowOf hives that great with honey go,With mignonette and heaths to yieldThe plundering bee his honey-field.
Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borageAnd the delicious mint and sage,Rosemary, marjoram, and rue,And thyme to scent the winter through.
Here are small apples growing round,And apricots all golden-gowned,And plums that presently will flushAnd show their bush a Burning Bush.
Cherries in nets against the wall,Where Master Thrush his madrigalSings, and makes oath a churl is heWho grudges cherries for a fee.
Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. HereShall Beauty make her pomander,Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothesThat wrap her as the leaves the rose.
Take roses red and lilies white,A kitchen-garden's my delight;Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves,And its tall cote of irised doves.
Katharine Tynan
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;And the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees,And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wingsAnd roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tail they is.You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow—Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a carin' how;So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing—But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dryThrough the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappointed way,Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day?Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does he run?Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot;The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;And the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees,And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wingsAnd roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tail they is.
You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow—Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a carin' how;So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing—But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!
They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dryThrough the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappointed way,Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day?Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does he run?Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?
Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot;The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.
James Whitcomb Riley
Lord God in Paradise,Look upon our sowing,Bless the little gardensAnd the good green growing!Give us sun,Give us rain,Bless the orchardsAnd the grain!Lord God in Paradise,Please bless the beans and peas,Give us corn full on the ear—We will praise Thee, Lord, for these!Bless the blossomAnd the root,Bless the seedAnd the fruit!Lord God in Paradise,Over my brown field is seen,Trembling and adventuring.A miracle of green.Send such graceAs you know,To keep it safeAnd make it grow!Lord God in Paradise,For the wonder of the seed,Wondering, we praise you, whileWe tell you of our need.Look down from Paradise,Look upon our sowing,Bless the little gardensAnd the good green growing!Give us sun,Give us rain,Bless the orchardsAnd the grain!
Lord God in Paradise,Look upon our sowing,Bless the little gardensAnd the good green growing!Give us sun,Give us rain,Bless the orchardsAnd the grain!
Lord God in Paradise,Please bless the beans and peas,Give us corn full on the ear—We will praise Thee, Lord, for these!Bless the blossomAnd the root,Bless the seedAnd the fruit!
Lord God in Paradise,Over my brown field is seen,Trembling and adventuring.A miracle of green.Send such graceAs you know,To keep it safeAnd make it grow!
Lord God in Paradise,For the wonder of the seed,Wondering, we praise you, whileWe tell you of our need.Look down from Paradise,Look upon our sowing,Bless the little gardensAnd the good green growing!Give us sun,Give us rain,Bless the orchardsAnd the grain!
Louise Driscoll
The sky is blue and soft to-day,The grass is green this month of May,And Muvver with her spade and rakeMy little garden helps me make;For every one must plant more seedsTo grow the food that each one needs:Potatoes, corn, green peas, and beets,The kind of beans that sister eats,We plant in rows marked by a string,For neatness is the one great thing;The earth is then raked smooth and pressedAnd Nature 'tends to all the rest.
The sky is blue and soft to-day,The grass is green this month of May,And Muvver with her spade and rakeMy little garden helps me make;For every one must plant more seedsTo grow the food that each one needs:Potatoes, corn, green peas, and beets,The kind of beans that sister eats,We plant in rows marked by a string,For neatness is the one great thing;The earth is then raked smooth and pressedAnd Nature 'tends to all the rest.
Robert Livingston
If I could patch a coverletFrom pieces of the Spring,What dreams a happy child would haveBeneath so fair a thing!A center of the dear blue sky,A bordering of green,With patches of the yellow sunAll chequered in between.Bright ribbons of the silky grassLaced prettily across,With satin of new little leaves,And velvet of the moss.In every corner, violets,Half-hidden from the view,With many-flowered squares betwixt,Of pinky tints and blue;Of flossy silk and gossamer,Of tissue and brocade;A warp of rosy morning mist,A woof of purple shade.Embroideries of little vines,And spider-webs of lace,With tassels of the alder tiedAt each convenient place.With gold-thread I would sew the seams,And needles of the pine,Oh, never child in all the worldWould have a quilt like mine!
If I could patch a coverletFrom pieces of the Spring,What dreams a happy child would haveBeneath so fair a thing!
A center of the dear blue sky,A bordering of green,With patches of the yellow sunAll chequered in between.
Bright ribbons of the silky grassLaced prettily across,With satin of new little leaves,And velvet of the moss.
In every corner, violets,Half-hidden from the view,With many-flowered squares betwixt,Of pinky tints and blue;
Of flossy silk and gossamer,Of tissue and brocade;A warp of rosy morning mist,A woof of purple shade.
Embroideries of little vines,And spider-webs of lace,With tassels of the alder tiedAt each convenient place.
With gold-thread I would sew the seams,And needles of the pine,Oh, never child in all the worldWould have a quilt like mine!
Abbie Farwell Brown
Valentine, O Valentine,Pretty little Love of mine;Little Love whose yellow hairMakes the daffodils despair;Little Love whose shining eyesFill the stars with sad surprise:Hither turn your ten wee toes,Each a tiny shut-up rose,End most fitting and completeFor the rosy-pinky feet;Toddle, toddle here to me,For I'm waiting, do you see?—Waiting for to call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!Valentine, O Valentine,I will dress you up so fine!Here's a frock of tulip-leaves,Trimmed with lace the spider weaves;Here's a cap of larkspur blue,Just precisely made for you;Here's a mantle scarlet-dyed,Once the tiger-lily's pride,Spotted all with velvet blackLike the fire-beetle's back;Lady-slippers on your feet,Now behold you all complete!Come and let me call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!Valentine, O Valentine,Now a wreath for you I'll twine.I will set you on a throneWhere the damask rose has blown,Dropping all her velvet bloom,Carpeting your leafy room:Here while you shall sit in pride,Butterflies all rainbow-pied,Dandy beetles gold and green,Creeping, flying, shall be seen,Every bird that shakes his wings,Every katydid that sings,Wasp and bee with buzz and hum.Hither, hither see them come,Creeping all before your feet,Rendering their homage meet.But 'tis I that call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!
Valentine, O Valentine,Pretty little Love of mine;Little Love whose yellow hairMakes the daffodils despair;Little Love whose shining eyesFill the stars with sad surprise:Hither turn your ten wee toes,Each a tiny shut-up rose,End most fitting and completeFor the rosy-pinky feet;Toddle, toddle here to me,For I'm waiting, do you see?—Waiting for to call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!
Valentine, O Valentine,I will dress you up so fine!Here's a frock of tulip-leaves,Trimmed with lace the spider weaves;Here's a cap of larkspur blue,Just precisely made for you;Here's a mantle scarlet-dyed,Once the tiger-lily's pride,Spotted all with velvet blackLike the fire-beetle's back;Lady-slippers on your feet,Now behold you all complete!Come and let me call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!
Valentine, O Valentine,Now a wreath for you I'll twine.I will set you on a throneWhere the damask rose has blown,Dropping all her velvet bloom,Carpeting your leafy room:Here while you shall sit in pride,Butterflies all rainbow-pied,Dandy beetles gold and green,Creeping, flying, shall be seen,Every bird that shakes his wings,Every katydid that sings,Wasp and bee with buzz and hum.Hither, hither see them come,Creeping all before your feet,Rendering their homage meet.But 'tis I that call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!
Laura E. Richards
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,Are you awake in the dark?Here we lie cosily, close to each other:Hark to the song of the lark—"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;Put on your green coats and gay,Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you—Waken! 'tis morning—'tis May!"Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,What kind of flower will you be?I'll be a poppy—all white, like my mother;Do be a poppy like me.What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss youWhen you're grown golden and high!But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;Little brown brother, good-bye.
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,Are you awake in the dark?Here we lie cosily, close to each other:Hark to the song of the lark—"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;Put on your green coats and gay,Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you—Waken! 'tis morning—'tis May!"
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,What kind of flower will you be?I'll be a poppy—all white, like my mother;Do be a poppy like me.What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss youWhen you're grown golden and high!But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;Little brown brother, good-bye.
E. Nesbit
Raining, raining,All night long;Sometimes loud, sometimes soft,Just like a song.There'll be rivers in the guttersAnd lakes along the street.It will make our lazy kittyWash his little dirty feet.The roses will wear diamondsLike kings and queens at court;But the pansies all get muddyBecause they are so short.I'll sail my boat to-morrowIn wonderful new places,But first I'll take my watering-potAnd wash the pansies' faces.
Raining, raining,All night long;Sometimes loud, sometimes soft,Just like a song.
There'll be rivers in the guttersAnd lakes along the street.It will make our lazy kittyWash his little dirty feet.
The roses will wear diamondsLike kings and queens at court;But the pansies all get muddyBecause they are so short.
I'll sail my boat to-morrowIn wonderful new places,But first I'll take my watering-potAnd wash the pansies' faces.
Amelia Josephine Burr
ISpring Song
I love daffodils.I love Narcissus when he bends his head.I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodilsOut of my rhyme of song.Do you know anything about the springWhen it comes again?God knows about it while winter is lasting:Flowers bring him power in the spring,And birds bring it, and children.He is sometimes sad and aloneUp there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy.I bring him songs when he is in his sadness, and weary.I tell him how I used to wander out to study stars and the moon he madeAnd flowers in the dark of the wood.I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten,And that snowdrops are up.What can I say to make him listen?"God," I say,"Don't you care!Nobody must be sad or sorryIn the spring-time of flowers."
I love daffodils.I love Narcissus when he bends his head.I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodilsOut of my rhyme of song.Do you know anything about the springWhen it comes again?God knows about it while winter is lasting:Flowers bring him power in the spring,And birds bring it, and children.He is sometimes sad and aloneUp there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy.I bring him songs when he is in his sadness, and weary.I tell him how I used to wander out to study stars and the moon he madeAnd flowers in the dark of the wood.I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten,And that snowdrops are up.What can I say to make him listen?"God," I say,"Don't you care!Nobody must be sad or sorryIn the spring-time of flowers."
IIVelvetsBy a Bed of Pansies
This pansy has a thinking faceLike the yellow moon.This one has a face with white blots:I call him the clown.Here goes one down the grassWith a pretty look of plumpness:She is a little girl going to schoolWith her hands in the pockets of her pinafore.Her name is Sue.I like this one, in a bonnet,Waiting—Her eyes are so deep!But these on the other side,These that wear purple and blue,They are the Velvets,The king with his cloak,The queen with her gown,The prince with his feather.These are dark and quietAnd stay alone.I know you, VelvetsColor of Dark,Like the pine-tree on the hillWhen stars shine!
This pansy has a thinking faceLike the yellow moon.This one has a face with white blots:I call him the clown.Here goes one down the grassWith a pretty look of plumpness:She is a little girl going to schoolWith her hands in the pockets of her pinafore.Her name is Sue.I like this one, in a bonnet,Waiting—Her eyes are so deep!But these on the other side,These that wear purple and blue,They are the Velvets,The king with his cloak,The queen with her gown,The prince with his feather.These are dark and quietAnd stay alone.
I know you, VelvetsColor of Dark,Like the pine-tree on the hillWhen stars shine!
Hilda Conkling(Six years old)
When apple-blossom time doth comeAnd with their scent the air is filled,And fields are full of buttercups,—'Tis then the swallows build.And when the rippling brooks are deep,Filled to the overflowing,When o'er the hills and meadows fairThe south wind's softly blowing,With sun a-shining, birds a-singingTill their joyous throats are thrilled,And with all the world in laughter,—'Tis then the swallows build.
When apple-blossom time doth comeAnd with their scent the air is filled,And fields are full of buttercups,—'Tis then the swallows build.
And when the rippling brooks are deep,Filled to the overflowing,When o'er the hills and meadows fairThe south wind's softly blowing,
With sun a-shining, birds a-singingTill their joyous throats are thrilled,And with all the world in laughter,—'Tis then the swallows build.
Catherine Parmenter(Eleven years old)
"What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,—Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy?Brave little cuttings of laughter and light?Then shall our summer be flowery and bright.""Nay!—You are wrong in your planting," said he,"Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree?Why should we water and weary awayFor sake of a flower that lives but a day!"So she made gardens which he would not dig,Tended her apricot, apple and fig.Then, when one morning he chanced to appear,Sadly he noticed—"No trespassing here."
"What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,—Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy?Brave little cuttings of laughter and light?Then shall our summer be flowery and bright."
"Nay!—You are wrong in your planting," said he,"Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree?Why should we water and weary awayFor sake of a flower that lives but a day!"
So she made gardens which he would not dig,Tended her apricot, apple and fig.Then, when one morning he chanced to appear,Sadly he noticed—"No trespassing here."
Helen Hay Whitney
If I could dig holes in the ground like a rabbit,D'you know what I'd do?Well, I'd dig a deep hole—Right under that tree—Then I'd go down—and down,And find out where the tree starts,And I'd find out how it eats and drinks,And what makes it grow....Yes I would!P'r'aps I could dig a hole right up into that tree,And—see—it—grow!...But p'r'aps I couldn't.Anyway I could dig 'way down,And see all the flower seeds,And all the grass seeds,And under that big rock there might be some rock seeds.And I'd see everything start growing.Do all the seeds make noisesWhen they start to grow?What do You s'pose about that?I s'pose they sing,'Cause they're so glad to come up here and see the sunshine....Well, anyway I'd find out all about it, 'way down there,And then I'd want to come up home,And I'd have so much to tell to You!If I could dig holes like a rabbit,That's just what I would do.
If I could dig holes in the ground like a rabbit,D'you know what I'd do?Well, I'd dig a deep hole—Right under that tree—Then I'd go down—and down,And find out where the tree starts,And I'd find out how it eats and drinks,And what makes it grow....Yes I would!P'r'aps I could dig a hole right up into that tree,And—see—it—grow!...But p'r'aps I couldn't.
Anyway I could dig 'way down,And see all the flower seeds,And all the grass seeds,And under that big rock there might be some rock seeds.And I'd see everything start growing.
Do all the seeds make noisesWhen they start to grow?What do You s'pose about that?I s'pose they sing,'Cause they're so glad to come up here and see the sunshine....
Well, anyway I'd find out all about it, 'way down there,And then I'd want to come up home,And I'd have so much to tell to You!
If I could dig holes like a rabbit,That's just what I would do.
Rose Strong Hubbell
Mother says there's a little godLives in my garden.I asked her—"In the tree?"—I asked her—"In the fountain?"And she said, yes, that she,Plain as plain could be,Everywhere could seeThe little god."What's he look like, mother?""Oh," she said, "like the flowers,Like the summer showers,Like the morning dew,—Like you."She says he's everywhereIn my garden—I can't see him there.
Mother says there's a little godLives in my garden.I asked her—"In the tree?"—I asked her—"In the fountain?"And she said, yes, that she,Plain as plain could be,Everywhere could seeThe little god."What's he look like, mother?""Oh," she said, "like the flowers,Like the summer showers,Like the morning dew,—Like you."She says he's everywhereIn my garden—I can't see him there.
Katharine Howard
At evening when I go to bedI see the stars shine overhead;They are the little daisies whiteThat dot the meadow of the Night.And often while I'm dreaming so,Across the sky the Moon will go;It is a lady, sweet and fair,Who comes to gather daisies there.For, when at morning I arise,There's not a star left in the skies;She's picked them all and dropped them downInto the meadows of the town.
At evening when I go to bedI see the stars shine overhead;They are the little daisies whiteThat dot the meadow of the Night.
And often while I'm dreaming so,Across the sky the Moon will go;It is a lady, sweet and fair,Who comes to gather daisies there.
For, when at morning I arise,There's not a star left in the skies;She's picked them all and dropped them downInto the meadows of the town.
Frank Dempster Sherman
It was awful long agoThat I put those seeds around;And I guess I ought to knowWhen I stuck 'em in the ground.'Cause I noted down the dayIn a little diary book,—It's gotten losted somewhere andI don't know where to look.But I'm certain anyhowThey've been planted most a weekAnd it must be time by nowFor their little sprouts to peek.They've been watered every dayWith a very speshul care,And once or twice I've dug 'em up tosee if they were there.I fixed the dirt in humpsJust the way they said I should;And I crumbled all the lumpsJust as finely as I could.And I found a nangle-wormA-poking up his head,—He maybe feeds on seeds and such,and so I squushed him dead.A seed's so very small,And dirt all looks the same;—How can they know at allThe way they ought to aim?And so I'm waiting roundIn case of any need;A farmer ought to do his best forevery single seed!
It was awful long agoThat I put those seeds around;And I guess I ought to knowWhen I stuck 'em in the ground.'Cause I noted down the dayIn a little diary book,—It's gotten losted somewhere andI don't know where to look.
But I'm certain anyhowThey've been planted most a weekAnd it must be time by nowFor their little sprouts to peek.They've been watered every dayWith a very speshul care,And once or twice I've dug 'em up tosee if they were there.
I fixed the dirt in humpsJust the way they said I should;And I crumbled all the lumpsJust as finely as I could.And I found a nangle-wormA-poking up his head,—He maybe feeds on seeds and such,and so I squushed him dead.
A seed's so very small,And dirt all looks the same;—How can they know at allThe way they ought to aim?And so I'm waiting roundIn case of any need;A farmer ought to do his best forevery single seed!