Chapter V: Part I: Poems of Youth and Age (1)

THE HUMAN SEASONS

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto Heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness--to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:--

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

John Keats [1795-1821]

THE BABY

"ONLY A BABY SMALL"

Only a baby small, Dropped from the skies, Only a laughing face, Two sunny eyes; Only two cherry lips, One chubby nose; Only two little hands, Ten little toes.

Only a golden head, Curly and soft; Only a tongue that wags Loudly and oft; Only a little brain, Empty of thought; Only a little heart, Troubled with naught.

Only a tender flower Sent us to rear; Only a life to love While we are here; Only a baby small, Never at rest; Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best.

Matthias Barr [1831-?]

ONLY

Something to live for came to the place, Something to die for maybe, Something to give even sorrow a grace, And yet it was only a baby!

Cooing, and laughter, and gurgles, and cries, Dimples for tenderest kisses, Chaos of hopes, and of raptures, and sighs, Chaos of fears and of blisses.

Last year, like all years, the rose and the thorn; This year a wilderness maybe; But heaven stooped under the roof on the morn That it brought them only a baby.

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]

INFANT JOY

"I have no name; I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee; Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee!

William Blake [1757-1827]

BABY From "At the Back of the North Wind"

Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into the here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, where did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here.

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

TO A NEW-BORN BABY GIRL

And did thy sapphire shallop slip Its moorings suddenly, to dip Adown the clear, ethereal sea From star to star, all silently? What tenderness of archangels In silver, thrilling syllables Pursued thee, or what dulcet hymn Low-chanted by the cherubim? And thou departing must have heard The holy Mary's farewell word, Who with deep eyes and wistful smile Remembered Earth a little while.

Now from the coasts of morning pale Comes safe to port thy tiny sail. Now have we seen by early sun, Thy miracle of life begun. All breathing and aware thou art, With beauty templed in thy heart To let thee recognize the thrill Of wings along far azure hill, And hear within the hollow sky Thy friends the angels rushing by. These shall recall that thou hast known Their distant country as thine own, To spare thee word of vales and streams, And publish heaven through thy dreams. The human accents of the breeze Through swaying star-acquainted trees Shall seem a voice heard earlier, Her voice, the adoring sigh of her, When thou amid rosy cherub-play Didst hear her call thee, far away, And dream in very Paradise The worship of thy mother's eyes.

Grace Hazard Conkling [1878-

TO LITTLE RENEE ON FIRST SEEING HER LYING IN HER CRADLE

Who is she here that now I see, This dainty new divinity, Love's sister, Venus' child? She shows Her hues, white lily and pink rose, And in her laughing eyes the snares That hearts entangle unawares. Ah, woe to men if Love should yield His arrows to this girl to wield Even in play, for she would give Sore wounds that none might take and live. Yet no such wanton strain is hers, Nor Leda's child and Jupiter's Is she, though swans no softer are Than whom she fairer is by far. For she was born beside the rill That gushes from Parnassus' hill, And by the bright Pierian spring She shall receive an offering From every youth who pipes a strain Beside his flocks upon the plain. But I, the first, this very day, Will tune for her my humble lay, Invoking this new Muse to render My oaten reed more sweet and tender, Within its vibrant hollows wake Such dulcet voices for her sake As, curved hand at straining ear, I long have stood and sought to hear Borne with the warm midsummer breeze With scent of hay and hum of bees Faintly from far-off Sicily....

Ah, well I know that not for us Are Virgil and Theocritus, And that the golden age is past Whereof they sang, and thou, the last, Sweet Spenser, of their god-like line, Soar far too swift for verse of mine One strain to compass of your song. Yet there are poets that prolong Of your rare voice the ravishment In silver cadences; content Were I if I could but rehearse One stave of Wither's starry verse, Weave such wrought richness as recalls Britannia's lovely Pastorals, Or in some garden-spot suspire One breath of Marvell's magic fire When in the green and leafy shade He sees dissolving all that's made. Ah, little Muse still far too high On weak, clipped wings my wishes fly. Transform them then and make them doves, Soft-moaning birds that Venus loves, That they may circle ever low Above the abode where you shall grow Into your gracious womanhood. And you shall feed the gentle brood From out your hand--content they'll be Only to coo their songs to thee.

William Aspenwall Bradley [1878-

RHYME OF ONE

You sleep upon your mother's breast, Your race begun, A welcome, long a wished-for Guest, Whose age is One.

A Baby-Boy, you wonder why You cannot run; You try to talk--how hard you try!-- You're only One.

Ere long you won't be such a dunce: You'll eat your bun, And fly your kite, like folk who once Were only One.

You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke, Perhaps you'll pun! Such feats are never done by folk Before they're One.

Some day, too, you may have your joy, And envy none; Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy, Who isn't One.

He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do As you have done: (You crown a happy home, though you Are only One.)

But when he's grown shall you be here To share his fun, And talk of times when he (the Dear!) Was hardly One?

Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be My little Son; I'm glad, though I am old, you see,-- While you are One.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

TO A NEW-BORN CHILD

Small traveler from an unseen shore, By mortal eye ne'er seen before, To you, good-morrow. You are as fair a little dame As ever from a glad world came To one of sorrow.

We smile above you, but you fret; We call you gentle names, and yet Your cries redouble. 'Tis hard for little babes to prize The tender love that underlies A life of trouble.

And have you come from Heaven to earth? That were a road of little mirth, A doleful travel. "Why did I come?" you seem to cry, But that's a riddle you and I Can scarce unravel.

Perhaps you really wished to come, But now you are so far from home Repent the trial. What! did you leave celestial bliss To bless us with a daughter's kiss? What self-denial!

Have patience for a little space, You might have come to a worse place, Fair Angel-rover. No wonder now you would have stayed, But hush your cries, my little maid, The journey's over.

For, utter stranger as you are, There yet are many hearts ajar For your arriving, And trusty friends and lovers true Are waiting, ready-made for you, Without your striving.

The earth is full of lovely things, And if at first you miss your wings, You'll soon forget them; And others, of a rarer kind Will grow upon your tender mind-- If you will let them--

Until you find that your exchange Of Heaven for earth expands your range E'en as a flier, And that your mother, you and I, If we do what we should, may fly Than Angels higher.

Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901]

BABY MAY

Cheeks as soft as July peaches, Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness--round large eyes Ever great with new surprise, Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, Minutes just as brimmed with sadness, Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows swifter born Than on wind-swept Autumn corn, Ever some new tiny notion Making every limb all motion-- Catching up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms, Clutching fingers--straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever new surprisings, Hands all wants and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under, Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings, Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness, that we prize such sinning, Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes, Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table; Silences--small meditations, Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches, All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing; Slumbers--such sweet angel-seemings, That we'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking; Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care--delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be-- That's May Bennett, that's my baby.

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]

ALICE

Of deepest blue of summer skies Is wrought the heaven of her eyes.

Of that fine gold the autumns wear Is wrought the glory of her hair.

Of rose leaves fashioned in the south Is shaped the marvel of her mouth.

And from the honeyed lips of bliss Is drawn the sweetness of her kiss,

'Mid twilight thrushes that rejoice Is found the cadence of her voice,

Of winds that wave the western fir Is made the velvet touch of her.

Of all earth's songs God took the half To make the ripple of her laugh.

I hear you ask, "Pray who is she?"-- This maid that is so dear to me.

"A reigning queen in Fashion's whirl?" Nay, nay! She is my baby girl.

Herbert Bashford [1871-1928]

SONGS FOR FRAGOLETTA

I

Fragoletta, blessed one! What think you of the light of the sun? Do you think the dark was best, Lying snug in mother's breast? Ah! I knew that sweetness, too, Fragoletta, before you! But, Fragoletta, now you're born, You must learn to love the morn, Love the lovely working light, Love the miracle of sight, Love the thousand things to do-- Little girl, I envy you!-- Love the thousand things to see, Love your mother, and--love me! And some night, Fragoletta, soon, I'll take you out to see the moon; And for the first time, child of ours, You shall--think of it!--look on flowers, And smell them, too, if you are good, And hear the green leaves in the wood Talking, talking, all together In the happy windy weather; And if the journey's not too far For little limbs so lately made, Limb upon limb like petals laid, We'll go and picnic in a star.

II

Blue eyes, looking up at me, I wonder what you really see, Lying in your cradle there, Fragrant as a branch of myrrh? Helpless little hands and feet, O so helpless! O so sweet! Tiny tongue that cannot talk, Tiny feet that cannot walk, Nothing of you that can do Aught, except those eyes of blue. How they open, how they close!-- Eyelids of the baby-rose. Open and shut--so blue, so wise, Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes.

III

That, Fragoletta, is the rain Beating upon the window-pane; But lo! The golden sun appears, To kiss away the window's tears. That, Fragoletta, is the wind, That rattles so the window-blind; And yonder shining thing's a star, Blue eyes--you seem ten times as far. That, Fragoletta, is a bird That speaks, yet never says a word; Upon a cherry tree it sings, Simple as all mysterious things; Its little life to peck and pipe, As long as cherries ripe and ripe, And minister unto the need Of baby-birds that feed and feed. This, Fragoletta, is a flower, Open and fragrant for an hour, A flower, a transitory thing, Each petal fleeting as a wing, All a May morning blows and blows, And then for everlasting goes.

IV

Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed Of little mother's hallowed breast, The while your trembling lips are fed, Look up at mother's bended head, All benediction over you-- O blue eyes looking into blue!

Fragoletta is so small, We wonder that she lives at all-- Tiny alabaster girl, Hardly bigger than a pearl; That is why we take such care, Lest some one run away with her.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

CHOOSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister: I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten! She will shortly be to christen; And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her,-- Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have named as yet Is so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine; What do you think of Caroline? How I'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her;-- I will leave papa to name her.

Mary Lamb [1764-1847]

WEIGHING THE BABY

"How many pounds does the baby weigh-- Baby who came but a month ago? How many pounds from the crowning curl To the rosy point of the restless toe?"

Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot, Tenderly guides the swinging weight, And carefully over his glasses peers To read the record, "only eight."

Softly the echo goes around: The father laughs at the tiny girl; The fair young mother sings the words, While grandmother smooths the golden curl.

And stooping above the precious thing, Nestles a kiss within a prayer, Murmuring softly "Little one, Grandfather did not weigh you fair."

Nobody weighed the baby's smile, Or the love that came with the helpless one; Nobody weighed the threads of care, From which a woman's life is spun.

No index tells the mighty worth Of a little baby's quiet breath-- A soft, unceasing metronome, Patient and faithful until death.

Nobody weighed the baby's soul, For here on earth no weights there be That could avail; God only knows Its value in eternity.

Only eight pounds to hold a soul That seeks no angel's silver wing, But shrines it in this human guise, Within so frail and small a thing!

Oh, mother! laugh your merry note, Be gay and glad, but don't forget From baby's eyes looks out a soul That claims a home in Eden yet.

Ethel Lynn Beers [1827-1879]

ETUDE REALISTE I

A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine on life's untrodden brink A baby's feet.

II

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,-- A baby's hands.

Then, even as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world,-- A baby's hands.

III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby's eyes.

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise!

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

LITTLE FEET

Two little feet, so small that both may nestle In one caressing hand,-- Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life's mysterious land.

Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms, In April's fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tangles, Edging the world's rough ways?

These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future, Must bear a mother's load; Alas! since Woman has the heavier burden, And walks the harder road.

Love, for a while, will make the path before them All dainty, smooth, and fair,-- Will cull away the brambles, letting only The roses blossom there.

But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding, Who shall direct them then?

How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded, Poor little untaught feet! Into what dreary mazes will they wander, What dangers will they meet?

Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness Of Sorrow's tearful shades? Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, Whose sunlight never fades?

Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit, The common world above? Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, Walk side by side with Love?

Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded, Which find but pleasant ways: Some hearts there be to which this life is only A round of happy days.

But these are few. Far more there are who wander Without a hope or friend,-- Who find their journey full of pains and losses, And long to reach the end.

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway Stretches so fair and wide?

Ah! who may read the future? For our darling We crave all blessings sweet, And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens Will guide the baby's feet.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

THE BABIE

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips, an' baumy mou', With na ane tooth within.

Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel's face,-- We're glad she has nae wings.

She is the buddin' of our luve, A giftie God gied us: We maun na luve the gift owre weel, 'Twad be nae blessin' thus.

We still maun luve the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given; An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae Heaven.

Jeremiah Eames Rankin [1828-1904]

LITTLE HANDS

Soft little hands that stray and clutch, Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold, While baby faces lie in such Close sleep as flowers at night that fold, What is it you would, clasp and hold, Wandering outstretched with wilful touch? O fingers small of shell-tipped rose, How should you know you hold so much? Two full hearts beating you inclose, Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes,-- All yours to hold, O little hands! More, more than wisdom understands And love, love only knows.

Laurence Binyon [1869-

BARTHOLOMEW

Bartholomew is very sweet, From sandy hair to rosy feet.

Bartholomew is six months old, And dearer far than pearls or gold.

Bartholomew has deep blue eyes, Round pieces dropped from out the skies.

Bartholomew is hugged and kissed: He loves a flower in either fist.

Bartholomew's my saucy son: No mother has a sweeter one!

Norman Gale [1862-

THE STORM-CHILD

My child came to me with the equinox, The wild wind blew him to my swinging door, With flakes of tawny foam from off the shore, And shivering spindrift whirled across the rocks. Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow-flocks Cried him a greeting, and the lordly woods, Waving lean arms of welcome one by one, Cast down their russet cloaks and golden hoods, And bid their dancing leaflets trip and run Before the tender feet of this my son.

Therefore the sea's swift fire is in his veins, And in his heart the glory of the sea; Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade be, That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering plains. October, shot with flashing rays and rains, Inhabits all his pulses; he shall know The stress and splendor of the roaring gales, The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy tales, And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow, While in his ears the eternal bugles blow.

May Byron [1861-

"ON PARENT KNEES"

On parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that, sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep.

William Jones [1746-1794]

"PHILIP, MY KING" "Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king! Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible scepter laden; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king.

O the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king! When those beautiful lips are suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip, my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth,--up to thy brow, Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen among his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer, Let me behold thee in future years!-- Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king.

--A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king! Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee, and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

THE KING OF THE CRADLE

Draw back the cradle curtains, Kate, While watch and ward you're keeping, Let's see the monarch in his state, And view him while he's sleeping. He smiles and clasps his tiny hand, With sunbeams o'er him gleaming,-- A world of baby fairyland He visits while he's dreaming.

Monarch of pearly powder-puff, Asleep in nest so cosy, Shielded from breath of breezes rough By curtains warm and rosy: He slumbers soundly in his cell, As weak as one decrepid, Though King of Coral, Lord of Bell, And Knight of Bath that's tepid.

Ah, lucky tyrant! Happy lot! Fair watchers without number, Who sweetly sing beside his cot, And hush him off to slumber; White hands in wait to smooth so neat His pillow when its rumpled-- A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet, Not one of which is crumpled!

Will yonder dainty dimpled hand-- Size, nothing and a quarter-- E'er grasp a saber, lead a band To glory and to slaughter? Or, may I ask, will those blue eyes-- In baby patois, "peepers"-- E'er in the House of Commons rise, And try to catch the Speaker's?

Will that smooth brow o'er Hansard frown, Confused by lore statistic? Or will those lips e'er stir the town From pulpit ritualistic? Will e'er that tiny Sybarite Become an author noted? That little brain the world's delight, Its works by all men quoted?

Though rosy, dimpled, plump, and round Though fragile, soft, and tender, Sometimes, alas! it may be found The thread of life is slender! A little shoe, a little glove-- Affection never waning-- The shattered idol of our love Is all that is remaining!

Then does one chance, in fancy, hear, Small feet in childish patter, Tread soft as they a grave draw near, And voices hush their chatter; 'Tis small and new; they pause in fear, Beneath the gray church tower, To consecrate it with a tear, And deck it with a flower.

Who can predict the future, Kate-- Your fondest aspiration! Who knows the solemn laws of fate, That govern all creation? Who knows what lot awaits your boy-- Of happiness or sorrow? Sufficient for to-day is joy, Leave tears, Sweet, for to-morrow!

Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838-1917]

THE FIRSTBORN

So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom, And in my hands the little rosy feet. Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom; Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet.

What is it God hath given me to cherish, This living, moving wonder which is mine-- Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish, Dear Lord of love divine.

Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder, This tender miracle vouchsafed to me, One with myself, yet just so far asunder That I myself may see.

Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linking New selfs with old, all things that I have been With present joys beyond my former thinking And future things unseen.

There life began, and here it links with heaven, The golden chain of years scarce dipped adown From birth, ere once again a hold is given And nearer to God's Throne.

Seen, held in arms and clasped around so tightly,-- My love, my bird, I will not let thee go. Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightly Go pattering to and fro.

Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving token. Mine--yes or no, unseen its soul divine? Mine by the chain of love with links unbroken, Dear Saviour, Thine and mine.

John Arthur Goodchild [1851-

NO BABY IN THE HOUSE

No baby in the house, I know, 'Tis far too nice and clean. No toys, by careless fingers strewn, Upon the floors are seen. No finger-marks are on the panes, No scratches on the chairs; No wooden men setup in rows, Or marshaled off in pairs; No little stockings to be darned, All ragged at the toes; No pile of mending to be done, Made up of baby-clothes; No little troubles to be soothed; No little hands to fold; No grimy fingers to be washed; No stories to be told; No tender kisses to be given; No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse"; No merry frolics after tea,-- No baby in the house!

Clara Dolliver [18--

OUR WEE WHITE ROSE From "The Mother's Idol Broken"

All in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Sucked the green warmth of the sod; O, beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world.

From out a balmy bosom Our bud of beauty grew; It fed on smiles for sunshine, On tears for daintier dew: Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee White Rose of all the world.

With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled; Revealed each hour some fairy tower Where winged hopes might build! We saw--though none like us might see-- Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world.

But evermore the halo Of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight That folds some fairy feast. Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently Our darling bud uncurled, And dropped in the grave--God's lap--our wee White Rose of all the world.

Our Rose was but in blossom, Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnight We heard the spirits sing, "Another bud of infancy With holy dews impearled!" And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world.

You scarce could think so small a thing Could leave a loss so large; Her little light such shadow fling From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

INTO THE WORLD AND OUT

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise; The children laughed so when they saw his eyes.

Into the world a rosy hand in doubt He reached--a pale hand took one rosebud out.

"And that was all--quite all!" No, surely! But The children cried so when his eyes were shut.

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]

"BABY SLEEPS" She is not dead, but sleepeth.--Luke viii. 52.

The baby wept; The mother took it from the nurse's arms, And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms, And baby slept.

Again it weeps, And God doth take it from the mother's arms, From present griefs, and future unknown harms, And baby sleeps.

Samuel Hinds [1793-1872]

BABY BELL

I

Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even-- Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged Angels go, Bearing the holy Dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers--those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers: Then all the air grew strangely sweet. And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours.

II

She came and brought delicious May; The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went, the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell; And on the porch the slender vine Held out its cups of fairy wine. How tenderly the twilights fell! Oh, earth was full of singing-birds And opening springtide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell Came to this world of ours.

III

O Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes, What poetry within them lay-- Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more: Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born: We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen-- The land beyond the morn; And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise,)-- For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ!--our hearts bowed down Like violets after rain.

IV

And now the orchards, which were white And pink with blossoms when she came, Were rich in autumn's mellow prime; The clustered apples burnt like flame, The folded chestnut burst its shell, The grapes hung purpling, range on range; And time wrought just as rich a change In little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too: We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now... Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame.

V

God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key; We could not teach her holy things Who was Christ's self in purity.

VI

It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell-- The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, "Oh, smite us gently, gently, God! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief." Ah! how we loved her, God can tell; Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

VII

At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands: And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair! We parted back her silken hair, We wove the roses round her brow-- White buds, the summer's drifted snow-- Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers... And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

IN THE NURSERY

MOTHER GOOSE'S MELODIES

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Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row.

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There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do; She gave them some broth without any bread; Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.

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Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her; He put her in a pumpkin shell And there he kept her very well.

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Run-a-dub-dub, Three men in a tub, And who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, The candlestick-maker; Turn 'em out, knaves all three!

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I'll tell you a story About Jack a Nory-- And now my story's begun; I'll tell you another About Johnny, his brother-- And now my story is done.

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Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock; The clock struck one, The mouse ran down, Hickory, dickory, dock.

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A dillar, a dollar, A ten o'clock scholar, What makes you come so soon? You used to come at ten o'clock But now you come at noon.

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There was a little man, And he had a little gun, And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead; He shot Johnny Sprig Through the middle of his wig, And knocked it right off his head, head, head.

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There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink: Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet: Yet this little old woman could never be quiet.

She went to a baker to buy her some bread, And when she came home, her husband was dead; She went to the clerk to toll the bell, And when she came back her husband was well.

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If I had as much money as I could spend, I never would cry old chairs to mend; Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend; I never would cry old chairs to mend.

If I had as much money as I could tell, I never would cry old clothes to sell; Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell; I never would cry old clothes to sell.

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One misty, moisty morning, When cloudy was the weather, I met a little old man Clothed all in leather; He began to bow and scrape, And I began to grin,-- How do you do, and how do you do, And how do you do again?

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If all the world were apple-pie, And all the sea were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have to drink?

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Pease-pudding hot, Pease-pudding cold, Pease-pudding in the pot, Nine days old. Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, Nine days old.

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Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.

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Little Jack Horner sat in the corner Eating a Christmas pie; He put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum, And said, "What a good boy am I!"

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Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating of curds and whey; There came a great spider That sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.

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There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile: He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

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Little Polly Flinders, Sat among the cinders, Warming her pretty little toes; Her mother came and caught her, And whipped her little daughter For spoiling her nice new clothes.

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Barber, barber, shave a pig, How many hairs will make a wig? "Four-and-twenty, that's enough." Give the barber a pinch of snuff.

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Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn; But where is the boy that looks after the sheep? He's under a hay-cock, fast asleep. Will you awake him? No, not I; For if I do, he'll be sure to cry.

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There was a man of our town, And he was wondrous wise, He jumped into a bramble bush, And scratched out both his eyes:

But when he saw his eyes were out, With all his might and main, He jumped into another bush, And scratched 'em in again.

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The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then, Poor thing?

He'll sit in a barn, And to keep himself warm, Will hide his head under his wing, Poor thing!

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Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen; Sometimes nine, and sometimes ten, Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen.

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Three wise men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl had been stronger, My song had been longer.

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There was an old woman lived under a hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still.

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Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been? I've been to London to look at the Queen. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under the chair.

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There were two blackbirds sitting on a hill, The one named Jack, the other named Jill; Fly away, Jack! Fly away, Jill! Come again, Jack! Come again, Jill!

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Goosey, goosey, gander, Whither shall I wander, Up stairs, down stairs, And in my lady's chamber. There I met an old man Who would not say his prayers; I took him by his left leg And threw him down the stairs.

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Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir; yes, sir, three, bags full. One for my master, one for my dame, And one for the little boy that lives in the lane.

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Bye, baby bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap the baby bunting in.

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Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler, he had a fiddle, and a very fine fiddle had he; Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare, as can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three!

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Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady ride on a white horse, Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes.

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Hector Protector was dressed all in green; Hector Protector was sent to the Queen. The Queen did not like him, no more did the King; So Hector Protector was sent back again.

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Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?

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Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so, betwixt them both, you see, They licked the platter clean.

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The lion and the unicorn Were fighting for the crown; The lion beat the unicorn All round about the town. Some gave them white bread, And some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake, And sent them out of town.

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As Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks Were walking out one Sunday, Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks, "To-morrow will be Monday."

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Curly locks! Curly locks! Wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash dishes Nor yet feed the swine; But sit on a cushion And sew a fine seam, And feed upon strawberries, Sugar and cream.

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Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go! That the miller may grind his corn; That the baker may take it and into rolls make it, And send us some hot in the morn.

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Six little mice sat down to spin, Pussy passed by, and she peeped in. "What are you at, my little men?" "Making coats for gentlemen." "Shall I come in and bite off your threads?" "No, no, Miss Pussy, you'll snip off our heads." "Oh, no, I'll not, I'll help you to spin." "That may be so, but you don't come in!"

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Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, Silver buckles at his knee; When he comes back, he'll marry me, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe's fat and fair, Combing down his yellow hair; He's my love for evermair, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

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Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green; Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen; And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring; And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the King.

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all.

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To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, Home again, home again, jiggety-jig; To market, to market, to buy a fat hog, Home again, home again, jiggety-jog; To market, to market, to buy a plum bun, Home again, home again, market is done.

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JACK AND JILL

Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after.

Up Jack got and home did trot As fast as he could caper, And went to bed to mend his head With vinegar and brown paper.

THE QUEEN OF HEARTS

The Queen of Hearts She made some tarts, All on a summer's day; The Knave of Hearts He stole those tarts, And with them ran away.

The King of Hearts Called for the tarts, And beat the Knave full sore; The Knave of Hearts Brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more!

LITTLE BO-PEEP

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them; Leave them alone, and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamed she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For they were still a-fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left their tails behind them!

It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray, Unto a meadow hard by, There she espied their tails side by side, All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks she raced; And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should, That each tail should be properly placed.

MARY'S LAMB

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day-- That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school.

And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear; And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said--"I'm not afraid-- You'll keep me from all harm."

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" The eager children cry-- "O, Mary loves the lamb, you know," The Teacher did reply;-- "And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind."

Sarah Josepha Hale [1788-1879]

THE STAR

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is set, And the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see where to go If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824)

"SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE"

Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie;

When the pie was opened The birds began to sing; Wasn't that a dainty dish To set before the King?

The King was in his counting-house, Counting out his money; The Queen was in the parlor, Eating bread and honey;

The maid was in the garden Hanging out the clothes; When down came a blackbird, And nipped off her nose.

SIMPLE SIMON

Simple Simon met a pieman Going to the fair; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware."

Says the pieman to Simple Simon, "Show me first your penny"; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Indeed I have not any."

Simple Simon went a-fishing For to catch a whale; All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail.

Simple Simon went to look If plums grew on a thistle; He pricked his fingers very much, Which made poor Simon whistle.

A PLEASANT SHIP

I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea, And oh! it was all laden With pretty things for thee!

There were comfits in the cabin, And apples in the hold; The sails were made of silk, And the masts were made of gold.

The four-and-twenty sailors That stood between the decks Were four-and-twenty white mice, With chains about their necks.

The captain was a duck, With a packet on his back, And when the ship began to move, The captain said "Quack! Quack!"

"I HAD A LITTLE HUSBAND"

I had a little husband No bigger than my thumb; I put him in a pint pot, And there I bade him drum.

I bought a little horse, That galloped up and down; I bridled him and saddled him, And sent him out of town.

I gave him some garters, To garter up his hose, And a little handkerchief, To wipe his pretty nose.

"WHEN I WAS A BACHELOR"

When I was a bachelor I lived by myself; And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon the shelf.

The rats and the mice They made such a strife, I was forced to go to London To buy me a wife.

The streets were so bad, And the lanes were so narrow, I was forced to bring my wife home In a wheelbarrow.

The wheelbarrow broke, And my wife had a fall, Down came wheelbarrow, Little wife and all.

"JOHNNY SHALL HAVE A NEW BONNET"

Johnny shall have a new bonnet, And Johnny shall go to the fair, And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon To tie up his bonny brown hair.

And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny As well as another body?

And here's a leg for a stocking, And here's a foot for a shoe; And he has a kiss for his daddy, And one for his mammy, too.

And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny, As well as another body?

THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE

The city mouse lives in a house;-- The garden mouse lives in a bower, He's friendly with the frogs and toads, And sees the pretty plants in flower.

The city mouse eats bread and cheese;-- The garden mouse eats what he can; We will not grudge him seeds and stocks, Poor little timid furry man.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

ROBIN REDBREAST

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree, Up went pussy-cat, and down went he; Down came pussy-cat, and away Robin ran; Said little Robin Redbreast, "Catch me if you can."

Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a wall, Pussy-cat jumped after him, and almost got a fall; Little Robin chirped and sang, and what did pussy say? Pussy-cat said naught but "Mew," and Robin flew away.

SOLOMON GRUNDY

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, This is the end of Solomon Grundy.

"MERRY ARE THE BELLS"

Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring, Merry was myself, and merry could I sing; With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free, And a merry sing-song, happy let us be!

Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose: Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose: Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free; With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!

Merry have we met, and merry have we been; Merry let us part, and merry meet again; With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free, With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!

"WHEN GOOD KING ARTHUR RULED THIS LAND"

When good King Arthur ruled this land, He was a goodly king; He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag-pudding.

A bag-pudding the queen did make, And stuffed it well with plums: And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs.

The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried.

THE BELLS OF LONDON

Gay go up, and gay go down, To ring the bells of London town.

Bull's eyes and targets, Say the bells of Saint Marg'ret's.

Brickbats and tiles, Say the bells of Saint Giles'.

Half-pence and farthings, Say the bells of Saint Martin's.

Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of Saint Clement's.

Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of Saint Peter's.

Two sticks and an apple, Say the bells of Whitechapel.

Old Father Baldpate, Say the slow bells at Aldgate.

Pokers and tongs, Say the bells of Saint John's.

Kettles and pans, Say the bells of Saint Ann's.

You owe me ten shillings, Say the bells of Saint Helen's.

When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey.

When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch.

Pray, when will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.

I am sure I don't know, Says the great bell at Bow.

THE OWL, THE EEL AND THE WARMING-PAN

The owl and the eel and the warming-pan, They went to call on the soap-fat man. The soap-fat man he was not within: He'd gone for a ride on his rolling-pin. So they all came back by the way of the town, And turned the meeting-house upside down.

Laura E. Richards [1850-

THE COW

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day, and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.