Poems

Poem #1
The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
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Poem #2
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, and 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.

JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN.

Poem #3
Let Dogs Delight to
Bark and Bite
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature too.

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 But, children, you should never let
Such angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never made
To tear each other’s eyes.

ISAAC WATTS.

Poem #4
Little Things
Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
And the pleasant land.

Thus the little minutes,

Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.

EBENEZER COBHAM BREWER.

Poem #5
He Prayeth Best
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

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 He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small:
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.

Poem #6
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little 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 glorious sun is set,

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

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

Guides the traveller in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star!

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 Poem # 7

Pippa
The year’s at the spring,
The day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew pearled;

The lark’s on the wing;

The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world!

ROBERT BROWNING.

Poem #8
The Days of the Month
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
February has twenty-eight alone.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting leap-year—that’s the time
When February’s days are twenty-nine.

OLD SONG.

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 Poem # 9

True Royalty
There was never a Queen like Balkis,
From here to the wide world’s end;
But Balkis talked to a butterfly
As you would talk to a friend.

There was never a King like Solomon,

Not since the world began;
But Solomon talked to a butterfly
As a man would talk to a man.

She was Queen of Sabaea—

And he was Asia’s Lord—
But they both of ’em talked to butterflies
When they took their walks abroad.

RUDYARD KIPLING.
(In “The Just So Stories.”)

Poem # 10

Playing Robinson Crusoe

Pussy can sit by the fire and sing,
Pussy can climb a tree,
Or play with a silly old cork and string
To ’muse herself, not me.
But I like Binkie, my dog, because
He knows how to behave;

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 So, Binkie’s the same as the First Friend was,
And I am the Man in the Cave.

Pussy will play Man-Friday till

It’s time to wet her paw
And make her walk on the window-sill
(For the footprint Crusoe saw);
Then she fluffles her tail and mews,
And scratches and won’t attend.
But Binkie will play whatever I choose,
And he is my true First Friend.

Pussy will rub my knees with her head,

Pretending she loves me hard;
But the very minute I go to my bed
Pussy runs out in the yard.
And there she stays till the morning-light;
So I know it is only pretend;
But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,
And he is my Firstest Friend!

RUDYARD KIPLING.
(In “The Just So Stories.”)

Poem # 11
My Shadow
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

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The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at
all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward, you can see;
I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to
me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Poem # 11
Little White Lily
Little White Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and waiting
Till the sun shone.
Little White Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little White Lily
Is lifting her head.

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Little White Lily
Said: “It is good
Little White Lily’s
Clothing and food.”
Little White Lily
Dressed like a bride!
Shining with whiteness,
And crownèd beside!

Little White Lily

Drooping with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little White Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.

Little White Lily

Said: “Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have the nice rain.
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;
Heat cannot burn me,
My veins are so full.”

Little White Lily

Smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine,
Rain at her feet.

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 Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain,
Little White Lily
Is happy again.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

Poem #12
How the Leaves Came Down
“I’ll tell you how the leaves came down,”
The great Tree to his children said:
“You’re getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red.
It is quite time to go to bed.”

“Ah!” begged each silly, pouting leaf,

“Let us a little longer stay;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!
’Tis such a very pleasant day,
We do not want to go away.”

So, for just one more merry day

To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced, and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among—

“Perhaps the great Tree will forget,

And let us stay until the spring,
If we all beg, and coax, and fret.”

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 But the great Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.

“Come, children, all to bed,” he cried;

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,

Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bedclothes heaped upon her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.

“Good-night, dear little leaves,” he said.
And from below each sleepy child
Replied, “Good-night,” and murmured,
“It is so nice to go to bed!”

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

Poem #13
Willie Winkie
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin’ at the window, cryin’ at the lock,
“Are the weans in their bed?—for it’s now ten o’clock.”

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Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin’ ben?
The cat’s singin’ gay thrums to the sleepin’ hen,
The doug’s speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ asleep.

Onything but sleep, ye rogue! glow’rin’ like the moon,

Rattlin’ in an airn jug wi’ an airn spoon,
Rumblin’ tumblin’ roun’ about, crowin’ like a cock,
Skirlin’ like a kenna-what—wauknin’ sleepin’ folk.

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean’s in a creel!

Waumblin’ aff a body’s knee like a vera eel,
Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, and ravellin’ a’ her thrums,—
Hey, Willie Winkie!—See, there he comes!

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,

A wee stumpie stoussie that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi’ sleep before he’ll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

Poem #14
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat;
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the moon above,
And sang to a small guitar,

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“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love!
What a beautiful Pussy you are,—
You are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!

How wonderful sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married,—too long we have tarried,—
But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood
With a ring in the end of his nose,—
His nose,
With a ring in the end of his nose.

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?” Said the piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined upon mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon,
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon,—
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

EDWARD LEAR.

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Poem #15
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,”
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,—
Never afeard are we!”
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,—
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:

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 ’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock on the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,—
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

EUGENE FIELD.

Poem #16
The Duel
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t’other had slept a wink!

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The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I wasn’t there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”

And the calico cat replied “mee-ow!”
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(Now mind: I’m only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,

And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw—
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(Don’t fancy I exaggerate!
I got my views from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning where the two had sat

They found no trace of the dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole the pair away!
But the truth about the cat and the pup
Is this: They ate each other up!

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Now what do you really think of that!
(The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)

EUGENE FIELD.

Poem #17
The Boy Who Never Told a Lie
Once there was a little boy,
With curly hair and pleasant eye—
A boy who always told the truth,
And never, never told a lie.

And when he trotted off to school,

The children all about would cry,
“There goes the curly-headed boy—
The boy that never tells a lie.”

And everybody loved him so,

Because he always told the truth,
That every day, as he grew up,
’Twas said, “There goes the honest youth.”

And when the people that stood near

Would turn to ask the reason why,
The answer would be always this:
“Because he never tells a lie.”

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 Poem #18
Love Between
Brothers and Sisters
Whatever brawls disturb the street,
There should be peace at home;
Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,
Quarrels should never come.

Birds in their little nests agree;

And ’tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out and chide and fight.

ISAAC WATTS.

Poem #19
The Bluebell of Scotland
Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone?
He’s gone to fight the French for King George upon the
throne;
And it’s oh! in my heart how I wish him safe at home.

Oh where! and oh where! does your Highland laddie dwell?

He dwells in merry Scotland at the sign of the Bluebell;
And it’s oh! in my heart that I love my laddie well.

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Poem #20
If I Had But Two
Little Wings
If I had but two little wings
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I’d fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:

I’m always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one’s own.
And then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.

Poem #21
A Farewell
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them all day long:
And so make life, death, and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.

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Poem #22
Casabianca
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on—he would not go

Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, “Say, father, say

If yet my task is done?”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.

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And shouted but once more aloud
“My father! must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound—

The boy—oh! where was he?
—Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew the sea;

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair.

That well had borne their part—
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.

FELICIA HEMANS.

Poem #23
The Captain’s Daughter
We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,—
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

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’Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, “Cut away the mast!”

So we shuddered there in silence,—

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring
And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy with his prayers,
“We are lost!” the captain shouted
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,

As she took his icy hand,
“Isn’t God upon the ocean,
Just the same as on the land?”

Then we kissed the little maiden.

And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbour
When the morn was shining clear.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

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Poem #24

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

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He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,

Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

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Poem #25
Sweet and Low
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dropping moon and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Poem #26
The Violet
Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.

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And yet it was a lovely flower,
No colours bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,

In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused its sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go,

This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.
JANE TAYLOR.

Poem # 27
The Rainbow
(A FRAGMENT)

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

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Poem #28
The Nightingale
and the Glow-Worm
A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,
“As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For ’twas the self-same power divine,
Taught you to sing and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
WILLIAM COWPER.

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Poem #29
HEAVEN IS NOT REACHED AT A SINGLE
BOUND.
(A FRAGMENT.)

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,

But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true:

That a noble deed is a step toward God,--
Lifting the soul from the common clod
To a purer air and a broader view.

J.G. HOLLAND.

Poem #30
CROSSING THE BAR
Tennyson's (1809-92) "Crossing the Bar" is one of the noblest
death-songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect
to
a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night
before
the passengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic, and also
because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has
been said that next to Browning's "Prospice" it is the greatest
death-song ever written.

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
 When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have cross'd the bar.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Poem #31
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,

By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.
Poem #32

THE BROOK.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses.

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
Poem #33
STEVENSON'S BIRTHDAY.
"How I should like a birthday!" said the child,
"I have so few, and they so far apart."
She spoke to Stevenson--the Master smiled--
"Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart
That it were yours; too many years have I!
Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly"

So by a formal deed he there conveyed

All right and title in his natal day,
To have and hold, to sell or give away,--
Then signed, and gave it to the little maid.

Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much,

She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold.
Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch
All common things shine with transmuted gold!
A day of Stevenson's will prove to be
Not part of Time, but Immortality.

KATHERINE MILLER.

Poem #34
JUNE.
"June" (by James Russell Lowell, 1819-91), is a fragment from "The
Vision of Sir Launfal." It finds a place in this volume because it is
the most perfect description of a charming day ever written.

What is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
 And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green.
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Poem #35

BARNACLES.
"Barnacles" (by Sidney Lanier, 1842-81), is a poem that I teach in
connection with my lessons on natural history. We have a good
specimen
of a barnacle, and the children see them on the shells on the coast.
The ethical point is invaluable.

My soul is sailing through the sea,

But the Past is heavy and hindereth me.
The Past hath crusted cumbrous shells
 That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells
About my soul.
The huge waves wash, the high waves roll,
Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole
And hindereth me from sailing!

Old Past, let go, and drop i' the sea

Till fathomless waters cover thee!
For I am living, but thou art dead;
Thou drawest back, I strive ahead
The Day to find.
Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind;
I needs must hurry with the wind
And trim me best for sailing.

SIDNEY LANIER.

Poem #36

A HAPPY LIFE.
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his master's are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

Poem #37

ABIDE WITH ME.

"Abide With Me" (Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847) appeals to our
natural
longing for the unchanging and to our love of security.

Abide with me! fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;

Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see:
O Thou who changest not, abide with me!

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

Poem #38

CUPID DROWNED.
"Cupid Drowned" (1784-1859), "Cupid Stung" (1779-1852), and
"Cupid and
My Campasbe" (1558-1606) are three dainty poems recommended
by Mrs.
Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers' College, in her
"Foundation
Studies in Literature." Children are always delighted with them.

T'other day as I was twining

Roses, for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, 'mid the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
 But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love, himself!
By the wings I picked him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him,
Then what d'ye think I did?--I drank him.
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

LEIGH HUNT.

Poem #39

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
 Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

THOMAS MOORE.

Poem #40

LUCY.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Poem #41

SOLITUDE.
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

ALEXANDER POPE.
Poem #42

JOHN ANDERSON
"John Anderson," by Robert Burns (1759-96). This poem is included
to
please several teachers.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

Poem #43

THE GOD OF MUSIC.

"The God of Music," by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now
living. In
this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or
Keats
and placed herself among the immortals.

The God of Music dwelleth out of doors.

All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet,
Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet
From organ-lofts in forests old he pours:
A solemn harmony: on leafy floors
To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet,
Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet
In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores.
Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream.
And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze;
Leave me the viol's frame in secret trees,
Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme;
Leave me the whispering shell on Nereid shores.
The God of Music dwelleth out of doors.

EDITH M. THOMAS.

Poem #44
A FRAGMENT FROM MARK ANTONY'S
SPEECH.
This was the noblest Roman of them all:
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;
He only, in a general honest thought
And common good to all, made one of them.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mix'd in him, that Nature might stand up,
And say to all the world, "This was a man!"

SHAKESPEARE ("Julius Caesar").

Poem #45
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear:
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

THOMAS GRAY.

Poem #46
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.
"The Landing of the Pilgrims," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), is a
poem
that children want when they study the early history of America.

The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed.

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame.

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amid the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea,
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roared,--
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,

Amid that pilgrim band;
Why had _they_ come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--
They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay! call it holy ground,

 The soil where first they trod:
They have left unstained what there they found,
Freedom to worship God.

FELICIA HEMANS.

Poem #47
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
O! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

THOMAS MOORE.
Poem #48

THE CROCODILE

How doth the little crocodile

Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!

LEWIS CARROLL

Poem #49

I’M A LITTLE TEA POT

I’m a little teapot

Short and stout
Here is my handle (one hand on hip)
Here is my spout (other arm out straight)

When I get all steamed up

Hear me shout
“Tip me over
and pour me out!” (lean over toward spout)

I’m a clever teapot,

Yes, it’s true
Here let me show you
What I can do

I can change my handle

And my spout (switch arm positions)
Just tip me over and pour me out! (lean over toward spout)

GEORGE HAROLD SANDERS

Poem #50
HOW NOT TO HAVE TO DRY THE DISHES

If you have to dry the dishes

(Such an awful, boring chore)
If you have to dry the dishes
(’Stead of going to the store)
If you have to dry the dishes
And you drop one on the floor—
Maybe they won’t let you
Dry the dishes anymore.

SHEL SILVERSTEIN