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"Sylvia, hus.h.!.+" I said, "come here, Come see a fairy-tale, my dear!
Tales told are good, tales seen are best!"
The dove was brooding on the nest In the lowest crotch of the apple tree.
I lifted her up so quietly, That when she could have touched the bird The soft gray creature had not stirred.
It looked at us with a wild dark eye.
But, "Birdie, fly!" was Sylvia's cry, Impatient Sylvia, "Birdie, fly."
Ah, well: but when I touched the nest, The child recoiled upon my breast.
Was ever such a startling thing?
Sudden silver and purple wing, The dove was out, away, across, Struggling heart-break on the gra.s.s.
And there in the cup within the tree Two milk-white eggs were ours to see.
Was ever thing so pretty? Alack, "Birdie!" Sylvia cried, "come back!"
Joseph Russell Taylor [1868-1933]
THE ORACLE
I lay upon the summer gra.s.s.
A gold-haired, sunny child came by, And looked at me, as loath to pa.s.s, With questions in her lingering eye.
She stopped and wavered, then drew near, (Ah! the pale gold around her head!) And o'er my shoulder stopped to peer.
"Why do you read?" she said.
"I read a poet of old time, Who sang through all his living hours-- Beauty of earth--the streams, the flowers-- And stars, more lovely than his rhyme.
"And now I read him, since men go, Forgetful of these sweetest things; Since he and I love brooks that flow, And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings!"
She stared at me with laughing look, Then clasped her hands upon my knees: "How strange to read it in a book!
I could have told you all of these!"
Arthur Davison Ficke [1883-
TO A LITTLE GIRL
You taught me ways of gracefulness and fas.h.i.+ons of address, The mode of plucking pansies and the art of sowing cress, And how to handle puppies, with propitiatory pats For mother dogs, and little acts of courtesy to cats.
O connoisseur of pebbles, colored leaves and trickling rills, Whom seasons fit as do the sheaths that wrap the daffodils, Whose eyes' divine expectancy foretells some starry goal, You taught me here docility--and how to save my soul.
Helen Parry Eden [18
TO A LITTLE GIRL
Her eyes are like forget-me-nots, So loving, kind and true; Her lips are like a pink sea-sh.e.l.l Just as the sun s.h.i.+nes through; Her hair is like the waving grain In summer's golden light; And, best of all, her little soul Is, like a lily, white.
Gustav Kobbe [1857-1918]
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON Aged Three Years And Five Months
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear!) Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,-- (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air,-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents,--(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub,--but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny.-- (Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are these torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,-- (He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John!
Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk!
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South,-- (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,-- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above.)
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
A NEW POET
I write. He sits beside my chair, And scribbles, too, in hushed delight, He dips his pen in charmed air: What is it he pretends to write?
He toils and toils; the paper gives No clue to aught he thinks. What then?
His little heart is glad; he lives The poems that he cannot pen.
Strange fancies throng that baby brain.
What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes!
He stops--reflects--and now again His unrecording pen he plies.
