Graded Poetry: Third Year - LightNovelsOnl.com
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ALFRED TENNYSON
ENGLAND, 1809-1892
The Throstle
"Summer is coming, summer is coming, I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, love again."
Yes, my wild little Poet.
Sing the new year in under the blue. 5 Last year you sang it as gladly.
"New, new, new, new!" Is it then _so_ new That you should carol so madly?
"Love again, song again, nest again, young again."
Never a prophet so crazy! 10 And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy.
"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!"
O warble, unchidden, unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 15 And all the winters are hidden.
JANE TAYLOR
ENGLAND, 1783-1824
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.
And yet it was a lovely flower, 5 Its colors 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; 10 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 15 In sweet humility.
CLINTON SCOLLARD[1]
AMERICA, 1860-
Bobolink
Bobolink-- He is here!
_Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_ Hark, how clear Drops the note 5 From his throat, Where he sways On the sprays Of the wheat In the heat! 10 Bobolink, _Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_
Bobolink Is a beau.
See him prink! 15 Watch him go Through the air To his fair!
Hear him sing On the wing,-- Sing his best O'er her nest! 5 "Bobolink, _Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_"
Bobolink, Linger long!
There's a kink 10 In your song Like the joy Of a boy Left to run In the sun,-- 15 Left to play All the day.
Bobolink, _Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_
FOOTNOTE:
[1] From "A Boy's Book of Rhyme."
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
AMERICA, 1860-
The Four Winds
In winter, when the wind I hear, I know the clouds will disappear; For 'tis the wind who sweeps the sky And piles the snow in ridges high.
In spring, when stirs the wind, I know 5 That soon the crocus buds will show; For 'tis the wind who bids them wake And into pretty blossoms break.
In summer, when it softly blows, Soon red I know will be the rose; 10 For 'tis the wind to her who speaks, And brings the blushes to her cheeks.
In autumn, when the wind is up, I know the acorn's out its cup; For 'tis the wind who takes it out, And plants an oak somewhere about.
LUCY LARCOM
AMERICA, 1826-1893
The Violet
Dear little violet, 5 Don't be afraid!
Lift your blue eyes From the rock's mossy shade.
All the birds call for you, Out of the sky; 10 May is here waiting, And here, too, am I.
Why do you s.h.i.+ver so, Violet, sweet?
