Poems By a Little Girl Part 8

NIGHT GOES RUs.h.i.+NG BY

Night goes hurrying over Like sweeping clouds; The birds are nested; their song is silent.

The wind says oo--oo--oo--through the trees For their lullaby.

The moon s.h.i.+nes down on the sleeping birds.

My cottage roof is like a sheet of silk Spun like a cobweb.

My apple-trees are bare as the oaks in the forest; When the moon s.h.i.+nes I see no leaves.

I am alone and very quiet Hoping the moon may say something Before long.

DANDELION

O little soldier with the golden helmet, What are you guarding on my lawn?

You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff?

There is only the gra.s.s to fight!

IF I COULD TELL YOU THE WAY

Down through the forest to the river I wander.

There are swans flying, Swans on the water, Duck, wild birds.

Fairies live here; They know no sorrow.

Birds, winds, They are the only people.

If I could tell you the way to this place, You would sell your house and your land For silver or a little gold, You would sail up the river, Tie your boat to the Black Stone, Build a leaf-hut, make a twig-fire, Gather mushrooms, drink spring-water, Live alone and sing to yourself For a year and a year and a year!

ROSE-PETAL

Petal with rosy cheeks, Petal with thoughts of your own, Petal of my crimson-white flower out of June, Little petal of my heart!

POEMS

See the fur coats go by!

The morning is like the inside of a snow-apple.

I will curl myself cus.h.i.+on-shape On the window-seat; I will read poems by snow-light.

If I cannot understand them so, I will turn them upside down And read them by the red candles Of garden brambles.

SEAGARDE

I will return to you O stillest and dearest, To see the pearl of light That flashes in your golden hair; To hear you sing your songs of starlight And tell your stories of the wonderful land Of stars and fleecy sky; To say to you that Seagarde will soon be here, Seagarde the fairy With her seagulls of hope!

EASTER

On Easter morn Up the faint cloudy sky I hear the Easter bell, Ding dong . . . ding dong . . .

Easter morning scatters lilies On every doorstep; Easter morning says a glad thing Over and over.

Poor people, beggars, old women Are hearing the Easter bell . . .

Ding dong . . . ding dong . . .

BLUEBIRD

Oh bluebird with light red breast, And your blue back like a feathered sky, You have to go down south Before biting winter comes And my flower-beds are covered with fluff out of the clouds.

Before you go, Sing me one more song Of tree-tops down south, Of darkies singing their babies to sleep, Of sand and glittering stones Where rivers pa.s.s; Then . . . good-by!

GEOGRAPHY

I can tell balsam trees By their grayish bluish silverish look of smoke.

Pine trees fringe out.

Hemlocks look like Christmas.

The spruce tree is feathered and rough Like the legs of the red chickens in our poultry yard.

I can study my geography from chickens Named for Plymouth Rock and Rhode Island, And from trees out of Canada.

No; I shall leave the chickens out.

I shall make a new geography of my own.

I shall have a hillside of spruce and hemlock Like a separate country, And I shall mark a walk of spires on my map, A secret road of balsam trees With blue buds.

Trees Fat smell like a wind out of fairy-land Where little people live Who need no geography But trees.

MARCH THOUGHT

I am waiting for the flowers To come back: I am alone, But I can wait for the birds.