The Posy Ring - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Robert Louis Stevenson.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] _From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._
_Cleanliness_
Come, my little Robert, near-- Fie! what filthy hands are here!
Who, that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong, yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within,-- Who this hand would choose to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it look'd in hue and shape Like the forefoot of an ape!
Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways, May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever-- But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect.
All-endearing cleanliness, Virtue next to G.o.dliness, Easiest, cheapest, needfull'st duty, To the body health and beauty; Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?
Charles and Mary Lamb.
_Wis.h.i.+ng_
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!
The stooping bough above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm-tree for our king!
Nay,--stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moons.h.i.+ne glance in, And birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing.
Oh--no! I wish I were a Robin,-- A Robin, or a little Wren, everywhere to go, Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing!
Well,--tell! where should I fly to, Where go sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before the day was over, Home must come the rover, For mother's kiss,--sweeter this Than any other thing.
William Allingham.
_The Boy_
The Boy from his bedroom window Look'd over the little town, And away to the bleak black upland Under a clouded moon.
The moon came forth from her cavern.
He saw the sudden gleam Of a tarn in the swarthy moorland; Or perhaps the whole was a dream.
For I never could find that water In all my walks and rides: Far-off, in the Land of Memory, That midnight pool abides.
Many fine things had I glimpse of, And said, "I shall find them one day."
Whether within or without me They were, I cannot say.
William Allingham.
_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
_A Blessing for the Blessed_
When the sun has left the hill-top And the daisy fringe is furled, When the birds from wood and meadow In their hidden nests are curled, Then I think of all the babies That are sleeping in the world.
There are babies in the high lands And babies in the low, There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins On the margin of the snow, And brown ones naked in the isles Where all the spices grow.
And some are in the palace On a white and downy bed, And some are in the garret With a clout beneath their head, And some are on the cold hard earth, Whose mothers have no bread.
O little men and women, Dear flowers yet unblown-- O little kings and beggars Of the pageant yet unshown-- Sleep soft and dream pale dreams now, To-morrow is your own.
Laurence Alma Tadema.
_Piping Down the Valleys Wild_
Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he, laughing, said to me:
"Pipe a song about a lamb."
