 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
71
AIR.
What is it that winds about over the world,
Spread thin, like a covering fair?
Into each little corner and crevice 'tis curled;
This wonderful fluid is—air.
Spread thin, like a covering fair?
Into each little corner and crevice 'tis curled;
This wonderful fluid is—air.
In summer's still evening how gently it floats,
When not a leaf moves on the spray;
And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes
And merry gnats dancing away.
When not a leaf moves on the spray;
And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes
And merry gnats dancing away.
The village-bells glide on its bosom serene,
And steal in sweet cadence along;
The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green,
And the cottage girls join in the song.
And steal in sweet cadence along;
The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green,
And the cottage girls join in the song.
But oft in the winter it bellows aloud,
And roars in the northerly blast;
With fury drives on ward the snowy blue cloud.
And cracks the tall, tapering mast.
And roars in the northerly blast;
With fury drives on ward the snowy blue cloud.
And cracks the tall, tapering mast.
The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies,
In billows and fringes of foam!
And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes
Towards his dear, peaceable home.
In billows and fringes of foam!
And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes
Towards his dear, peaceable home.
72
When fire lies and smothers, or gnaws through the beam.
Air makes it more fiercely to glow;
And engines in vain in cold torrents may stream,
If the wind should with violence blow.
Air makes it more fiercely to glow;
And engines in vain in cold torrents may stream,
If the wind should with violence blow.
In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak,
That many a tempest had known;
The tall mountain-pine into splinters is broke,
And over the precipice blown.
That many a tempest had known;
The tall mountain-pine into splinters is broke,
And over the precipice blown.
And yet, though it rages with fury so wild,
On solid earth, water, or fire,
Without its assistance the tenderest child
Would struggle, and gasp, and expire.
On solid earth, water, or fire,
Without its assistance the tenderest child
Would struggle, and gasp, and expire.
Pure air, pressing into the curious clay,
Gave breath to these bodies at first;
And when in the bosom it ceases to play,
We crumble again to our dust.
Gave breath to these bodies at first;
And when in the bosom it ceases to play,
We crumble again to our dust.
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |