 | Short poems for short people |  |
A LITTLE MORALIST.
I'm tired of fairy-books, Fanny,
There is n't a word of them true;
They 're simply not sensible reading
For girls like myself and you.
There is n't a word of them true;
They 're simply not sensible reading
For girls like myself and you.
35
Don't look so amazed; I mean it.
The fact of the matter is this:
We 've arrived at an age when common-sense
Is certainly not amiss.
The fact of the matter is this:
We 've arrived at an age when common-sense
Is certainly not amiss.
For children like Will and Bessie
I suppose it is all very nice
To believe that a pumpkin was changed to a coach
And ponies were made out of mice;
I suppose it is all very nice
To believe that a pumpkin was changed to a coach
And ponies were made out of mice;
Or that any one ever could manage,
Like Cinderella, to go
And dance at a ball in slippers of glass
That did n't get broken, you know.
Like Cinderella, to go
And dance at a ball in slippers of glass
That did n't get broken, you know.
Or that fairies have ever existed—
Live people with actual wings—
Who merely by waving their wands could perform
Such very remarkable things.
Live people with actual wings—
Who merely by waving their wands could perform
Such very remarkable things.
This is all nice enough for Bessie
And Will to believe in, I say;
But we, 't would be well to remember,
Are older and wiser than they.
And Will to believe in, I say;
But we, 't would be well to remember,
Are older and wiser than they.
And there seems to be so much, Fanny,
In this great, great world of ours,
Both real and beautiful besides,
Like sunsets and birds and flowers.
In this great, great world of ours,
Both real and beautiful besides,
Like sunsets and birds and flowers.
36
So much, mamma thinks, that was fashioned
To charm and to teach us as well,
And stranger by far than the curious tales
Those wonderful fairy-books tell;—
To charm and to teach us as well,
And stranger by far than the curious tales
Those wonderful fairy-books tell;—
So much we should value for being
The blessings God renders his own,
That it 's better to love what is true, Fanny dear,
And to leave what is false alone.
The blessings God renders his own,
That it 's better to love what is true, Fanny dear,
And to leave what is false alone.
| Short poems for short people | |