 | Snow-berries. A book for young folks |  |
THE POET TO THE PAINTER.
Painter, paint me a sycamore,
A spreading and snowy-limbed tree,
Making cool shelter for three,
And like a green quilt at the door
Of the cabin near the tree,
Picture the grass for me,
With a winding and dusty road before,
Not far from the group of three,
And the silver sycamore-tree.
A spreading and snowy-limbed tree,
Making cool shelter for three,
And like a green quilt at the door
Of the cabin near the tree,
Picture the grass for me,
With a winding and dusty road before,
Not far from the group of three,
And the silver sycamore-tree.
'T will take your finest skill to draw
From that happy group of three,
Under the sycamore-tree,
The little girl in the hat of straw
And the faded frock, for she
Is as fair as fair can be.
You have painted frock and hat complete!
Now the color of snow you must paint her feet;
Her cheeks and lips from a strawberry-bed;
From sunflower-fringes her shining head.
From that happy group of three,
Under the sycamore-tree,
The little girl in the hat of straw
And the faded frock, for she
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You have painted frock and hat complete!
Now the color of snow you must paint her feet;
Her cheeks and lips from a strawberry-bed;
From sunflower-fringes her shining head.
Now, painter, paint the hop-vine swing
Close to the group of three,
And a bird with bright brown eyes and wing,
Chirping merrily.
“Twit twit, twit twit, twee!”
That is all the song he makes,
And the child to mocking laughter breaks.
Answering, “Here are we,
Father and mother and me!”
Pretty darling, her world is small,—
Father and mother and she are all.
Close to the group of three,
And a bird with bright brown eyes and wing,
Chirping merrily.
“Twit twit, twit twit, twee!”
That is all the song he makes,
And the child to mocking laughter breaks.
Answering, “Here are we,
Father and mother and me!”
Pretty darling, her world is small,—
Father and mother and she are all.
Ah, painter, your hand is still!
You have made the group of three
Under the sycamore-tree,
But you cannot make all the skill
Of your colors say, “Twit twit, twee!”
Nor the answering, “Here are we,
Father and mother and me.”
I'll be a poet, and paint with words
Talking children and chirping birds.
You have made the group of three
Under the sycamore-tree,
But you cannot make all the skill
Of your colors say, “Twit twit, twee!”
Nor the answering, “Here are we,
Father and mother and me.”
I'll be a poet, and paint with words
Talking children and chirping birds.
| Snow-berries. A book for young folks | |