 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE.
I.
When from the tower, like some big flower,
The bell drops petals of the hour,
That says, “It's getting late,”
For nothing else on earth I care
'Cept wash my face and comb my hair,
And hurry out to meet him there,—
My father at the gate.
The bell drops petals of the hour,
That says, “It's getting late,”
For nothing else on earth I care
'Cept wash my face and comb my hair,
And hurry out to meet him there,—
My father at the gate.
It's—oh, how slow the hours go!
How hard it is to wait!
Till, drawing near, his step I hear,
And up he grabs me, lifts me clear
Above the garden gate.
How hard it is to wait!
Till, drawing near, his step I hear,
And up he grabs me, lifts me clear
Above the garden gate.
II.
When, curved and white, a bugle bright,
The moon makes magic of the night,
A fairy trumpet calling,
To me this seems what's very best—
To kiss good-night and be undressed,
And held against my mother's breast,
Like Christmas snow a-falling.
The moon makes magic of the night,
A fairy trumpet calling,
To me this seems what's very best—
To kiss good-night and be undressed,
And held against my mother's breast,
Like Christmas snow a-falling.
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It's—oh, how fast the time goes past!
The moments—how they leap!
Till mother lays me down and sings
A song, and, dreaming many things,
She leaves me fast asleep.
The moments—how they leap!
Till mother lays me down and sings
A song, and, dreaming many things,
She leaves me fast asleep.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |