 | Graffiti d'Italia |  |
313
WOGGINS.
Singing little artless snatches,
Words and music all her own,
While her dolls she tends and dresses,
By herself, but not alone,
Round from room to room she wanders,
Through the hall, and up the stairs,
And her sunny buoyant spirit
Knows but trivial shades and cares.
Words and music all her own,
While her dolls she tends and dresses,
By herself, but not alone,
Round from room to room she wanders,
Through the hall, and up the stairs,
And her sunny buoyant spirit
Knows but trivial shades and cares.
Now upon the stair she's singing;
Now, in corners of the rooms,
Self-involved, her little household
Patronising she assumes.
What a teeming world of fiction
Out of nothing she creates!
Fancy, childhood's gentle fairy,
With her wand upon her waits.
Now, in corners of the rooms,
Self-involved, her little household
Patronising she assumes.
314
Out of nothing she creates!
Fancy, childhood's gentle fairy,
With her wand upon her waits.
Little scraps of worthless paper,
Scribbled o'er with crooked lines,
She interprets into landscapes
Where an endless sunlight shines.
Conversations wise and serious
With her painted dolls she holds;
And the good ones she caresses,
And the naughty ones she scolds.
Scribbled o'er with crooked lines,
She interprets into landscapes
Where an endless sunlight shines.
Conversations wise and serious
With her painted dolls she holds;
And the good ones she caresses,
And the naughty ones she scolds.
Now she brings her book of pictures,
And with large and wondering eyes,
On my knee she sits and listens
With a smile of young surprise,
While I tell the same old stories
I have told her o'er and o'er
Scores of times, yet when I finish,
With a shout she cries, “Tell more!”
And with large and wondering eyes,
On my knee she sits and listens
With a smile of young surprise,
While I tell the same old stories
I have told her o'er and o'er
Scores of times, yet when I finish,
With a shout she cries, “Tell more!”
315
Knowledge, that the mind encumbers,
Cares, that after-years harass,
Are to her but misty sun-showers,
Rainbow traps that come and pass.
All the world is as a plaything—
When it wearies, thrown away,
As from new to new she ranges
In the imagination's play.
Cares, that after-years harass,
Are to her but misty sun-showers,
Rainbow traps that come and pass.
All the world is as a plaything—
When it wearies, thrown away,
As from new to new she ranges
In the imagination's play.
Wisdom such as thine I covet,
Happy childhood! Work and toil,
Plans that never reach enjoyment,
But the present's beauty spoil,
Are not made for thee; contented
With the present, from each day
But its juice of joy thou pressest,
Fling'st the bitter rind away.
Happy childhood! Work and toil,
Plans that never reach enjoyment,
But the present's beauty spoil,
Are not made for thee; contented
With the present, from each day
But its juice of joy thou pressest,
Fling'st the bitter rind away.
Not till man through toil and labour
Onward pass to joyous ease,
Not till knowing rhyme with loving,
Nature will give up its keys.
All is shut to poet, artist,
Till he be a child again;
And in play shall be created
What was never born of pain.
Onward pass to joyous ease,
Not till knowing rhyme with loving,
Nature will give up its keys.
316
Till he be a child again;
And in play shall be created
What was never born of pain.
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