 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
HAL'S BIRTHDAY.
Four years old when the blackberries come!
After the roses have blossomed and gone,
And you only hear the wild-bee's hum
In the bough that the robin sang upon.
After the roses have blossomed and gone,
And you only hear the wild-bee's hum
In the bough that the robin sang upon.
Columbines will not nod from the rock,
Nor blue-eyed violets hide in the grass,
Nor the wind with the sweet-breathed clover talk,
When pussy and I down the meadow pass.
Nor blue-eyed violets hide in the grass,
Nor the wind with the sweet-breathed clover talk,
When pussy and I down the meadow pass.
But she will run after me, all the same,
With her spotted back and her frisky tail,
And will stop and look when I call her name,
Or spring at my curls from the high fence-rail.
With her spotted back and her frisky tail,
And will stop and look when I call her name,
Or spring at my curls from the high fence-rail.
Cherries and strawberries, you may go;
We shall not fret about you in the least,
Out where the plump, sweet blackberries grow,—
Pussy and I, at my birthday feast.
We shall not fret about you in the least,
Out where the plump, sweet blackberries grow,—
Pussy and I, at my birthday feast.
If there 's a grasshopper left in sight,
Or a locust spinning his long, dry tune,
They are the guests that we will invite
To eat with us in the shade at noon.
Or a locust spinning his long, dry tune,
They are the guests that we will invite
To eat with us in the shade at noon.
Overhead will the sky be blue,
And the grass we tread will be short and green,
And a late field-daisy—one or two—
Will, may be, among the vines be seen.
And the grass we tread will be short and green,
And a late field-daisy—one or two—
Will, may be, among the vines be seen.
And perhaps, perhaps I shall go to the wood
Where the pines bend down to the feathery ferns,
And the cardinal-flowers bloom as red as blood,
And the moss to gold in the sunshine turns.
Where the pines bend down to the feathery ferns,
And the cardinal-flowers bloom as red as blood,
And the moss to gold in the sunshine turns.
And there I shall gather my basket full
Of fragrant clethra as white as snow,
And partridge-berries and club-moss pull,
And play by the pond where the lilies grow.
Of fragrant clethra as white as snow,
And partridge-berries and club-moss pull,
And play by the pond where the lilies grow.
Mother, and all of us,—pussy, too,—
Will eat our supper under the trees,
Before it is time for the sunset dew;
Then loiter homeward, slow as we please;
Will eat our supper under the trees,
Before it is time for the sunset dew;
Then loiter homeward, slow as we please;
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Watching the squirrels peep from the wall,
Mocking the whistle of scared chewink,
Hearing the cows for the milkers call;
Pleasant our walk will be, I think.
Mocking the whistle of scared chewink,
Hearing the cows for the milkers call;
Pleasant our walk will be, I think.
Months of summer will soon pass by;
Time slips along, who is guessing how?
Fast and faster the merry days fly;—
But don't you wish it was August now?
Time slips along, who is guessing how?
Fast and faster the merry days fly;—
But don't you wish it was August now?
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |