 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
29
WINTER.
Behold the gray branches that stretch from the trees,
Nor blossom nor verdure they wear!
They rattle and shake to the northerly breeze,
And wave their long arms in the air.
Nor blossom nor verdure they wear!
They rattle and shake to the northerly breeze,
And wave their long arms in the air.
The sun hides his face in a mantle of cloud,
The roar of the ocean is heard,
The wind through the wood bellows hoarsely and loud,
And overland sails the sea-bird.
The roar of the ocean is heard,
The wind through the wood bellows hoarsely and loud,
And overland sails the sea-bird.
Come in, little Charles, for the snow patters down
No paths in the garden remain:
The streets and the houses are white in the town
And white are the fields and the plain
No paths in the garden remain:
The streets and the houses are white in the town
And white are the fields and the plain
30
Come in, little Charles, from the tempest of snow,
'Tis dark, and the shutters we'll close;
We'll put a fresh faggot to make the fire glow,
Secure from the storm as it blows.
'Tis dark, and the shutters we'll close;
We'll put a fresh faggot to make the fire glow,
Secure from the storm as it blows.
But how many wretches, without house or home,
Are wandering naked and pale;
Obliged on the snow-covered common to roam,
And pierced by the pitiless gale!
Are wandering naked and pale;
Obliged on the snow-covered common to roam,
And pierced by the pitiless gale!
No house for their shelter, no victuals to eat,
No bed for their limbs to repose:
Or a crust, dry and mouldy, the best of their meat,
And their pillow—a pillow of snows!
No bed for their limbs to repose:
Or a crust, dry and mouldy, the best of their meat,
And their pillow—a pillow of snows!
Be thankful, my child, that it is not your lot
To wander, or beg at the door,
A father, and mother, and home you have got,
And yet you deserved them no more.
To wander, or beg at the door,
A father, and mother, and home you have got,
And yet you deserved them no more.
31
Be thankful, my child, and forget not to pay
Your thanks to that Father above,
Who gives you so many more blessings than they,
And crowns your whole life with His love.
Your thanks to that Father above,
Who gives you so many more blessings than they,
And crowns your whole life with His love.
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |