 | Berries & Blossoms |  |
139
ON THE THRESHOLD.
Good-bye, dear children, we must part, at last;
I hear the clamorous, noisy world outside,
Calling, reclaiming, half disposed to chide,
For my play-hour is past.
I hear the clamorous, noisy world outside,
Calling, reclaiming, half disposed to chide,
For my play-hour is past.
Yet turning now to go, I turn again.
Ye children of my dreams! your life has grown
Part of my life. To say farewell, I own,
Touches my heart with pain.
Ye children of my dreams! your life has grown
Part of my life. To say farewell, I own,
Touches my heart with pain.
Bell, shall we roam no more thro' wood and glade,
Chatting with blackbirds, fed on sylvan fare,
By frisky squirrels, taking each his share,
Under the filbert shade?
Chatting with blackbirds, fed on sylvan fare,
By frisky squirrels, taking each his share,
Under the filbert shade?
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And Lily, Lily! will you never dare
Fresh battles with the breeze on hill or plain?
Laugh, little Lily, laugh out once again,
On the soft summer air!
Fresh battles with the breeze on hill or plain?
Laugh, little Lily, laugh out once again,
On the soft summer air!
“Under my window,” must I cease to see
My three fine fairies twining wreaths and posies?
Ah! will the only pilferer of my roses
Be now the honey bee?
My three fine fairies twining wreaths and posies?
Ah! will the only pilferer of my roses
Be now the honey bee?
“The bee and I,” a laughing voice replies;
“The bee and I.” Ay, true; all go but thou,
Sweet Jeanne, my critic, with the sunny brow,
And brown, mirth-beaming eye!
“The bee and I.” Ay, true; all go but thou,
Sweet Jeanne, my critic, with the sunny brow,
And brown, mirth-beaming eye!
All go? nay, nay; I keep all, still, with thee;
For thou wert all—one child with many names,
One playmate flitting through my changing games,
And more than such to me.
For thou wert all—one child with many names,
One playmate flitting through my changing games,
And more than such to me.
141
For thou hast been my little friend, as well;
My seven-year's-old sage counsellor, my guide;
My praiser, and my pretty Muse beside;
Which here 'tis meet to tell.
My seven-year's-old sage counsellor, my guide;
My praiser, and my pretty Muse beside;
Which here 'tis meet to tell.
Dear little Jeanne! If the world gives me posies,
And these my songs are not quite sung in vain,
I'll play my old, blithe orchard part again,
And give thee all the roses.
And these my songs are not quite sung in vain,
I'll play my old, blithe orchard part again,
And give thee all the roses.
And should such meed of praise our hearts embolden,
Who knows, dear child, but we may sip the dew,
In Dreamland dells once more, and pass anew
The “ivory gate and golden!”
Who knows, dear child, but we may sip the dew,
In Dreamland dells once more, and pass anew
The “ivory gate and golden!”
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