Shifting Scenes and Other Poems By J. Stanyan Bigg |
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ONLY A LITTLE HOUSE. |
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 | Shifting Scenes and Other Poems |  |
166
ONLY A LITTLE HOUSE.
Only a little house—
A house by the side of a hill—
With dances of sunshine gleaming about
Through tossing branches in and out,
And the sound of a little rill,
That, through the tiny garden-plot,
All day long, and all night through,
Murmurs music ever new,—
“I am happy—and you?
Why not?”
A house by the side of a hill—
With dances of sunshine gleaming about
Through tossing branches in and out,
And the sound of a little rill,
That, through the tiny garden-plot,
All day long, and all night through,
Murmurs music ever new,—
“I am happy—and you?
Why not?”
Only a little house,
But a house brimful of life,—
Busy husband, and happy wife,
Prattle of babies three:
Singing of birds, and humming of bees;
Shadow and sunshine on the trees;
Glancing needles, eager talk;
Books, and pens, and the evening walk
Through the meadows down below;—
Thus the summer days go by,
And we look on, and only sigh—
We sigh, but do not know.
But a house brimful of life,—
Busy husband, and happy wife,
Prattle of babies three:
Singing of birds, and humming of bees;
Shadow and sunshine on the trees;
Glancing needles, eager talk;
Books, and pens, and the evening walk
Through the meadows down below;—
Thus the summer days go by,
And we look on, and only sigh—
We sigh, but do not know.
167
Only a little house,
But a house heart-full of bliss,—
Plenty of work, and plenty of play;
Busy heart and brain all day;
And then, ere the good-night kiss
The lingering shadow of worldly care,
Wafted off by the evening prayer;
And silence falls on the little house,
Save for the whir of the midnight mouse,
Here, and there, and everywhere;
And through the tiny garden-plot,
The voice of the rill, which, all night through,
Murmurs its music ever new,—
“I am happy—and you?
Why not?”
But a house heart-full of bliss,—
Plenty of work, and plenty of play;
Busy heart and brain all day;
And then, ere the good-night kiss
The lingering shadow of worldly care,
Wafted off by the evening prayer;
And silence falls on the little house,
Save for the whir of the midnight mouse,
Here, and there, and everywhere;
And through the tiny garden-plot,
The voice of the rill, which, all night through,
Murmurs its music ever new,—
“I am happy—and you?
Why not?”
Happy! O little house!
House by the side of the hill,
Who can say what an hour may bring?
Who would think that the song we sing
Is the music of coming ill?
Little it boots to live and learn
Lessons harsh and lessons stern;
Rather turn to the merry notes
Of the voice that ever floats
Through the flowery garden-plot,
All day long and all night through,
With its burden ever new,—
“I am happy—and you?
Why not?”
House by the side of the hill,
Who can say what an hour may bring?
Who would think that the song we sing
Is the music of coming ill?
Little it boots to live and learn
Lessons harsh and lessons stern;
Rather turn to the merry notes
Of the voice that ever floats
Through the flowery garden-plot,
All day long and all night through,
With its burden ever new,—
168
Why not?”
Only a little house—
But a house all still and cold,—
Gone the voice of the happy child;
Gone the smile of the matron mild;
Gone the summer-gold
That fell on the gables one by one;
Gone the human toil and care;
The daily task, the evening prayer;
Father, and mother, and babes—all gone!
And, through the roof, I hear the rain
Dripping on the desolate floor,
And hear the creaking of a door
No human hand shall shut again,
And hear a murmur harsh go by
Through the tangled garden-plot,
Where the ragged palings rot,—
“I am wretched, I know not why;
Would you live, or would you die?”
But a house all still and cold,—
Gone the voice of the happy child;
Gone the smile of the matron mild;
Gone the summer-gold
That fell on the gables one by one;
Gone the human toil and care;
The daily task, the evening prayer;
Father, and mother, and babes—all gone!
And, through the roof, I hear the rain
Dripping on the desolate floor,
And hear the creaking of a door
No human hand shall shut again,
And hear a murmur harsh go by
Through the tangled garden-plot,
Where the ragged palings rot,—
“I am wretched, I know not why;
Would you live, or would you die?”
| Shifting Scenes and Other Poems | |