 |
| II. |
| IV. |
| VIII. |
| XI. |
| XIII. |
| XVI. |
| XXII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIV. |
 | Poems (1865) |  |
II. NOAH'S ARK.
Many a story told,
Earth! thy tale survives;
In a quiet fold,
Leading happy lives,
Dwell this old world's old
Fathers with their wives.
Earth! thy tale survives;
In a quiet fold,
Leading happy lives,
Dwell this old world's old
Fathers with their wives.
From the tight packed box,
O'er the carpet spread,
Oh, what peaceful flocks
In the fire-light red
Wander, from rude shocks
Duly shepherded.
O'er the carpet spread,
Oh, what peaceful flocks
In the fire-light red
Wander, from rude shocks
Duly shepherded.
Loved with equal love,
Prized with equal care,
Raven, then, and Dove;
But the dearest there
Are still the spotted Ladybird
And the springing Grasshopper.
Prized with equal care,
Raven, then, and Dove;
But the dearest there
Are still the spotted Ladybird
And the springing Grasshopper.
Now does childish play
That sweet tale rehearse
Told by Prophet grey,
Sung in Sibyl's verse,
Of a Coming Day,
Of a vanquish'd curse.
That sweet tale rehearse
Told by Prophet grey,
Sung in Sibyl's verse,
Of a Coming Day,
Of a vanquish'd curse.
See the Cow and Bear
Together dwell and feed,
Ox and Lion there
In sweet peace agreed;
Wolf and Lamb one pasture share,
With a little Child to lead.
Together dwell and feed,
Ox and Lion there
In sweet peace agreed;
Wolf and Lamb one pasture share,
With a little Child to lead.
Dora Greenwell.
IV. CHILD AMONG THE ROCKS.
Underneath thy feet are rocks, and o'er thee
Hang the heavy cliffs, and still before thee
Ocean stretches till it meets the sky;
Seest thou the white sea-birds rising, falling
On the breakers? Hearest thou the calling
Of the winds that wail and hurry by?
Hang the heavy cliffs, and still before thee
Ocean stretches till it meets the sky;
Seest thou the white sea-birds rising, falling
On the breakers? Hearest thou the calling
Of the winds that wail and hurry by?
Dost thou watch the ships slow sailing? Nearer
Lies thy world, oh young Columbus! Dearer
Than each far-sought prize;
Rich in joy—in wonder still unfailing,
Star, and shell, and glistening sea-weed trailing
In the little pool that nearest lies.
Lies thy world, oh young Columbus! Dearer
Than each far-sought prize;
Rich in joy—in wonder still unfailing,
Star, and shell, and glistening sea-weed trailing
In the little pool that nearest lies.
Childhood's realm is rich, yet straitly bounded,
Like a vale by giant hills surrounded;
Lies it ever hidden, safe and sweet,
Warm 'mid sheltering rocks that guard and love it,
Heaven around, within it, and above it,
Heaven beneath its feet!
Like a vale by giant hills surrounded;
Lies it ever hidden, safe and sweet,
Warm 'mid sheltering rocks that guard and love it,
Heaven around, within it, and above it,
Heaven beneath its feet!
Dora Greenwell.
VIII. HAYMAKING.
Many a long hard-working day
Life brings us! and many an hour of play;
But they never come now together.
Playing at work, and working in play,
As they came to us children among the hay,
In the breath of the warm June weather.
Life brings us! and many an hour of play;
But they never come now together.
Playing at work, and working in play,
As they came to us children among the hay,
In the breath of the warm June weather.
Oft with our little rakes at play,
Making believe at making hay,
With grave and steadfast endeavour;
Caught by an arm, and out of sight
Hurled and hidden, and buried light
In laughter and hay for ever.
Making believe at making hay,
With grave and steadfast endeavour;
Caught by an arm, and out of sight
Hurled and hidden, and buried light
In laughter and hay for ever.
Now pass the hours of work and of play
With a step more slow, and the summer's day
Grows short, and more cold the weather.
Calm is our work now, and quiet our play,
And we take them apart as best we may,
For they come no more together!
With a step more slow, and the summer's day
Grows short, and more cold the weather.
Calm is our work now, and quiet our play,
And we take them apart as best we may,
For they come no more together!
Dora Greenwell.
XI. A STORY BY THE FIRE.
Children love to hear of children!
I will tell of a little child
Who dwelt alone with his mother
By the edge of a forest wild.
One summer eve from the forest,
Late, late down the grassy track;
The child came back with lingering step,
And looks oft turning back.
I will tell of a little child
Who dwelt alone with his mother
By the edge of a forest wild.
One summer eve from the forest,
Late, late down the grassy track;
The child came back with lingering step,
And looks oft turning back.
“Oh, Mother!” he said, “In the forest
I have met with a little child;
All day he played with me—all day
He talked with me and smiled.
At last he left me alone, but then
He gave me this rosebud red;
And said he would come to me again
When all its leaves were spread.
I have met with a little child;
All day he played with me—all day
He talked with me and smiled.
At last he left me alone, but then
He gave me this rosebud red;
And said he would come to me again
When all its leaves were spread.
“I will put my rosebud in a glass,
I will watch it night and day;
Dear little friend, wilt thou come again?
Wilt thou come by my side to play?
I will seek for strawberries—the best
Of all shall be for thee;
I will show thee the eggs in the linnet's nest
None knoweth of but me.”
I will watch it night and day;
Dear little friend, wilt thou come again?
Wilt thou come by my side to play?
I will seek for strawberries—the best
Of all shall be for thee;
I will show thee the eggs in the linnet's nest
None knoweth of but me.”
At morn, beside the window sill,
Awoke a bird's clear song;
But all within the house was still,
The child was sleeping long.
The mother went to his little room—
With all its leaves outspread
She saw a rose in fullest bloom;
And, in the little bed,
A child that did not breathe or stir,
A little, happy child
Who had met his little friend again,
And in the meeting smiled.
Awoke a bird's clear song;
But all within the house was still,
The child was sleeping long.
The mother went to his little room—
With all its leaves outspread
She saw a rose in fullest bloom;
And, in the little bed,
A child that did not breathe or stir,
A little, happy child
Who had met his little friend again,
And in the meeting smiled.
Dora Greenwell.
XIII. THE LITTLE BUILDERS.
A THOUGHT FROM ST. FRANCIS DE SALES.
The Saint looked on the child and said,
“All men must build; upon the sand
Or rock, with eager heart and hand
All men must build; but I with thee,
Dear child, in thy simplicity
Will build in patience undismayed.
“All men must build; upon the sand
Or rock, with eager heart and hand
All men must build; but I with thee,
Dear child, in thy simplicity
Will build in patience undismayed.
“I will not twine for love a bower,
I will not raise for pride a tower
To reach to Heaven. What ruins lie
On Earth! and in the heart a cry
Will rise from many a palace old
Become of doleful things the fold.
I will not raise for pride a tower
To reach to Heaven. What ruins lie
On Earth! and in the heart a cry
Will rise from many a palace old
Become of doleful things the fold.
“But I will learn from thee, dear child,
The secret of all loss and gain.
Thou smilest when a careless hand
Or hasty step destroys the pain
And cost of all that thou hast planned;
And then, unsaddened, unperplexed,
Content to see thy work in vain,
Art ready with a mind unvexed,
From the first stone to build again.”
The secret of all loss and gain.
Thou smilest when a careless hand
Or hasty step destroys the pain
And cost of all that thou hast planned;
And then, unsaddened, unperplexed,
Content to see thy work in vain,
Art ready with a mind unvexed,
From the first stone to build again.”
Dora Greenwell.
XVI. THE STAGE COACH.
Come—now, let us take a journey,
That costs neither trouble nor care;
What if where we are going we know not,
Nor if we shall ever get there—
What matter? The road is so pleasant,
And we pay not a heavy fare!
That costs neither trouble nor care;
What if where we are going we know not,
Nor if we shall ever get there—
What matter? The road is so pleasant,
And we pay not a heavy fare!
What matter, Oh, what matter
Should even the coach upset,
And all the passengers scatter?
Such chances are often met.
Our driver might be more steady,
But we know that the best of all
Riders are those that are ready
And willing to meet with a fall.
Should even the coach upset,
And all the passengers scatter?
Such chances are often met.
Our driver might be more steady,
But we know that the best of all
Riders are those that are ready
And willing to meet with a fall.
Come quick, now, and take your places;
The guard is blowing his horn;
The horses are in the traces,
They have had their feed of corn.
London—Paris—wherever it pleases,
You may ride in our coach of state;
We have no luggage to tease us,
And we carry but little weight.
The guard is blowing his horn;
The horses are in the traces,
They have had their feed of corn.
London—Paris—wherever it pleases,
You may ride in our coach of state;
We have no luggage to tease us,
And we carry but little weight.
Dora Greenwell.
XXII. A CHILD'S GARDEN.
Seek in the hill, and seek in the valeFor foxglove, and broom, and heather;
Seek in the woods for the primrose pale,
Seek for the hyacinths, dim and frail,
And plant them all close together.
Flowers that are bold, and flowers that are shy;
The drooping bell, and the starry eye
That looks bright in the cloudiest weather.
And fling in all seeds that twine and that trail,
To bind them safe together;
Then plant the sunflower and lily tall,
Tulip and crown imperial;
With a blossomed rose for the heart of June
Set in the midst of all, and say
A charm to make them come up as soon
As the mustard and cress that were sown last May,
And be all in bloom together!
Emblem of youth's warm heart, thick sown
With blooms that need fear no weather;
With wingèd dreams, and hopes half-blown,
With flowers that love to bloom alone,
And flowers that bloom together!
Dora Greenwell.
XXVIII. GRANDMOTHER NODDING.
Grandmother's nodding, and while she is taking
An afternoon slumber, the children are breaking
Open the bellows; 't is only to find
Out where the wind lives; oh, when you are waking,
Will you be angry, Granny, and scold
Over the loss of your bellows old?
Or be proud of your children's march of mind?
Hark! do you hear the noise they are making?
An afternoon slumber, the children are breaking
Open the bellows; 't is only to find
Out where the wind lives; oh, when you are waking,
Will you be angry, Granny, and scold
Over the loss of your bellows old?
Or be proud of your children's march of mind?
Hark! do you hear the noise they are making?
Grandmother's nodding: the earth has grown old;
We see she is grey, we feel her shaking;
All her strong secrets that she has hidden
Away from her children, they snatch unbidden,
While she is sleeping—what locks are breaking,
What coffers are rifled! Oh, when you are waking,
Will you be angry, Granny, and scold?
Or be pleased with the change of your children's making?
We see she is grey, we feel her shaking;
All her strong secrets that she has hidden
Away from her children, they snatch unbidden,
While she is sleeping—what locks are breaking,
What coffers are rifled! Oh, when you are waking,
Will you be angry, Granny, and scold?
Or be pleased with the change of your children's making?
Dora Greenwell.
XXXII. GUESSING.
Childhood is the time for guessing!
Every morning brings unbidden
Some sweet gift half shown, half hidden;
Some kind promise seldom broken,
Some bright wondrous fairy token.
Oh, what stores are thine of blessing!
Oh, what joy is thine in guessing
At the hiding, at the showing
Of life's daily miracle!
Secrets in the wild rose blowing!
Shut within the cowslip's bell!
Every morning brings unbidden
Some sweet gift half shown, half hidden;
Some kind promise seldom broken,
Some bright wondrous fairy token.
Oh, what stores are thine of blessing!
Oh, what joy is thine in guessing
At the hiding, at the showing
Of life's daily miracle!
Secrets in the wild rose blowing!
Shut within the cowslip's bell!
Youth! thou art the time for guessing!
Life before thine eager eyes
Holds each day some gentle prize;
And for thee, with fond caressing,
Still prepares some bright surprise;
Bids thee guess, and for thy pleasure
Hides 'mid flowers and leaves a treasure,
Gleaming golden; and with “Follow,
Follow,” o'er the sun-lit hill
Lures thee, and through darkening hollow,
With a heart untiring still.
Life before thine eager eyes
Holds each day some gentle prize;
And for thee, with fond caressing,
Still prepares some bright surprise;
Bids thee guess, and for thy pleasure
Hides 'mid flowers and leaves a treasure,
Gleaming golden; and with “Follow,
Follow,” o'er the sun-lit hill
Lures thee, and through darkening hollow,
With a heart untiring still.
Life, what bringest thou for guessing,
In thy long, calm, after-day?
Ever on our journey pressing,
Known to us both end and way.
Thou no more with us wilt play
At “hiding, seeking!” Gone thy pleasing
Wiles, with all thy cheating, teazing;
Bring us now some steadfast blessing,
Keep it firm within our hold,
For our hearts have done with guessing,
And thy secrets all are told!
In thy long, calm, after-day?
Ever on our journey pressing,
Known to us both end and way.
Thou no more with us wilt play
At “hiding, seeking!” Gone thy pleasing
Wiles, with all thy cheating, teazing;
Bring us now some steadfast blessing,
Keep it firm within our hold,
For our hearts have done with guessing,
And thy secrets all are told!
Dora Greenwell.
XXXIV. GOING TO BED.
“It is time to go to bed.”
Oh! how soon the words are spoken,
Oh! how sweet a spell is broken
When those words of fate are said—
“It is time to go to bed.”
Oh! how soon the words are spoken,
Oh! how sweet a spell is broken
When those words of fate are said—
“It is time to go to bed.”
Is it time to go to bed?
Surely bed awhile can wait
Till the pleasant tale is read
At our Father's knee; how cheery
Burns the fire! we are not weary;
Why should it be time for bed,
Just because the clock strikes eight?
Surely bed awhile can wait
Till the pleasant tale is read
At our Father's knee; how cheery
Burns the fire! we are not weary;
Why should it be time for bed,
Just because the clock strikes eight?
While they talk, let us be hiding
Just behind the great arm-chairs;
It may be they will forget us,
It may be that they will let us
Stay to supper, stay to prayers;
Go at last with them upstairs,
Hand in hand, with Father, Mother;
Kisses given, and good-nights' said,
'T will be time for Sister, Brother,
Time for Me to go to bed!
Just behind the great arm-chairs;
It may be they will forget us,
It may be that they will let us
Stay to supper, stay to prayers;
Go at last with them upstairs,
Hand in hand, with Father, Mother;
Kisses given, and good-nights' said,
'T will be time for Sister, Brother,
Time for Me to go to bed!
Dora Greenwell.
| Poems (1865) | |