 | Poems (1865) |  |
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.
| Poems (1865) | |