En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To Any Reader

As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Envoy For "A Child's Garden Of Verses"

WHETHER upon the garden seat
You lounge with your uplifted feet
Under the May's whole Heaven of blue;
Or whether on the sofa you,
No grown up person being by,
Do some soft corner occupy;
Take you this volume in your hands
And enter into other lands,
For lo! (as children feign) suppose
You, hunting in the garden rows,
Or in the lumbered attic, or
The cellar - a nail-studded door
And dark, descending stairway found
That led to kingdoms underground:
There standing, you should hear with ease
Strange birds a-singing, or the trees
Swing in big robber woods, or bells
On many fairy citadels:

There passing through (a step or so -
Neither mamma nor nurse need know!)
From your nice nurseries you would pass,
Like Alice through the Looking-Glass
Or Gerda following Little Ray,
To wondrous countries far away.
Well, and just so this volume can
Transport each little maid or man
Presto from where they live away
Where other children used to play.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see if you but look
Through the windows of this book
Another child far, far away
And in another garden play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is still on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away;
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Polytheist

One comes to love the little saints,
As years go by.
One learns to love the little saints.
'O hear me sigh,
St. Anthony,
Find this for me,
I wish you'd try.'
There must be many garden gods,
A gardener sees.
There'd have to be an orchard god. 'Divinities,
Take honour due.
The long year through
Protect these trees.'
The Mother and the Holy Child
Are friends to me.
I pray, 'I am my mother's child.
I trust you'll see
That days are bright
And all goes right
With her and me.'

poem by Lesbia Harford
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There was a Child Once

There was a child once.
He came to play in my garden;
He was quite pale and silent.
Only when he smiled I knew everything about him,
I knew what he had in his pockets,
And I knew the feel of his hands in my hands
And the most intimate tones of his voice.
I led him down each secret path,
Showing him the hiding-place of all my treasures.
I let him play with them, every one,
I put my singing thoughts in a little silver cage
And gave them to him to keep...
It was very dark in the garden
But never dark enough for us. On tiptoe we walked
among the deepest shades;
We bathed in the shadow pools beneath the trees,
Pretending we were under the sea.
Once--near the boundary of the garden--
We heard steps passing along the World-road;
O how frightened we were!
I whispered: "Have you ever walked along that road?"
He nodded, and we shook the tears from our eyes....

There was a child once.
He came--quite alone--to play in my garden;
He was pale and silent.
When we met we kissed each other,
But when he went away, we did not even wave

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Mother, I May Have Been A Naughty Child

Mother, I may have been a naughty child,
But I am your child nevertheless!
You own the world, mother, you are the queen of the world,
And look at me, I go about in the habit of a beggar.

You are bent on neglecting me,
But I love you anyway, it is you, only you that I call upon.
Just as a child runs to his mother even after she has scolded him,
So do I run to you.

How could you push me away from you, mother,
You are my mother, are you not?
Oh, why did you cast me away, mother,
Leave me to play in the dust?
I would have been a better child,
Had only you been a little more kind to me.

I am sad and angry, mother,
I shall go away anywhere my eyes and my feet take me to.
I do not care now whether i live or die now, mother,
I am going away.

poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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Song: XI

Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.

Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.

Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.

Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.

Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .

Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?

poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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Song: Child's Play

Are accidents - reflections,
Of the chaotic quantum world;
Do the stars that rule the heavens,
Raise cosmic flags, unfurled?

Is love a constellation,
In the vacuum pack of cold;
A joyous distillation,
A yeast alive in mould?

It's child's play. It is child's play.
It has no creed but come what may.
We write the screed, it's all display:
On bended knee, for luck we pray.

It's child's play. A wild child's play.
We take no heed, but remain unswayed.
It's child's play. It is child's play.
When we learn that greed, is here to stay.

Is the background irradiation,
More a subset of decay;
Not dog-eat-dog predation,
But chance as child's play?

So that's OK. That's what we say.
When the meme of hate, sells well, it pays!
It's child's play. It is child's play,
When our dreams deflate, in a listless haze.

So that's OK. That's what we say.
We lean on fate, like a brand new day.
It's child's play. It is child's play,
When we learn too late, what's been swept away!

poem by Dave SmithWhite
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The Nit Picker

A garden full of tender care
brings joy beyond and above
NOT UNLIKE A CHILD
When given unconditional love
For like a garden that’s picked and picked
a child will not grow
for so much picking just destroys the roots
and no more blossoms will show
From the depth of the earth the weeds appear
their ugly forms take over
the child that’s hurt shows anger abound
and the offender should run for cover
So slow down now and think about
the damage that you have done
AS A PARENT OF SUCH A
WONDERFUL CHILD
who’s life has just begun
Don’t turn her into a garden of weeds
its time, from where I'm sitting
turn it around with love abound
and stop that cruel nit picking

poem by Janice M Pickett
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THIS IS OUR WORLD! ! (SHOCKING n EXPLICIT)

Where a child lives in a warm mother's cocoon
Where a child is sold to the prostitutes, her life doomed

Where a father fiercely protects his child
Yet another father enters another's child

Where children play without any fear
Where men enter boys through the rear

Where a child gets a new toy every day
Where a child becomes a toy near the bay

Where a child is whooped up and twirled
Where a child is forced down and hurled

Where they go to fancy schools, sing and play
Where for a single meal, they sweat and labour all day

poem by Renu Rakheja
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A Child in the Garden

When to the garden of untroubled thought
I came of late, and saw the open door,
And wished again to enter, and explore
The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought,
And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,
It seemed some purer voice must speak before
I dared to tread that garden loved of yore,
That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.

Then just within the gate I saw a child, --
A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear;
He held his hands to me, and softly smiled
With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:
"Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me;"
"I am the little child you used to be."

poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Old And Young

LONG ago, on a bright spring day,
I passed a little child at play;
And as I passed, in childish glee
She called to me, “Come and play with me!”

But my eyes were fixed on a far-off height
I was fain to climb before the night;
So, half-impatient, I answered, “Nay!
I am too old, too old to play.”

Long, long after, in Autumn time—
My limbs were grown too old to climb—
I passed a child on a pleasant lea,
And I called to her, “Come and play with me!”

But her eyes were fixed on a fairy-book;
And scarce she lifted a wondering look,
As with childish scorn she answered, “Nay!
I am too old, too old to play!”

poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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Opposites

The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child
Walked out into the street
And splashed in all the pubbles till
She had such shocking feet

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child
Stayed quietly in the house
And sat upon the fender stool
As still as any mouse.

The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child
Her hands were black as ink;
She would come running through the house
And begging for a drink.

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child
Her hands were white as snow;
She did not like to play around,
She only liked to sew.

The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child
Lost hair ribbons galore;
She dropped them on the garden walks,
She dropped them on the floor.

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child
O thoughtful little girl!
She liked to walk quite soberly,
It kept her hair in curl.

The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child
When she was glad or proud
Just flung her arms round Mother's neck
And kissed her very loud.

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child
Was shocked at such a sight,
She only offered you her cheek
At morning and at night.

O Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child
Your happy laughing face
Does like a scented Summer rose
Make sweet the dullest place.

O Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child
My dear, I'm well content
To have my daughter in my arms,
And not an ornament.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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For playing....

Child will

Play

The dog...

Dog also

Play

The child...

Dog tail

Catch and

Play

The child...

Very happy...

Pain again pain

With the dog...

Bite the child...

Unhappley...

The child was

Crying...

But...

Dog also crying...!

What...?

For playing....!

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Ee Valliyil Ninnu Chemme

Child: Oh mother! Look, all the flowers on
This plant are flying away
Mother: No! You are wrong my child
These are not flowers, they are butterflies.
Child: Look mother! They look so beautiful
Going one on top of the other into the sky
Oh! How I wish to play with them mother
But like them I cannot fly…
Mother: Don’t waste your precious tears my child
By crying about things you cannot do
You can walk around and play
But can the flowers walk like you?
Child: Mother, can you tell me why these things happen
I shall give you a kissy if you do.
Mother: We know very little about the secrets of life
Though I know God created them for me and you!!

poem by Kumaranashan, translated by Risha Ahmed
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The Garden

I know a garden like a child,
Clean and new-washed and reconciled.
It grows its own sweet way, yet still
Has guidance of some tender will
That clips, confines, its wilder mood
And makes it happy, being good.

Around the lordly mountains stand,
For this is an enchanted land,
As though their splendours stood to grace
This little lovely garden place,
Looking with wise and keeping eyes
Upon the garden sanctities.

Box borders edge each little bed,
Paths narrow for a child to tread
Divide the kitchen garden, dear
And sweet with musk and lavender,
And water-mints and beans in bloom.
Be sure the honeybee's at home.

How should I tell in a sweet list
Of beauties, rose and amethyst;
The little water-garden cool
On sultry days, and beautiful
The wall-garden, the shade, the sun,
Since they are lovely, every one.

Hot honey of the pines is sweet,
And when the day's at three o'clock heat
A winding walk will you invite
To a new garden out of sight.
And a green seat is set so near
The sluggish, stealing backwater.

The Spirit of the garden plays
At hide-and-seek an hundred ways
And when you've captured her, she will
Elude you, calling backward still,
A silver echo -- a sweet child,
Demure and lovesome, gay and wild.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Wrong House

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Nobody
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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In the Garden, With My Father

It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.

I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.

But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.

It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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To Be A Child Again

To Be a Child Again by Kenny Davis

I see the children of today
Their smiles take me away
To my times as a child
And the games that I would play

To be a child again
Means to be taken to an imaginary place
Where a box could be a house or race car
Or a ship in outer space

To be a child again
Means Mother is God in my eyes
My father is like my hero
Like Superman in the skies

To be a child again
There are many times, I would smile from ear to ear
I would jump into my parent’s loving arms
With nothing left to fear

To be a child again
Full of bedtime stories and fairy tales
Whether it was Jack and the Beanstalk
Or Jack and Jill with their water pails

To be a child again
My life filled with Mother Goose
The tails of Humpty Dumpty
And Green Eggs and Ham from Dr. Seuss

Now that I have grown
I recall my times as a child
So young, so innocent
So reckless and wild

To be a child again
My parents would wipe away every tear
It is all of those tender moments as a child
That I will always hold dear

© June 2009 k.davis

poem by Kenneth Davis
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Three children

Three little children.
One with a home.
One sitting on a thrown.
The last child only skin and bones.

One child lives happily with his family.
One child sits alone; his family won’t spare the time
The last child watches his mother die.

One child has a few new toys.
One child has the best toys anyone can imagine.
The last child plays with sticks and stones.

One child attends public school.
One child stays home and studies alone.
The last child has to cook and has never opened a book.

The children become men.

One man is off to war.
One man is sitting behind a jail door.
The last man is very far from poor.

poem by Yvette Carbajal
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Soap Suds

This brand of soap has the same smell as once in the big
House he visited when he was eight: the walls of the bathroom open
To reveal a lawn where a great yellow ball rolls back through a hoop
To rest at the head of a mallet held in the hands of a child.

And these were the joys of that house: a tower with a telescope;
Two great faded globes, one of the earth, one of the stars;
A stuffed black dog in the hall; a walled garden with bees;
A rabbit warren; a rockery; a vine under glass; the sea.

To which he has now returned. The day of course is fine
And a grown-up voice cries Play! The mallet slowly swings,
Then crack, a great gong booms from the dog-dark hall and the ball
Skims forward through the hoop and then through the next and then

Through hoops where no hoops were and each dissolves in turn
And the grass has grown head-high and an angry voice cries Play!
But the ball is lost and the mallet slipped long since from the hands
Under the running tap that are not the hands of a child.

poem by Louis Macneice
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Take Mother-love To All

the Mother takes
the child
to the creatures
and to the beauty of the world
and she bids the child
see and listen to each

the moon says to the child:
be radiant, shine like me
with love

the flower says:
laugh, laugh joyously
like me

the bee says to the child:
be light, be light and easy
as bees in a garden

the grass says,
the grass sings to the child:
be easy, be supple
as me and my mates on the yards
and in the fields

the ocean waves to the child,
the ocean hums:
include all, embrace all,
contain all
as I do within me

the sky says,
the clouds dance to the child:
be wide, be limitless
as the wide, wide blue sky
on which we clouds sail

and the Mother says
to the child who listens,
whose heart is not closed:
love all creatures
love all beings;
take the mother-love
to every existence,
with no exception
to every form of life

poem by Raj Arumugam
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