Owl Against Robin
Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him
Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him
Wrongly of slumber, rudely of rest.
"From the north, from the east, from the south and the west,
Woodland, wheat-field, corn-field, clover,
Over and over and over and over,
Five o'clock, ten o'clock, twelve, or seven,
Nothing but robin-songs heard under heaven:
How can we sleep?
`Peep!' you whistle, and `cheep! cheep! cheep!'
Oh, peep, if you will, and buy, if 'tis cheap,
And have done; for an owl must sleep.
Are ye singing for fame, and who shall be first?
Each day's the same, yet the last is worst,
And the summer is cursed with the silly outburst
Of idiot red-breasts peeping and cheeping
By day, when all honest birds ought to be sleeping.
Lord, what a din! And so out of all reason.
Have ye not heard that each thing hath its season?
Night is to work in, night is for play-time;
Good heavens, not day-time!
A vulgar flaunt is the flaring day,
The impudent, hot, unsparing day,
That leaves not a stain nor a secret untold, --
Day the reporter, -- the gossip of old, --
Deformity's tease, -- man's common scold --
Poh! Shut the eyes, let the sense go numb
When day down the eastern way has come.
'Tis clear as the moon (by the argument drawn
From Design) that the world should retire at dawn.
Day kills. The leaf and the laborer breathe
Death in the sun, the cities seethe,
The mortal black marshes bubble with heat
And puff up pestilence; nothing is sweet
Has to do with the sun: even virtue will taint
(Philosophers say) and manhood grow faint
In the lands where the villainous sun has sway
Through the livelong drag of the dreadful day.
What Eden but noon-light stares it tame,
Shadowless, brazen, forsaken of shame?
For the sun tells lies on the landscape, -- now
Reports me the `what', unrelieved with the `how', --
As messengers lie, with the facts alone,
Delivering the word and withholding the tone.
But oh, the sweetness, and oh, the light
Of the high-fastidious night!
Oh, to awake with the wise old stars --
The cultured, the careful, the Chesterfield stars,
That wink at the work-a-day fact of crime
And shine so rich through the ruins of time
That Baalbec is finer than London; oh,
To sit on the bough that zigzags low
By the woodland pool,
And loudly laugh at man, the fool
That vows to the vulgar sun; oh, rare,
To wheel from the wood to the window where
A day-worn sleeper is dreaming of care,
And perch on the sill and straightly stare
Through his visions; rare, to sail
Aslant with the hill and a-curve with the vale, --
To flit down the shadow-shot-with-gleam,
Betwixt hanging leaves and starlit stream,
Hither, thither, to and fro,
Silent, aimless, dayless, slow
(`Aimless? Field-mice?' True, they're slain,
But the night-philosophy hoots at pain,
Grips, eats quick, and drops the bones
In the water beneath the bough, nor moans
At the death life feeds on). Robin, pray
Come away, come away
To the cultus of night. Abandon the day.
Have more to think and have less to say.
And CANNOT you walk now? Bah! don't hop!
Stop!
Look at the owl, scarce seen, scarce heard,
O irritant, iterant, maddening bird!"
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Related quotes
Let The Night Sleep
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With the night I sleep
Beyond the world to peep
Universe will sleep
Plants and trees
Birds and bees
Stars and moon
To sleep very soon!
Fruits and flowers
Joy with showers
Will sleep with me and the night
Not to keep the life very tight!
No dawn of the day
Right upto the dooms day!
Sleep permanent
In the world impermanent
I'll sleep without light
My agonies will sleep
My worries will sleep
My pains will sleep
My sins will sleep!
While in sleep
I am pure
I am peace
I am noble!
While my body is asleep
Awake my soul I keep
Sleep akin to death
Death akin to sleep in mirth?
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With night I sleep
Sleep to eternity
Soul to merge in Divinity!
poem by Subbaraman N V
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The Katydids
Sometimes I keep
From going to sleep,
To hear the katydids 'cheep-cheep!'
And think they say
Their prayers that way;
But _katydids_ don't have to _pray_!
I listen when
They cheep again
And so, I think, they're _singing_ then!
But, no; I'm wrong,--
The sound's too long
And all-alike to be a song!
I think, 'Well, there!
I do declare,
If it is neither song nor prayer,
It's _talk_--and quite
Too vain and light
For me to listen to all night!'
And so, I smile,
And think,--'Now I'll
Not listen for a little while!'--
Then, sweet and clear,
Next '_cheep_' I hear
'S a _kiss_.... Good morning, Mommy dear!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Sestina
I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.
This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.
But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.
All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?
Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.
For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.
Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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136 Syllables at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center
Tail turned to red sunset on a juniper crown a lone magpie cawks.
Mad at Oryoki in the shrine-room -- Thistles blossomed late afternoon.
Put on my shirt and took it off in the sun walking the path to lunch.
A dandelion seed floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitos.
At 4 A.M. the two middleaged men sleeping together holding hands.
In the half-light of dawn a few birds warble under the Pleiades.
Sky reddens behind fir trees, larks twitter, sparrows cheep cheep cheep
cheep cheep.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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The singing in god's acre
Out yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies,
Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies.
Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low,
As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd guardeth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight,
And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night;
And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong
The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
He that guardeth His flock the best
Hath folded them to His loving breast;
So sleep ye now, and take your rest,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song,
And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along;
So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify,
God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
poem by Eugene Field
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The Ghost’s Petition
'There's a footstep coming: look out and see,'
'The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;
No one cometh across the lea.'—
'There's a footstep coming; O sister, look.'—
'The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;
No one cometh across the brook.'—
'But he promised that he would come:
To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,
He must keep his word, and must come home.
'For he promised that he would come:
His word was given; from earth or heaven,
He must keep his word, and must come home.
'Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;
You can slumber, who need not number
Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.
'I shall sit here awhile, and watch;
Listening, hoping, for one hand groping
In deep shadow to find the latch.'
After the dark, and before the light,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,
Who had watched and wept the weary night.
After the night, and before the day,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping—
Watching, weeping for one away.
There came a footstep climbing the stair;
Some one standing out on the landing
Shook the door like a puff of air—
Shook the door, and in he passed.
Did he enter? In the room centre
Stood her husband: the door shut fast.
'O Robin, but you are cold—
Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white you
Look like a stray lamb from our fold.
'O Robin, but you are late:
Come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me.'—
(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)
'Lay not down your head on my breast:
I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you
In the shelter that you love best.
'Feel not after my clasping hand:
I am but a shadow, come from the meadow
Where many lie, but no tree can stand.
'We are trees which have shed their leaves:
Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;
Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.
'I could rest if you would not moan
Hour after hour; I have no power
To shut my ears where I lie alone.
'I could rest if you would not cry;
But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping—
Watching, weeping so bitterly.'—
'Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard.
Oh night of sorrow!—oh black to-morrow!
Is it thus that you keep your word?
'O you who used so to shelter me
Warm from the least wind—why, now the east wind
Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.
'O my husband of flesh and blood,
For whom my mother I left, and brother,
And all I had, accounting it good,
'What do you do there, underground,
In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow.
What do you do there?—what have you found?'—
'What I do there I must not tell:
But I have plenty: kind wife, content ye:
It is well with us—it is well.
'Tender hand hath made our nest;
Our fear is ended, our hope is blended
With present pleasure, and we have rest.'—
'Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come,
If your present days are so pleasant;
For my days are so wearisome.
'Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:
Why should I tease you, who cannot please you
Any more with the pains I take?'
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Love Magical
IF you had been where I have been
(Grey, grey the skies above),
And you had seen what I have seen,
You would not laugh at love.
Seek, seek till you find a rose
Red all through to its petal-tips,
And you shall know the curve of her mouth,
The scent of her breath and the red of her lips.
If you had heard what I have heard
(Dull, dull the beat of the sea).
Your heart would leap like a singing bird
Troubled and thrilled by ecstasy.
Stars sing in the dark o' the night,
Birds sing in the gold o' the noon;
Melody reigned in her speech a queen,
The song of the stars and the birds' tune.
The rose is dead that was her mouth
(Pale, pale on the earth it lies),
And East and West and North and South
The world is full of weeping eyes.
A noon is dark, a star is gone,
A rose is dead, a bird is mute;
And love that made sounds magical
Is silent like a broken lute.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Summer Nights
Oh, how I hate these hot summer nights,
When a good night's sleep is far from sight.
Lying on my bed, I constantly toss and turn,
While the air around me continuously burns.
My window is slightly ajar to let in some air;
I wonder if I'd be slightly cooler downstairs.
I have rolled down my blanket and my sheet,
But despite doing all this, I still feel the heat.
I watch the clock and the time ticks on by,
But, I just can't sleep, however hard I try.
Feeling restless in the middle of the night,
I climb out of bed and switch on the light.
Feeling so far away from the Land Of Nod,
I sit reading a book and then I play my iPod.
I'm having a bad night, and am not impressed:
I didn't sleep much last night, and need my rest.
As the night draws on, slightly cooler air arrives,
But, by this time, the clock has just struck five.
I hear the little birds singing out at dawn,
And it is only then that I give a big yawn.
My eyelids feel heavy and begin to close,
And, after sleepless hours, I begin to doze.
Finally, I fall asleep: inside my soul feels calm,
But a short time later, I'm woken by the alarm.
By now, my room is flooded by brilliant sunlight;
But I want to stay in bed, with my eyes shut tight.
I feel like I'm almost dead, rather than refreshed;
I certainly don't feel anywhere near my very best.
I don't have much energy: I've no get up and go,
And when I do get up, my movements are slow.
I wish that the temperature at night would dip,
Then I could finally get some much needed kip.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The True Lover
The lad came to the door at night,
When lovers crown their vows,
And whistled soft and out of sight
In shadow of the boughs.
"I shall not vex you with my face
Henceforth, my love, for aye;
So take me in your arms a space
Before the cast is grey.
"When I from hence away am past
I shall not find a bride,
And you shall be the first and last
I ever lay beside."
She heard and went and knew not why;
Her heart to his she laid;
Light was the air beneath the sky
But dark under the shade.
"Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast
Seems not to rise and fall,
And here upon my bosom prest
There beats no heart at all?"
"Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock,
You should have felt it then;
But since for you I stopped the clock
It never goes again."
"Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips
Wet from your neck on mine?
What is it falling on my lips,
My lad, that tastes of brine?"
"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear,
For when the knife was slit,
The throat across from ear to ear
'Twill bleed because of it."
Under the stars the air was light
But dark below the boughs,
The still air of the speechless night,
When lovers crown their vows.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Corn-fields of Endor
Standing on a hill of Jezreel,
Watching growing corn in the field,
Listens she does to the birds’ song
And to the trilling crickets’ chirp.
The sun now pass the most far hills
Means the days’ work is over and done.
Soon the night guard will shut city gates
And all eyes will yield to the dark.
By music of the spirit of silence,
The visions of rest are made to dance.
Then in the middle of the darkest night,
She arises from slumber and the bed,
And leaves the sweet relaxing visions
She had waltzing through her head.
Laying aside all her night garments,
Off she runs to her nightly chore.
Running around the corn they planted,
Makes her sacred circle ‘bout the field.
Magic footsteps giving blessing
By her dance and dark undressing.
Soon passed the summer season
And away went her warmest sigh.
Corn in green and golden garments,
Stood in ripened splendor gleaming.
With its emerald sheaths bursting,
Send its gold rays into the sky.
To the harvest come young maidens,
To strip the ears of their garments,
Laughing under the spreading trees,
They sing the blessings of Jezreel.
poem by Albert Price
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The Night
Through that pure virgin shrine,
That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glowworms shine,
And face the moon,
Wise Nicodemus saw such light
As made him know his God by night.
Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see,
When Thou didst rise!
And, what can never more be done,
Did at midnight speak with the Sun!
Oh who will tell me where
He found Thee at that dead and silent hour?
What hallowed solitary ground did bear
So rare a flower,
Within whose sacred leaves did lie
The fullness of the Deity?
No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
But His own living works did my Lord hold
And lodge alone;
Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.
Dear night! this world's defeat;
The stop to busy fools; care's check and curb;
The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat
Which none disturb!
Christ's progress, and His prayer time;
The hours to which high Heaven doth chime;
God's silent, searching flight;
When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call;
His knocking time; the soul's dumb watch,
When spirits their fair kindred catch.
Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice
Is seldom rent,
Then I in heaven all the long year
Would keep, and never wander here.
But living where the sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire
Themselves and others, I consent and run
To every mire,
And by this world's ill-guiding light,
Err more than I can do by night.
There is in God - some say -
A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
See not all clear.
Oh for that night, where I in Him
Might live invisible and dim!
poem by Henry Vaughan
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Tale of City Morn
The city sleeps til dawn’s spawned fly-by-night
Across a sky which echoes sparrows’ cheep.
Life, like a clock rewound, from slumber deep
Emerges to encourage future flight.
On time tight schedules trigger traffic light,
Frame complex contexts within which men reap
Care or joy, employ their talents, sweep
In rewards, vexed disappointment’s plight.
Things simple seem through black and white:
Yesterday, now bottom of the heap,
Mirrors distortions of tomorrow’s keep, -
Our flair's aware of changing air in sight.
Restructured daily, life’s mosaic shows
New threads f[l]ed into future’s spreadsheet flows.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ego
Day passeth day in sunshine or shadow,
Night unto night each cycle is told;
Sun, moon and stars in whirling and glamour,
All unto all the creation unfold.
What of the strivings, what of the gropings,
Out from the darkness into the light?
What of the weepings, what of the grievings
Now from the day to the passionate night?
Stars of the stars, heavens of the heavens,
Rising or falling or pausing a span,
Each to the great "I am" replying
E'en as the crystal, e'en as man.
Chant of the worlds from aeon to aeon,
Song of the soul from dust unto dust,
Dream of the clods that, upward and starward,
Rise to the call of the primal "Thou must."
Space beyond space, eternity's vision,
Chaos to chaos, calm unto calm,
World beneath world, heaven above heaven,
Life but the urge, death but the balm.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Robin Redbreast
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away, --
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow, --
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
poem by William Allingham
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Thoughts In A Wheat-Field
IN his wide fields walks the Master,
In his fair fields, ripe for harvest,
Where the evening sun shines slant-wise
On the rich ears heavy bending;
Saith the Master: 'It is time.'
Though no leaf shows brown decadence,
And September's nightly frost-bite
Only reddens the horizon,
'It is full time,' saith the Master,
The wise Master, 'It is time.'
Lo, he looks. That look compelling
Brings his laborers to the harvest;
Quick they gather, as in autumn
Passage-birds in cloudy eddies
Drop upon the seaside fields;
White wings have they, and white raiment,
White feet shod with swift obedience,
Each lays down his golden palm branch,
And uprears his sickle shining,
'Speak, O Master,--is it time?'
O'er the field the servants hasten,
Where the full-stored ears droop downwards,
Humble with their weight of harvest:
Where the empty ears wave upward,
And the gay tares flaunt in rows:
But the sickles, the sharp sickles,
Flash new dawn at their appearing,
Songs are heard in earth and heaven,
For the reapers are the angels,
And it is the harvest time.
O Great Master, are thy footsteps
Even now upon the mountains?
Are thou walking in thy wheat-field?
Are the snowy-wingèd reapers
Gathering in the silent air?
Are thy signs abroad, the glowing
Of the distant sky, blood-reddened,--
And the near fields trodden, blighted,
Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,--
Sure, it must be harvest time?
Who shall know the Master's coming?
Whether it be at dawn or sunset,
When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears,
Or while noon rides high in heaven,
Sleeping lies the yellow field?
Only, may thy voice, Good Master,
Peal above the reapers' chorus,
And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,--
'Gather all into My garner,
For it is My harvest time.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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What is Real to Roundabout Reel - reverse mirror after Rubaiyat of a Robin
Wake! though the West still fitfully counts sheep,
the East's ablaze, there will wise rays rise steep
from far horizon, phasing stars away
phrased out by Robin Jay and sparrow's cheep.
A bird soft sings, one robin is enough,
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff
art scored by millions more - cheep's cheek astounds,
rebounding echoes which their shyness slough.
Earth lends thereto both orbit, ear, at ease
tunes into echo surfing on the breeze,
Life's warmth wells from flat fields and rocky tors,
gold bees abound, they buzz as kittens sneeze.
Eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits
on spider spinning, dawn anticipates,
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
by church and steeple, aisle and green stile gates.
What feelings hound retains for hare he'd chase
and what the hunted for the hound? What pace
finds interest g[r]o[w] when it is mind compound?
What's real to roundabout when rests its case?
How feels the Tao for circling day and night?
what for the centre feels surround, dark, light?
what of the bounce when words once more rebound
describing robin breasting air in flight?
What feels for fractal any given point?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint?
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf once browned?
Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.
What reads the clearing into red deer's [t]race?
May star count light years till return to base?
How may red blood react to heart's flesh pound
when foreign smokescreen floats round beauty's face?
Stars seek love's meaning, spinning hot and cold
on Cause, Effect foretold as orbits fold
around their half-life cycles and around
on ‘always' as they fight the black hole's hold.
Bird song still seeks its Way upon Time's wave,
stars spin off Mankind's blind, ambitious crave, -
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.
Crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
stars spin off Mankind's blind, ambitious crave, -
bird song still seeks its Way upon Time's wave.
On ‘always' as they fight the black hole's hold
around their half-life cycles and around
on Cause, Effect foretold as orbits fold,
stars seek love's meaning, spinning hot and cold.
When foreign smokescreen floats round beauty's face?
how may red blood react to heart's flesh pound
may star count light years till return to base?
what reads the clearing into red deer's [t]race?
Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf once browned?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint?
What feels for fractal any given point?
Describing robin breasting air in flight
what of the bounce when words once more rebound?
What for the centre feels surround, dark, light?
how feels the Tao for circling day and night?
What's real to roundabout when rests its case,
finds interest g[r]o[w] when it is mind compound?
and what the hunted for the hound? What pace
What feelings hound retains for hare he'd chase
By church and steeple, aisle and green stile gates.
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
on spider spinning, dawn anticipates,
eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits.
Gold bees abound, they buzz as kittens sneeze,
Life's warmth wells from flat fields and rocky tors,
tunes into echo surfing on the breeze,
Earth lends thereto both orbit, ear, at ease.
Rebounding echoes which their shyness slough.
art scored by millions more, cheep's cheek astounds,
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff,
a bird soft sings, one robin is enough.
Phrased out by Robin Jay and sparrow's cheep.
from far horizon, phasing stars away
the East's ablaze, there will wise rays rise steep
Wake! though the West still fitfully counts sheep.
(6 May 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Light Between the Trees
Long, long, long the trail
Through the brooding forest-gloom,
Down the shadowy, lonely vale
Into silence, like a room
Where the light of life has fled,
And the jealous curtains close
Round the passionless repose
Of the silent dead.
Plod, plod, plod away,
Step by step in mouldering moss;
Thick branches bar the day
Over languid streams that cross
Softly, slowly, with a sound
In their aimless creeping
Like a smothered weeping,
Through the enchanted ground.
"Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"
Whispers through the woodland deep;
"Come to me and be at rest;
"I am slumber, I am sleep."
Then the weary feet would fail,
But the never-daunted will
Urges "Forward, forward still!
"Press along the trail!"
Breast, breast, breast the slope!
See, the path is growing steep.
Hark! a little song of hope
When the stream begins to leap.
Though the forest, far and wide,
Still shuts out the bending blue,
We shall finally win through,
Cross the long divide.
On, on, onward tramp!
Will the journey never end?
Over yonder lies the camp;
Welcome waits us there, my friend.
Can we reach it ere the night?
Upward, upward, never fear!
Look, the summit must be near;
See the line of light!
Red, red, red the shine
Of the splendour in the west,
Glowing through the ranks of pine,
Clear along the mountain-crest!
Long, long, long the trail
Out of sorrow's lonely vale;
But at last the traveller sees
Light between the trees!
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Twelve O'Clock
Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons now. I have been at my
book all the morning.
You say it is only twelve o'clock. Suppose it isn't any later;
can't you ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve
o'clock?
I can easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of
that rice-field, and the old fisher-woman is gathering herbs for
her supper by the side of the pond.
I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing
darker under the madar tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny
black.
If twelve o'clock can come in the night, why can't the night
come when it is twelve o'clock?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Our Hired Girl
1 Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann;
2 An' she can cook best things to eat!
3 She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,
4 An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet;
5 An' nen she salts it all on top
6 With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop
7 An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow,
8 In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop
9 An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so
10 It's custard-pie, first thing you know!
11 An' nen she'll say,
12 "Clear out o' my way!
13 They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
14 Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!
15 Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"
16 When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad,
17 An' says folks got to walk the chalk
18 When she's around, er wisht they had!
19 I play out on our porch an' talk
20 To Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn;
21 An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans on
22 His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,
23 An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn!
24 Ef my old nose don't tell me lies,
25 It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!"
26 An' nen he'll say,
27 "Clear out o' my way!
28 They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
29 Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!
30 Er she cain't git no cookin' done!"
31 Wunst our hired girl, when she
32 Got the supper, an' we all et,
33 An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' me
34 An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met, --
35 An' nen when we come home, an' see
36 A light in the kitchen door, an' we
37 Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'-
38 O'-Gracious! who can her beau be?"
39 An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann
40 Wuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man!
41 Better say,
42 "Clear out o' the way!
43 They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
44 Take the hint, an' run, child, run!
45 Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The End
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
here!"-mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you and
I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and
kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you
will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with
the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the
night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep."
One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and
lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your
eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you
wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children
come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the
flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,"Where
is our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in
the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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