The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 38

Little Prince Tatters has LOST HIS BALL!

Rolled away down the street!

Somebody'll have to find it, that's all, Before he can sleep or eat.

Now raise the neighborhood, quickly, do!

And send for the crier and constable too!

"Trifles are trifles; but serious matters, They must be seen to," says little Prince Tatters.

Laura E. Richards [1850-

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but oh, my soul is white!

White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun,--there G.o.d does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away; And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little s.p.a.ce, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying: 'Come out from the grove, My love and care, And round My golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; And thus I say to little English boy.

When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of G.o.d like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE BLIND BOY

O say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun s.h.i.+nes bright; I feel him warm, but how can he, Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy: Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

Colley Cibber [1671-1757]

BUNCHES OF GRAPES

"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy, "Pomegranates pink," says Elaine; "A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me," says Jane.

"Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy, "Primroses pale," says Elaine; "A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me," says Jane.

"Chariots of gold," says Timothy, "Silvery wings," says Elaine; "A b.u.mpety ride in a wagon of hay For me," says Jane.

Walter de la Mare [1873-

MY SHADOW

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the s.h.i.+ning dew on every b.u.t.tercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me lay To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so I watched my leaden soldiers go, With different uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my s.h.i.+ps in fleets All up and down among the sheets; Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS