Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 56

'Tis not in the pages of story The heart of its ills to beguile, Though he who makes courts.h.i.+p to glory Gives all that he hath for her smile.

For when from her heights he has won her, Alas! it is only to prove That nothing's so sacred as honor, And nothing so loyal as love!

We cannot make bargains for blisses, Nor catch them like fishes in nets; And sometimes the thing our life misses Helps more than the thing which it gets.

For good lieth not in pursuing, Nor gaining of great nor of small, But just in the doing, and doing As we would be done by, is all.

Through envy, through malice, through hating, Against the world, early and late, No jot of our courage abating-- Our part is to work and to wait.

And slight is the sting of his trouble Whose winnings are less than his worth; For he who is honest is n.o.ble, Whatever his fortunes or birth.

_Alice Cary._

The Wind

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is pa.s.sing through.

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is pa.s.sing by.

_Christina G. Rosetti._

The Owl and The p.u.s.s.y-Cat

The Owl and the p.u.s.s.y-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat; They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the moon above And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely p.u.s.s.y! O p.u.s.s.y, my love!

What a beautiful p.u.s.s.y you are,-- You are, What a beautiful p.u.s.s.y you are!"

p.u.s.s.y said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!

How wonderful sweet you sing!

Oh, let us be married,--too long we have tarried,-- But what shall we do for a ring?"

They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the Bong-tree grows, And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood With a ring in the end of his nose,-- His nose, With a ring in the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one s.h.i.+lling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

So they took it away, and were married next day By the turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined upon mince and slices of quince Which they ate with a runcible spoon, And hand in hand on the edge of the sand They danced by the light of the moon,-- The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

_Edward Lear._

The Frost

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that bl.u.s.tering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, That make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they!"

So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest In diamond beads--and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane like a fairy crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the light of the morn were seen Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,-- He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare, "Now, just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; And the gla.s.s of water they've left for me Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"

_Hannah F. Gould._

The Corn Song

Heap high the farmer's wintry h.o.a.rd!

Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cl.u.s.ter from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of gra.s.s and meads of flowers, Our plows their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June, Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with Autumn's moonlit eyes, Its harvest time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk, Around their costly board; Give us the bowl of samp and milk, By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight her rye, Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, The wheat-field to the fly:

But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for His golden corn, Send up our thanks to G.o.d!

_John G. Whittier._