Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 60

It stings the toes, And bites the nose, As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple gray!

Spring over the ground, Like a hunting hound, For this is Thanksgiving-Day.

Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barnyard gate!

We seem to go Extremely slow,-- It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood; Now Grandmother's cap I spy!

Hurrah for the fun!

Is the pudding done?

Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

_Lydia Maria Child._

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that s.h.i.+ne And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

_William Wordsworth._

To a b.u.t.terfly

I've watched you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little b.u.t.terfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed.

More motionless! and then How motionless!--not frozen seas What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again; This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of suns.h.i.+ne and of song, And summer days when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.

_William Wordsworth._

To The Fringed Gentian

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

_William Cullen Bryant._

The Song of the Camp

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory: Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender pa.s.sion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned The b.l.o.o.d.y sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of h.e.l.l Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of sh.e.l.l, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing: The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring.

_Bayard Taylor._

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.