To a Little Girl She stopped and wavered, then drew near, "I read a poet of old time, Who sang through all his living hours- "And now I read him, since men go, And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings!" She stared at me with laughing look, Then clasped her hands upon my knees: "How strange to read it in a book! I could have told you all of these!" Arthur Davison Ficke [1883 267 TO A LITTLE GIRL You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address, O connoisseur of pebbles, colored leaves and trickling rills, TO A LITTLE GIRL HER eyes are like forget-me-nots, Her hair is like the waving grain In summer's golden light; And, best of all, her little soul Is, like a lily, white. Gustav Kobbé [1857 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS THOU happy, happy elf! (But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear!) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents,-(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!) Thou cherub,-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny.(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) A New Poet 269 With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are these torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,(He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, My elfin John! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!). (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) .I cannot write unless he's sent above.) Thomas Hood [1799-1845] A NEW POET I WRITE. He sits beside my chair, He dips his pen in charmed air: He toils and toils; the paper gives No clue to aught he thinks. What then? His little heart is glad; he lives The poems that he cannot pen. Strange fancies throng that baby brain. What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes! He stops-reflects-and now again His unrecording pen he plies. It seems a satire on myself,— These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind Beneath his rock in the early world And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, Like him I strive in hope my rhymes William Canton [1845 TO LAURA W TWO YEARS OLD· BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow,— Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now,- To Laura W, Two Years Old 271 I know no fount that gushes out I would that thou might'st ever be That time might ever leave as free I would life were all poetry That naught but chastened melody Nor one discordant note be spoken, I would--but deeper things than these "Her lot is on thee," lovely child— I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thine eye's beseeching earnestness The silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow: But they who kneel at woman's shrine Peace may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain. What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? |