SEVEN TIMES ONE. THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, I've said my "seven times" over and over, I am old, so old I can write a letter ; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better, O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing, You are nothing now but a bow. You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven, O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow; You've powdered your legs with gold! O columbine, open your folded wrapper, And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, I will not steal it away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day. A WISH. "BE my fairy, mother, Give me a wish a day; As when the rain-drops play." -Jean Ingelow. "And if I were a fairy, With but one wish to spare, What should I give thee, darling,- "I'd like a little brook, mother, All for my very own, To laugh all day among the trees, "To run right under the window, "Make it run down the hill, mother, "Make it as wild as a frightened bird, As crazy as a bee, With a noise like the baby's funny laugh ;- That's the brook for me!" A LITTLE GIRL'S FANCIES. O LITTLE flowers, you love me so, You could not do without me; O little birds that come and go, You sing sweet songs about me; O little moss, observed by few, That round the tree is creeping, You like my head to rest on you, When I am idly sleeping. - Rose Terry. O rushes by the river side, You bow when I come near you; O fish, you leap about with pride, Because you think I hear you; O river, you shine clear and bright, To tempt me to look in you; O water-lilies, pure and white, You hope that I shall win you. O pretty things, you love me so, I should not like to grieve you. Don't wrinkle up, you silly moss; My flowers, you need not shiver; My little buds, don't look so cross; Don't talk so loud, my river I'm telling you I will not go, And I will make a promise, dears, True love (like yours and mine) they say Can never think of ceasing, But year by year, and day by day, Keeps steadily increasing. - Poems written for a Child. GRACE AND HER FRIENDS. "YOUR walk is lonely, blue-eyed Grace, Are you not often, little maid, 'Afraid, - beneath the tall, strong trees That bend their arms to shelter me, And whisper down, with dew and breeze, Sweet sounds that float on lovingly, Till every gorge and cavern seems Thrilled through and through with fairy dreams? |