The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising,
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow has retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping anon, anon;
There's joy in the mountains,
There's life in the fountains,
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky is prevailing,
The rain is over and gone.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush say, 'I love and I love!' In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong;
What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny, warm weather,
And singing and loving all come back together; But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he, 'I love my Love and my Love loves me.' S. T. Coleridge.
ROBIN REDBREAST.
Good-bye, good-bye to summer,
For summer's nearly done,
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,
Our swallows flown away,
But Robin's here in coat of brown,
And scarlet breastknot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin sings so sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts,
The trees are Indian princes,
But soon they'll turn to ghosts;
The leathery pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough;
It's autumn, autumn, autumn late,
'Twill soon be winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And what will poor Robin do
For pinching days are near?
The fireside for the cricket,
The wheat-stack for the mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow,
Alas! in winter dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
ROBIN REDBREAST'S GRAVE.
Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hushed around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone or leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves,
Gone to the world where birds are blest,
Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or schoolboy's giant form is seen,
But love and joy and smiling spring
Inspire their little souls to sing.
How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply,
He is watchful, while they are in peace,
For they know that their shepherd is nigh.
W. Blake.
LITTLE WHITE LILY.
Little white Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and waiting
Till the sun shone.
Little white Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little white Lily
Is lifting her head.
Little white Lily
Said, 'It is good,
Little white Lily's
Clothing and food.'
Little white Lily,
Drest like a bride,
Shining with whiteness,
And crowned beside.
Little white Lily
Droopeth with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little white Lily
Holdeth her cup,
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.
Little white Lily
Said, 'Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have nice rain;
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool,
Heat cannot burn me,
My veins are so full.'
Little white Lily
Smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine,
Rain at her feet.
Thanks to the sunshine!
Thanks to the rain!
Little white Lily
Is happy again!
Little bird, with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed,
Daily near my table steal
While I pick my scanty meal;
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