A Child's Garden of Verses

  Patience, children, just a minute –

  See the spreading circles die;

  The stream and all in it

  Will clear by-and-by.

  FAIRY BREAD

  Come up here, O dusty feet!

  Here is fairy bread to eat.

  Here in my retiring room,

  Children, you may dine

  On the golden smell of broom

  And the shade of pine;

  And when you have eaten well,

  Fairy stories hear and tell.

  FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE

  Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

  Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

  And charging along like troops in a battle,

  All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

  All of the sights of the hill and the plain

  Fly as thick as driving rain;

  And ever again, in the wink of an eye,

  Painted stations whistle by.

  Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

  All by himself and gathering brambles;

  Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

  And there is the green for stringing the daisies!

  Here is a cart run away in the road

  Lumping along with man and load;

  And here is a mill, and there is a river:

  Each a glimpse and gone for ever!

  WINTER-TIME

  Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,

  A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;

  Blinks but an hour or two; and then,

  A blood-red orange, sets again.

  Before the stars have left the skies,

  At morning in the dark I rise;

  And shivering in my nakedness,

  By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

  Close by the jolly fire I sit

  To warm my frozen bones a bit;

  Or with a reindeer-sled, explore

  The colder countries round the door.

  When, to go out, my nurse doth wrap

  Me in my comforter and cap:

  The cold wind burns my face, and blows

  Its frosty pepper up my nose.

  Black are my steps on silver sod;

  Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;

  And tree and house, and hill and lake,

  Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

  THE HAYLOFT

  Through all the pleasant meadow-side

  The grass grew shoulder-high,

  Till the shining scythes went far and wide

  And cut it down to dry.

  These green and sweetly smelling drops

  They led in waggons home;

  And they piled them here in mountain tops

  For mountaineers to roam.

  Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,

  Mount Eagle and Mount High; –

  The mice that in these mountains dwell,

  No happier are than I!

  O what a joy to clamber there,

  O what a place for play,

  With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,

  The happy hills of hay.

  FAREWELL TO THE FARM

  The coach is at the door at last;

  The eager children, mounting fast

  And kissing hands, in chorus sing:

  Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

  To house and garden, field and lawn,

  The meadow-gates we swang upon,

  To pump and stable, tree and swing,

  Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

  And fare you well for evermore,

  O ladder at the hayloft door,

  O hayloft where the cobwebs cling,

  Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

  Crack goes the whip, and off we go;

  The trees and houses smaller grow;

  Last, round the woody turn we swing:

  Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

  NORTH-WEST PASSAGE

  1. Good Night

  When the bright lamp is carried in,

  The sunless hours again begin;

  O'er all without, in field and lane,

  The haunted night returns again.

  Now we behold the embers flee

  About the firelit hearth; and see

  Our faces painted as we pass,

  Like pictures, on the window-glass.

  Must we to bed indeed? Well then,

  Let us arise and go like men,

  And face with an undaunted tread

  The long black passage up to bed.

  Farewell, O brother, sister, sire!

  O pleasant party round the fire!

  The songs you sing, the tales you tell,

  Till far to-morrow, fare ye well!

  2. Shadow March

  All round the house is the jet-black night;

  It stares through the window-pane;

  It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,

  And it moves with the moving flame.

  Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum,

  With the breath of the Bogie in my hair;

  And all round the candle the crooked shadows come

  And go marching along up the stair.

  The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp,

  The shadow of the child that goes to bed –

  All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp,

  With the black light overhead.

  3. In Port

  Last, to the chamber where I lie

  My fearful footsteps patter nigh,

  And come from out the cold and gloom

  Into my warm and cheerful room.

  There, safe arrived, we turn about

  To keep the coming shadows out,

  And close the happy door at last

  On all the perils that we past.

  Then, when mamma goes by to bed,

  She shall come in with tip-toed tread,

  And see me lying warm and fast

  And in the Land of Nod at last.

  THE CHILD ALONE

  THE UNSEEN PLAYMATE

  When children are playing alone on the green,

  In comes the playmate that never was seen.

  When children are happy and lonely and good,

  The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

  Nobody heard him and nobody saw,

  His is a picture you never could draw,

  But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,

  When children are happy and playing alone.

  He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,

  He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;

  Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,

  The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

  He loves to be little, he hates to be big,

  'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;

  'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin

  That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.

  'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,

  Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head;

  For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,

  'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!

  MY SHIP AND I

  O it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship,

  Of a ship that goes a-sailing on the pond;

  And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about;

  But when I'm a little older, I shall find the secret out

  How to send my vessel sailing on beyond.

  For I mean to grow as little as the dolly at the helm,

  And the dolly I intend to come alive;

  And with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing I shall go,

  It's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow

  And the vessel goes a divie-divie dive.

  O it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds,

  And you'll hear the water singing at t
he prow;

  For beside the dolly sailor, I'm to voyage and explore,

  To land upon the island where no dolly was before,

  And to fire the penny cannon in the bow.

  MY KINGDOM

  Down by a shining water well

  I found a very little dell,

  No higher than my head.

  The heather and the gorse about

  In summer bloom were coming out,

  Some yellow and some red.

  I called the little pool a sea;

  The little hills were big to me;

  For I am very small.

  I made a boat, I made a town,

  I searched the caverns up and down,

  And named them one and all.

  And all about was mine, I said,

  The little sparrows overhead,

  The little minnows too.

  This was the world and I was king;

  For me the bees came by to sing,

  For me the swallows flew.

  I played there were no deeper seas,

  Nor any wider plains than these,

  No other kings than me.

  At last I heard my mother call

  Out from the house at even-fall,

  To call me home to tea.

  And I must rise and leave my dell,

  And leave my dimpled water well,

  And leave my heather blooms.

  Alas! and as my home I neared,

  How very big my nurse appeared,

  How great and cool the rooms!

  PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER

  Summer fading, winter comes –

  Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,

  Window robins, winter rooks,

  And the picture story-books.

  Water now is turned to stone

  Nurse and I can walk upon;

  Still we find the flowing brooks

  In the picture story-books.

  All the pretty things put by,

  Wait upon the children's eye,

  Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,

  In the picture story-books.

  We may see how all things are,

  Seas and cities, near and far,

  And the flying fairies' looks,

  In the picture story-books.

  How am I to sing your praise,

  Happy chimney-corner days,

  Sitting safe in nursery nooks,

  Reading picture story-books?

  MY TREASURES

  These nuts that I keep in the back of the nest

  Where all my lead soldiers are lying at rest,

  Were gathered in autumn by nursie and me

  In a wood with a well by the side of the sea.

  This whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!)

  By the side of a field at the end of the grounds.

  Of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own,

  It was nursie who made it, and nursie alone!

  The stone, with the white and the yellow and grey,

  We discovered I cannot tell how far away;

  And I carried it back although weary and cold,

  For though father denies it, I'm sure it is gold.

  But of all of my treasures the last is the king,

  For there's very few children possess such a thing;

  And that is a chisel, both handle and blade,

  Which a man who was really a carpenter made.

  BLOCK CITY

  What are you able to build with your blocks?

  Castle and palaces, temples and docks.

  Rain may keep raining, and others go roam,

  But I can be happy and building at home.

  Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea,

  There I'll establish a city for me:

  A kirk and a mill and a palace beside,

  And a harbour as well where my vessels may ride.

  Great is the palace with pillar and wall,

  A sort of a tower on the top of it all,

  And steps coming down in an orderly way

  To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay.

  This one is sailing and that one is moored:

  Hark to the song of the sailors on board!

  And see on the steps of my palace, the kings

  Coming and going with presents and things!

  Now I have done with it, down let it go!

  All in a moment the town is laid low.

  Block upon block lying scattered and free,

  What is there left of my town by the sea?

  Yet as I saw it, I see it again,

  The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men,

  And as long as I live, and where'er I may be,

  I'll always remember my town by the sea.

  THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

  At evening when the lamp is lit,

  Around the fire my parents sit;

  They sit at home and talk and sing,

  And do not play at anything.

  Now, with my little gun, I crawl

  All in the dark along the wall,

  And follow round the forest track

  Away behind the sofa back.

  There, in the night, where none can spy,

  All in my hunter's camp I lie,

  And play at books that I have read

  Till it is time to go to bed.

  These are the hills, these are the woods,

  These are my starry solitudes;

  And there the river by whose brink

  The roaring lions come to drink.

  I see the others far away

  As if in firelit camp they lay,

  And I, like to an Indian scout,

  Around their party prowled about.

  So, when my nurse comes in for me,

  Home I return across the sea,

  And go to bed with backward looks

  At my dear land of Story-books.

  ARMIES IN THE FIRE

  The lamps now glitter down the street;

  Faintly sound the falling feet;

  And the blue even slowly falls

  About the garden trees and walls.

  Now in the falling of the gloom

  The red fire paints the empty room:

  And warmly on the roof it looks,

  And flickers on the backs of books.

  Armies march by tower and spire

  Of cities blazing, in the fire;

  Till as I gaze with staring eyes,

  The armies fade, the lustre dies.

  Then once again the glow returns;

  Again the phantom city burns;

  And down the red-hot valley, lo!

  The phantom armies marching go!

  Blinking embers, tell me true,

  Where are those armies marching to,

  And what the burning city is

  That crumbles in your furnaces!

  THE LITTLE LAND

  When at home alone I sit

  And am very tired of it,

  I have just to shut my eyes

  To go sailing through the skies –

  To go sailing far away

  To the pleasant Land of Play;

  To the fairy land afar

  Where the Little People are;

  Where the clover-tops are trees,

  And the rain-pools are the seas,

  And the leaves like little ships

  Sail about on tiny trips;

  And above the daisy tree

  Through the grasses,

  High o'erhead the Bumble Bee

  Hums and passes.

  In that forest to and fro

  I can wander, I can go;

  See the spider and the fly,

  And the ants go marching by

  Carrying parcels with their feet

  Down the green and grassy street.

  I can in the sorrel sit,

  Where the ladybird alit.

  I can climb the jointed grass,

  And on high

  See the greater swallows pass

 
In the sky,

  And the round sun rolling by

  Heeding no such things as I.

  Through that forest I can pass

  Till, as in a looking glass,

  Humming fly and daisy tree

  And my tiny self I see,

  Painted very clear and neat

  On the rain-pool at my feet.

  Should a leaflet come to land

  Drifting near to where I stand,

  Straight I'll board that tiny boat

  Round the rain-pool sea to float.

  Little thoughtful creatures sit

  On the grassy coast of it.

  Little things with lovely eyes

  See me sailing with surprise.

  Some are clad in armour green –

  (These have sure to battle been!) –

  Some are pied with every hue,

  Black and crimson, gold and blue;

  Some have wings and swift are gone;

  But they all look kindly on.

  When my eyes I once again

  Open, and see all things plain:

  High bare walls, great bare floor;

  Great big knobs on drawer and door;

  Great big people perched on chairs,

  Stitching tucks and mending tears,

  Each a hill that I could climb,

  And talking nonsense all the time –

  O dear me,

  That I could be

  A sailor on the rain-pool sea,

  A climber in the clover tree,

  And just come back, a sleepy-head,