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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, BEASTS AND INSECTS
GREAT, WIDE, BEAUTIFUL, WONDERFUL WORLD
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast—
World, you are beautifully drest.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly earth ! how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles ?
Ah, you are so great and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all ;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
A Whisper inside me seemed to say,
" You are more than the earth, though you are such a dot:
You can love and think, and the earth cannot!'
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS.
THE FLY
How large unto the tiny fly
Must little things appear !—
A rosebud like a feather bed,
Its prickle like a spear ;
A dewdrop like a looking-glass,
A hair like golden wire;
The smallest grain of mustard-seed
As fierce as coals of fire;
A loaf of bread, a lofty hill;
A wasp a cruel leopard;
And specks of salt as bright to see
As lambkins to a shepherd.
W. DE LA MARE.
THE BEE
There is a little gentleman
That wears the yellow trews,
A dirk below his doublet,
For sticking of his foes.
He's in a stinging posture
Where'er you do him see,
And if you offer violence
He'll stab his dirk in thee.
THE RAT, CAT, AND MOUSE
A Rat and a Mouse,
Both dwelt in one house;
And stole both the bread and the cheese ;
They were fond of a feast,
And would take of the best,
And long they lived thus, at their ease.
At length came the Gat,
But they did not like that,
For daily and nightly she sought 'em;
Till one night, out they came,
And she took a £>ood aim,
And slew them as fast as she caught them.
Thus a rogue for a time
May go on in crime,
And be bold while each day he may do it:
But mark what I say,
There will come a day
When for what he has done he may rue it.
UNKNOWN.
THE COW
Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Every day and every night,
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.
Do not chew the hemlock rank,
Growing on the weedy bank ;
But the yellow cowslips eat,
They will make it very sweet.
Where the purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the grass is fresh and fine,
Pretty cow, go there and dine.
JANE AND ANN TAYLOR.
BIRDS' NAMES
Of Creatures with Feathers, come let us see
Which have names like you and me.
Hook-nosed Poll, that thinks herself pretty,
Everyone knows, of all birds most witty.
Friendly Daw, in suit of gray,
Ask him his name, and "Jack" he'll say.
Pert Philip Sparrow hopping you meet,
"Philip! Philip!"—in garden or street.
Bold Robin Redbreast perches near,
And sings his best in the fall of the year.
Grave Madge Owlet shuns the light,
And shouts "Hoo! hoo! ' in the woods at night.
Nightingale sweet, that May loves well,
Old poets called her Philomel,
But Philomelus, he sings best,
While she sits listening in her nest.
Darting Martin !—tell me why
They call you Martin, I know not, I ;
Martin the black, under cottage eaves,
Martin the small, in sandy caves.
Merry Willy Wagtail, what runs he takes!
Wherever he stops, his tail he shakes.
Head and tail little Jenny Wren perks,
As in and out of the hedge she jerks.
Brisk Tom Tit, the lover of trees,
Picks off every fly and grub he sees.
Mag, the cunning, chattering Pie,
Builds her home in a tree-top high,—
Mag, you're a terrible thief, O fie!
Tom and Philip and Jenny and Polly,
Madge and Martin and Robin and Willy,
Philomelas and friendly Jack,
Mag the rogue, half-white, half-black,
Stole an egg from every bird ;
Such an uproar was never heard;
All of them flew upon Mag together,
And pluck'd her naked of every feather.
"You're not a bird!' they told her then,
"You may go away and live among men!'
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
A WARNING FOR BIRDS'-NESTERS
The robin and the redbreast,
The robin and the wren ;
If ye take out o' their nest,
Ye'll never thrive again!
The robin and the red-breast,
The martin and the swallow;
If ye touch one o' their eggs,
Bad luck will surely follow!
MISTER FLY
What a sharp little fellow is Mister Fly!
He goes where he pleases, low or high,
And can walk just as well with his feet to the sky
As I can on the floor.
At the window he comes
With a buzz and a roar,
And o'er the smooth glass
Can easily pass
Or through the keyhole of the door.
He eats the sugar and goes away,
Nor ever once asks what there is to pay;
And sometimes he crosses the tea-pot's steam,
And comes and plunges his head in the cream;
Then on the edge of the jug he stands,
And cleans his wings with his feet and hands.
This done, through the window he hurries away,
And gives a buzz, as if to say,
"At present I haven't a minute to stay,
But I'll peep in again in the course of the day."
Then away he'll fly,
Where the sunbeams lie,
And neither stop to shake hands,
Nor bid one good-bye.
Such a strange little fellow is Mister Fly,
Who goes where he pleases, low or high,
And can walk on the ceiling
Without ever feeling
A fear of tumbling down "sky high!'
THOMAS MILLER.
THE MONTHS
January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes loud and shrill,
Stirs the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant,
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire and Christmas treat.
SARA COLERIDGE.
AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower !
How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labour or of skill
I would be busy too :
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
ISAAC WATTS.
THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little prig"; Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big,
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year,
And a sphere :
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place-
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track.
Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put ;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut!'
R. W. EMERSON.
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 crown J d 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!
GEORGE MACDONALD.
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
The little birds are singing
Above their speckled eggs,
The daddy-long-legs talks about
His children's lovely legs ;
The red cow thinks her little calf
The best that there can be,
And my papa and my mamma
Are very proud of me!
And yet I might have been a bird,
And slept within a nest,
Or been a daddy-long-legs
With scarcely any chest;
Or been a little calf or pig,
And grown to beef or ham ;
—I'm very very very glad
That I am what I am!
FRED. E. WEATHERLY.
WISHING
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose,
A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring !
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the Elm-Tree for our King
Nay—stay! I wish I were an Elm-Tree,
A great lofty Elm-Tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glancing,
The Birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing !
O—no! I wish I were a Robin,
A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go ;
Through forest, field, or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing.
Well—tell! Where should I fly to,
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover,
For a Mother's kiss,—sweeter this
Than any other thing!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
THE DOVE
I had a dove, and the sweet dove died!
And I have thought it died of grieving;
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a single thread of my own hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die ?
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why ?
You lived alone in the forest tree,
Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft, and gave you white peas ;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
JOHN KEATS.
THE EAGLE
He clasps the crag with hooked hands :
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE OWL
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay ;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
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 song.
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!'
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
WRITTEN IN MARCH
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
They are forty feeding like one !
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plough-boy is whooping—anon, anon :
There's joy in the mountains ;
There's life in the fountains ;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing ;
The rain is over and gone!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
THE FIRST OF JUNE
The wind to west is steady,
The weather is sweet and fair;
Laburnum, slender lady,
Shakes out her yellow hair.
Magnolia, like a stranger,
Stands stiffly all alone ;
I think a word would change her
Into a flower of stone.
The solid guelder roses
Are white as dairy cream;
The hyacinths fade, like posies ;
The cloud hangs in a dream.
And dreams of light and shadow
The sleeping meadow shake,
But the king-cup shines in the meadow,
A gold eye wide awake.
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS.
ENVY
This rose-tree is not made to bear
The violet blue, nor lily fair,
Nor the sweet mignionet:
And if this tree were discontent,
Or wished to change its natural bent,
It all in vain would fret.
And should it fret, you would suppose
It ne'er had seen its own red rose,
Nor after gentle shower
Had ever smelied its rose's scent,
Or it could ne'er be discontent
With its own pretty flower.
Like such a blind and senseless tree
As I've imagined this to be,
All envious persons are:
With care and culture all may find
Some pretty flower in their own mind,
Some talent that is rare.
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.
LESSONS ON CRUELTY
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a rage ;
A dog starved at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state ;
A game-cock clipped and armed for fight
Doth the rising sun affright;
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to Heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain doth tear;
A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men;
He who the ox to wrath has moved
Shall never be by woman loved.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity;
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief;
The wild deer, wandering here and there,
Keep the human soul from care :
The lamb misused breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgment draweth nigh;
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou shalt grow fat.
WILLIAM BLAKE.
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout !
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower!—I'll make a stir
Like a great astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met,
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
' Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none,
Poets, vain men in their mood !
Travel with the multitude ;
Never heed them ; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers.
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home;
Spring is coming—thou art come !
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane—there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no ;
Others, too, of lofty mien ;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine !
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorn'd and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart's command,
In the lane my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
EPITAPH ON A HARE
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo.
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nurs'd with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance ev'ry night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw ;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Slic'd carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at ev'ning hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching show'rs,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now, beneath this walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of
Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.
WILLIAM COWPER.
MARY'S LAMB
Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.
It followed her to school one day,
It was against the rule,
And made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.
And so the teacher turned him out,
But still he lingered near,
And waited patiently about
Till Mary did appear.
And then he ran to her and laid
His head upon her arm,
As if he said, "I'm not afraid,
You'll shield me from all harm."
"What makes the lamb love Mary so?'
The eager children cry.
" Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"
The teacher did reply.
Old Rhyme.
I'VE BEEN ROAMING
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the meadow-dew is sweet,
And like a queen I'm coming
With its pearls upon my feet.
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
O'er red rose and lily fair,
And like a sylph I'm coming
With its blossoms in my hair.
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the honeysuckle creeps,
And like a bee I'm coming
With its kisses on my lips.
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Over hill and over plain,
And like a bird I'm coming
To my bower back again.
GEORGE DARLEY.
ROBIN'S CROSS
A little cross
To tell my loss;
A little bed
To rest my head ;
A little tear is all I crave
Upon my very little grave.
I strew thy bed,
Who loved thy lays,
The tear I shed,
The cross I raise,
With nothing more upon it than—
" Here lies the little friend of man."
GEORGE DARLEY.
EYE-BRIGHT
There is a flower, a tiny flower,
Its hue is white, but close within't
There is a spot of golden tint;
Therein abides a wondrous juice,
That hath, for such as know its use,
A sweet and holy power.
It is the little Euphrasy,
Which you no doubt have often seen
'Mid the tall grass of meadow green ;
But never deemed so wee a wight
Endowed with medicinal might
To clear the darkened eye.
And maybe now it hath no more
The virtue which the kindly fays
Bestowed in fancy's holy days ;
Yet still the gold-eyed weedie springs,
To show how pretty little things
Were hallowed long of yore.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
SEVEN TIMES ONE
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven :
I've said my "seven times' over and over,
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, so old, I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done ;
The lambs play always, they know no better,
They are only one times one.
0 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
That God has hidden your face ?
1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.
O velvet Bee you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold !
O brave Marsh Marybuds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold !
O Columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
0 Cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!
And show me your nest with the young ones in it;
I will not steal it away ;
1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,—
I am seven times one to-day.
JEAN INGELOW.
LESSONS TO BE DERIVED FROM BIRDS
"What is that, Mother?"
" The lark, my child !—
The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child ! be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise."
What is that, Mother ? '
"The dove, my son!
And that low sweet voice like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove—
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love."
What is that, Mother ? '
" The eagle, boy !
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on,
Boy ! may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line."
What is that, Mother ? '
" The swan, my love !
He is floating down from his native grove ;
No loved one, now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die ;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home."
G. W. DOANE.
THE GENTIANELLA
Pretty stranger in our gardens,
We should beg thee thousand pardons,
Long forgotten, far too long,
Never mentioned yet in song,
Strange it is, that never ditty
Ever told thee thou wert pretty :
Rondo none, nor ritornella,
Praises thee, my Gentianella.
Very well I know thee, why
Thou art not like the cloudless sky,
Nor like the virgin's melting eye.
Poets seek in fields and trees
Quaint conceits and similes ;
But thine azure is thine own,—
Nothing like it I have known :
Seems it not of upper earth ;—
Surely it must have its birth
In the darkness far below,
Where the dark-eyed sapphires grow
Lovely votary of the sun,
Never wishing to be won
By a vain and mortal lover,
Shrinking closely into cover
When thy true love hath departed,
Patient, pure and simple-hearted.
Like an exile doomed to roam,
Not in foreign land at home,—
I will call thy azure hue
Brightest, firmest, truest blue.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
THE ANGEL OF THE ROSE
There is an angel that abides
Within the budding rose ;
That is his home, and there he hides
His head in calm repose.
The rosebud is his humble home,
And there he often loves to roam ;
And wending through the path of Heaven,
Empurples all the track of even.
If e'en he sees a maiden meek,
He hovers nigh, and flings
Upon the modest maiden's cheek
The shadow of his wings.
Oh, lovely maiden, dost thou know
Why thy cheeks so warmly glow?
'Tis the Angel of the Rose,
That salutes thee as he goes.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
