The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 2

The earth is full of lovely things, And if at first you miss your wings, You'll soon forget them; And others, of a rarer kind Will grow upon your tender mind-- If you will let them--

Until you find that your exchange Of Heaven for earth expands your range E'en as a flier, And that your mother, you and I, If we do what we should, may fly Than Angels higher.

Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901]

BABY MAY

Cheeks as soft as July peaches, Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness--round large eyes Ever great with new surprise, Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, Minutes just as brimmed with sadness, Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows swifter born Than on wind-swept Autumn corn, Ever some new tiny notion Making every limb all motion-- Catching up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms, Clutching fingers--straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever new surprisings, Hands all wants and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under, Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings, Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness, that we prize such sinning, Breakings dire of plates and gla.s.ses, Graspings small at all that pa.s.ses, Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table; Silences--small meditations, Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches, All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing; Slumbers--such sweet angel-seemings, That we'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking; Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness br.i.m.m.i.n.g over gladness, Joy in care--delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be-- That's May Bennett, that's my baby.

William c.o.x Bennett [1820-1895]

ALICE

Of deepest blue of summer skies Is wrought the heaven of her eyes.

Of that fine gold the autumns wear Is wrought the glory of her hair.

Of rose leaves fas.h.i.+oned in the south Is shaped the marvel of her mouth.

And from the honeyed lips of bliss Is drawn the sweetness of her kiss,

'Mid twilight thrushes that rejoice Is found the cadence of her voice,

Of winds that wave the western fir Is made the velvet touch of her.

Of all earth's songs G.o.d took the half To make the ripple of her laugh.

I hear you ask, "Pray who is she?"-- This maid that is so dear to me.

"A reigning queen in Fas.h.i.+on's whirl?"

Nay, nay! She is my baby girl.

Herbert Bashford [1871-1928]

SONGS FOR FRAGOLETTA

I

Fragoletta, blessed one!

What think you of the light of the sun?

Do you think the dark was best, Lying snug in mother's breast?

Ah! I knew that sweetness, too, Fragoletta, before you!

But, Fragoletta, now you're born, You must learn to love the morn, Love the lovely working light, Love the miracle of sight, Love the thousand things to do-- Little girl, I envy you!-- Love the thousand things to see, Love your mother, and--love me!

And some night, Fragoletta, soon, I'll take you out to see the moon; And for the first time, child of ours, You shall--think of it!--look on flowers, And smell them, too, if you are good, And hear the green leaves in the wood Talking, talking, all together In the happy windy weather; And if the journey's not too far For little limbs so lately made, Limb upon limb like petals laid, We'll go and picnic in a star.

II

Blue eyes, looking up at me, I wonder what you really see, Lying in your cradle there, Fragrant as a branch of myrrh?

Helpless little hands and feet, O so helpless! O so sweet!

Tiny tongue that cannot talk, Tiny feet that cannot walk, Nothing of you that can do Aught, except those eyes of blue.

How they open, how they close!-- Eyelids of the baby-rose.

Open and shut--so blue, so wise, Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes.

III

That, Fragoletta, is the rain Beating upon the window-pane; But lo! The golden sun appears, To kiss away the window's tears.

That, Fragoletta, is the wind, That rattles so the window-blind; And yonder s.h.i.+ning thing's a star, Blue eyes--you seem ten times as far.

That, Fragoletta, is a bird That speaks, yet never says a word; Upon a cherry tree it sings, Simple as all mysterious things; Its little life to peck and pipe, As long as cherries ripe and ripe, And minister unto the need Of baby-birds that feed and feed.

This, Fragoletta, is a flower, Open and fragrant for an hour, A flower, a transitory thing, Each petal fleeting as a wing, All a May morning blows and blows, And then for everlasting goes.

IV

Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed Of little mother's hallowed breast, The while your trembling lips are fed, Look up at mother's bended head, All benediction over you-- O blue eyes looking into blue!

Fragoletta is so small, We wonder that she lives at all-- Tiny alabaster girl, Hardly bigger than a pearl; That is why we take such care, Lest some one run away with her.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

CHOOSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister: I was nigh the first that kissed her.

When the nursing-woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten!

She will shortly be to christen; And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her,-- Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa?

Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died.

They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker.

Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fas.h.i.+on now.

None that I have named as yet Is so good as Margaret.

Emily is neat and fine; What do you think of Caroline?

How I'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next!

I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her;-- I will leave papa to name her.

Mary Lamb [1764-1847]