The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 39

THE VOICE OF THE GRa.s.s

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside, On the sunny hillside, Close by the noisy brook, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; All round the open door, Where here sit the aged poor; Here where the children play, In the bright and merry May, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; In the noisy city street My pleasant face you'll meet, Cheering the sick at heart Toiling his busy part,-- Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; You cannot see me coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming; For in the starry night, And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers In summer's pleasant hours; The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; When you're numbered with the dead In your still and narrow bed, In the happy spring I'll come And deck your silent home,-- Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command I beautify the land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Sarah Roberts Boyle [1812-1869]

A SONG THE GRa.s.s SINGS

The violet is much too shy, The rose too little so; I think I'll ask the b.u.t.tercup If I may be her beau.

When winds go by, I'll nod to her And she will nod to me, And I will kiss her on the cheek As gently as may be.

And when the mower cuts us down, Together we will pa.s.s, I smiling at the b.u.t.tercup, She smiling at the gra.s.s.

Charles G. Blanden [1857-

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet: No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came; If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; The s.p.a.ce between is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower.

Philip Freneau [1752-1832]

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak Tree!

And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant, in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Charles d.i.c.kens [1812-1870]

YELLOW JESSAMINE

In tangled wreaths, in cl.u.s.tered gleaming stars, In floating, curling sprays, The golden flower comes s.h.i.+ning through the woods These February days; Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town, To bring her gayly in, This wild, sweet Princess of far Florida-- The yellow jessamine.

The live-oaks smile to see her lovely face Peep from the thickets; shy, She hides behind the leaves her golden buds Till, bolder grown, on high She curls a tendril, throws a spray, then flings Herself aloft in glee, And, bursting into thousand blossoms, swings In wreaths from tree to tree.

The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores This Princess of the air; The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs, "Ah! come, lest I despair;"

The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns Quiver and thrill within, As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch Of yellow jessamine.

The garden-roses wonder as they see The wreaths of golden bloom, Brought in from the far woods with eager haste To deck the poorest room, The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands Give sprays to all they meet, Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go, And all the air is sweet.

The Southern land, well weary of its green Which may not fall nor fade, Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower With leaves of fresher shade; The pine has ta.s.sels, and the orange-trees Their fragrant work begin: The spring has come--has come to Florida, With yellow jessamine.

Constance Fenimore Woolson [1840-1894]

KNAP WEED

By copse and hedgerow, waste and wall, He thrusts his cus.h.i.+ons red; O'er burdock rank, o'er thistles tall, He rears his hardy head: Within, without, the strong leaves press, He screens the mossy stone, Lord of a narrow wilderness, Self-centred and alone.

He numbers no observant friends, He soothes no childish woes, Yet nature nurtures him, and tends As duly as the rose; He drinks the blessed dew of heaven, The wind is in his ears, To guard his growth the planets seven Swing in their airy spheres.

The spirits of the fields and woods Throb in his st.u.r.dy veins: He drinks the secret, stealing floods, And swills the volleying rains: And when the bird's note showers and breaks The wood's green heart within, He stirs his plumy brow and wakes To draw the sunlight in.

Mute sheep that pull the gra.s.ses soft Crop close and pa.s.s him by, Until he stands alone, aloft, In surly majesty.

No fly so keen, no bee so bold, To pierce that knotted zone; He frowns as though he guarded gold, And yet he garners none.