To a Little Girl

She stopped and wavered, then drew near,
(Ah! the pale gold around her head!)
And o'er my shoulder stopped to peer.
"Why do you read?" she said.

"I read a poet of old time,

Who sang through all his living hours-
Beauty of earth-the streams, the flowers-
And stars, more lovely than his rhyme.

"And now I read him, since men go,
Forgetful of these sweetest things;
Since he and I love brooks that flow,

And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings!"

She stared at me with laughing look,

Then clasped her hands upon my knees: "How strange to read it in a book!

I could have told you all of these!"

Arthur Davison Ficke [1883

267

TO A LITTLE GIRL

You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address,
The mode of plucking pansies and the art of sowing cress,
And how to handle puppies, with propitiatory pats
For mother dogs, and little acts of courtesy to cats.

O connoisseur of pebbles, colored leaves and trickling rills,
Whom seasons fit as do the sheaths that wrap the daffodils,
Whose eyes' divine expectancy foretells some starry goal,
You taught me here docility—and how to save my soul.
Helen Parry Eden [18

TO A LITTLE GIRL

HER eyes are like forget-me-nots,
So loving, kind and true;
Her lips are like a pink sea-shell
Just as the sun shines through;

Her hair is like the waving grain

In summer's golden light;

And, best of all, her little soul

Is, like a lily, white.

Gustav Kobbé [1857

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear!) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,

(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents,-(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub,-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny.(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

A New Poet

269

With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint,

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are these torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,—

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!).
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk!

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,-
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,-
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;-
(I'll tell you what, my love,

.I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A NEW POET

I WRITE. He sits beside my chair,
And scribbles, too, in hushed delight,

He dips his pen in charmed air:
What is it he pretends to write?

He toils and toils; the paper gives

No clue to aught he thinks. What then? His little heart is glad; he lives

The poems that he cannot pen.

Strange fancies throng that baby brain.

What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes! He stops-reflects-and now again

His unrecording pen he plies.

It seems a satire on myself,—

These dreamy nothings scrawled in air,
This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf,
Wouldst drive thy father to despair?

Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind
Persists in hoping, schemes and strives
That there may linger with our kind
Some memory of our little lives.

Beneath his rock in the early world
Smiling the naked hunter lay,

And sketched on horn the spear he hurled,
The urus which he made his prey.

Like him I strive in hope my rhymes
May keep my name a little while,—
O child, who knows how many times
We two have made the angels smile!

William Canton [1845

TO LAURA W

TWO YEARS OLD·

BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,

Child of the sunny brow,—

Bright as the dream flung over thee

By all that meets thee now,-
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.

To Laura W, Two Years Old 271

I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now,

That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were all poetry
To gentle measure set,

That naught but chastened melody
Might stain thine eye of jet,

Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would--but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove:
Wrought of intensest sympathies,
And nerved by purest love;
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to heaven.

"Her lot is on thee," lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air,

Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,

The waters taintless flow:

But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow.

Peace may fling back the gift again,

But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow?