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Read Ebook: Le Bar de la Fourche by Gilbert De Voisins Auguste
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Ebook has 305 lines and 28057 words, and 7 pages
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A YEAR'S WINDFALLS
THE CHILD'S WORLD
HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS
THE FLOWER FOLK
HIAWATHA'S BROTHERS
OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN
PLAY-TIME
STORY TIME
BED TIME
FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD
BELLS OF CHRISTMAS
THE POSY RING
A YEAR'S WINDFALLS
A YEAR'S WINDFALLS
Robins in the tree-top, Blossoms in the grass, Green things a-growing Everywhere you pass; Sudden little breezes, Showers of silver dew, Black bough and bent twig Budding out anew; Pine-tree and willow-tree, Fring?d elm and larch,-- Don't you think that May-time's Pleasanter than March?
Apples in the orchard Mellowing one by one; Strawberries upturning Soft cheeks to the sun; Roses faint with sweetness, Lilies fair of face, Drowsy scents and murmurs Haunting every place; Lengths of golden sunshine, Moonlight bright as day,-- Don't you think that summer's Pleasanter than May?
Roger in the corn-patch Whistling negro songs; Pussy by the hearth-side Romping with the tongs; Chestnuts in the ashes Bursting through the rind; Red leaf and gold leaf Rustling down the wind; Mother "doin' peaches" All the afternoon,-- Don't you think that autumn's Pleasanter than June?
Little fairy snow-flakes Dancing in the flue; Old Mr. Santa Claus, What is keeping you? Twilight and firelight Shadows come and go; Merry chime of sleigh-bells Tinkling through the snow; Mother knitting stockings ,-- Don't you think that winter's Pleasanter than all?
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
The birds have been singing to-day, And saying: "The spring is near! The sun is as warm as in May, And the deep blue heavens are clear."
The little bird on the boughs Of the sombre snow-laden pine Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house, And how shall I make it fine?
"For the season of snow is past; The mild south wind is on high; And the scent of the spring is cast From his wing as he hurries by."
The little birds twitter and cheep To their loves on the leafless larch; But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep, And the year hath not worn to March.
John Addington Symonds.
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; There 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 ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon! There's joy on the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone.
William Wordsworth.
In the snowing and the blowing, In the cruel sleet, Little flowers begin their growing Far beneath our feet. Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly, "Darlings, are you here?" Till they answer, "We are nearly, Nearly ready, dear."
"Where is Winter, with his snowing? Tell us, Spring," they say. Then she answers, "He is going, Going on his way. Poor old Winter does not love you; But his time is past; Soon my birds shall sing above you,-- Set you free at last."
Mary Mapes Dodge.
Spring comes hither, Buds the rose; Roses wither, Sweet spring goes.
Summer soars,-- Wide-winged day; White light pours, Flies away.
Soft winds blow, Westward born; Onward go, Toward the morn.
George Eliot
FOOTNOTE:
The poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray; The chestnut pouts its great brown buds Impatient for the laggard May.
The honeysuckles lace the wall, The hyacinths grow fair and tall; And mellow sun and pleasant wind And odorous bees are over all.
Elizabeth Akers.
The alder by the river Shakes out her powdery curls; The willow buds in silver For little boys and girls.
The little birds fly over, And oh, how sweet they sing! To tell the happy children That once again 'tis spring.
The gay green grass comes creeping So soft beneath their feet; The frogs begin to ripple A music clear and sweet.
And buttercups are coming, And scarlet columbine; And in the sunny meadows The dandelions shine.
And just as many daisies As their soft hands can hold The little ones may gather, All fair in white and gold.
Here blows the warm red clover, There peeps the violet blue; O happy little children, God made them all for you!
Celia Thaxter.
I am coming, I am coming! Hark! the little bee is humming; See, the lark is soaring high In the blue and sunny sky; And the gnats are on the wing, Wheeling round in airy ring.
See, the yellow catkins cover All the slender willows over! And on the banks of mossy green Star-like primroses are seen; And, their clustering leaves below, White and purple violets blow.
Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating, And the cawing rooks are meeting In the elms,--a noisy crowd; All the birds are singing loud; And the first white butterfly In the sunshine dances by.
Look around thee, look around! Flowers in all the fields abound; Every running stream is bright; All the orchard trees are white; And each small and waving shoot Promises sweet flowers and fruit.
Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven: God for thee the spring has given, Taught the birds their melodies, Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies, For thy pleasure or thy food: Pour thy soul in gratitude.
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