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

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.

Mary Howitt.

There's something in the air That's new and sweet and rare-- A scent of summer things, A whir as if of wings.

There's something, too, that's new In the color of the blue That's in the morning sky, Before the sun is high.

And though on plain and hill 'Tis winter, winter still, There's something seems to say That winter's had its day.

And all this changing tint, This whispering stir and hint Of bud and bloom and wing, Is the coming of the spring.

And to-morrow or to-day The brooks will break away From their icy, frozen sleep, And run, and laugh, and leap.

And the next thing, in the woods, The catkins in their hoods Of fur and silk will stand, A sturdy little band.

And the tassels soft and fine Of the hazel will entwine, And the elder branches show Their buds against the snow.

So, silently but swift, Above the wintry drift, The long days gain and gain, Until on hill and plain,--

Once more, and yet once more, Returning as before, We see the bloom of birth Make young again the earth.

Nora Perry.

Frank Dempster Sherman.

Spring is growing up, Is not it a pity? She was such a little thing, And so very pretty! Summer is extremely grand, We must pay her duty,

All the buds are blown, Trees are dark and shady, And the birds sing loud and sweet Their enchanting hist'ries,

From the glowing sky Summer shines above us; Spring was such a little dear, But will Summer love us? She is very beautiful, With her grown-up blisses, Summer we must bow before; Spring we coaxed with kisses!

Spring is growing up, Leaving us so lonely, In the place of little Spring We have Summer only! Summer with her lofty airs, And her stately faces, In the place of little Spring, With her childish graces!

"A."

Winter is cold-hearted; Spring is yea and nay; Autumn is a weathercock, Blown every way: Summer days for me, When every leaf is on its tree,

When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny Wren's a bride, And larks hang, singing, singing, singing, Over the wheat-fields wide, And anchored lilies ride, And the pendulum spider Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business, And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town-- Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere.

Christina G. Rossetti.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down;

The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun;

The sedges flaunt their harvest In every meadow nook, And asters by the brookside Make asters in the brook;

From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies--

H. H.

I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief, 'Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

Susan Coolidge.

Blow, wind, blow! Drift the flying snow! Send it twirling, whirling overhead! There's a bedroom in a tree Where, snug as snug can be, The squirrel nests in his cosey bed.

Shriek, wind, shriek! Make the branches creak! Battle with the boughs till break o' day! In a snow-cave warm and tight, Through the icy winter night The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away.

Call, wind, call, In entry and in hall, Straight from off the mountain white and wild! Soft purrs the pussy-cat On her little fluffy mat, And beside her nestles close her furry child.

Scold, wind, scold, So bitter and so bold! Shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap! With half-shut, dreamy eyes The drowsy baby lies Cuddled closely in his mother's lap.

Mary F. Butts.

A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast, Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire, And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February Snowflakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea:-- If the winter ever ends How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like, Curious green and brown. With concourse of nest-building birds And leaf-buds by the way, We begin to think of flowers And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, On the hedged-in orchard-green, From the southern wall. Apple-trees and pear-trees Shed petals white or pink, Plum-trees and peach-trees; While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze Beside pure scent of flowers, While all things wax and nothing wanes In lengthening daylight hours. Across the hyacinth beds The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops, Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June Thrives the red rose crop, Every day fresh blossoms blow While the first leaves drop; White rose and yellow rose And moss rose choice to find, And the cottage cabbage-rose Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July Drives the pelting hail, From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot Blue heaven grown lurid-pale. Weedy waves are tossed ashore, Sea-things strange to sight Gasp upon the barren shore And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind Corn-fields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths, On low hills outspread. Early leaves drop loitering down Weightless on the breeze, First fruits of the year's decay From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September The heavy-headed fruits Shake upon their bending boughs And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun, Some show green and streaked, Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October At the equinox, Stirred up in his hollow bed Broad ocean rocks; Plunge the ships on his bosom, Leaps and plunges the foam, It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea, That they were safe at home.

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