A Child's Garden of Verses

IV

PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER

SUMMER fading, winter comes —Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,Window robins, winter rooks,And the picture story-books.Water now is turned to stoneNurse and I can walk upon;Still we find the flowing brooksIn the picture story-books.All the pretty things put by,Wait upon the children's eye,Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,In the picture story-books.We may see how all things are,Seas and cities, near and far,And the flying fairies' looks,In the picture story-books.How am I to sing your praise,Happy chimney-corner days,Sitting safe in nursery nooks,Reading picture story-books?

V

MY TREASURES

THESE nuts, that I keep in the back of the nestWhere all my lead soldiers are lying at rest,Were gathered in autumn by nursie and meIn a wood with a well by the side of the sea.This whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!)By the side of a field at the end of the grounds.Of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own,It was nursie who made it, and nursie alone!The stone, with the white and the yellow and grey,We discovered I cannot tell how far away;And I carried it back although weary and cold,For though father denies it, I'm sure it is gold.But of all of my treasures the last is the king,For there's very few children possess such a thing;And that is a chisel, both handle and blade,Which a man who was really a carpenter made.

VI

BLOCK CITY

WHAT are you able to build with your blocks?Castles and palaces, temples and docks.Rain may keep raining, and others go roam,But I can be happy and building at home.Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea,There I'll establish a city for me:A kirk and a mill and a palace beside,And a harbour as well where my vessels may ride.Great is the palace with pillar and wall,A sort of a tower on the top of it all,And steps coming down in an orderly wayTo where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay.This one is sailing and that one is moored:Hark to the song of the sailors on board!And see on the steps of my palace, the kingsComing and going with presents and things!Now I have done with it, down let it go!All in a moment the town is laid low.Block upon block lying scattered and free,What is there left of my town by the sea?Yet as I saw it, I see it again,The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men,And as long as I live and where'er I may be,I'll always remember my town by the sea.

VII

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

AT evening when the lamp is lit,Around the fire my parents sit;They sit at home and talk and sing,And do not play at anything.Now, with my little gun, I crawlAll in the dark along the wall,And follow round the forest trackAway behind the sofa back.There, in the night, where none can spy,All in my hunter's camp I lie,And play at books that I have readTill it is time to go to bed.These are the hills, these are the woods,These are my starry solitudes;And there the river by whose brinkThe roaring lions come to drink.I see the others far awayAs if in firelit camp they lay,And I, like to an Indian scout,Around their party prowled about.So, when my nurse comes in for me,Home I return across the sea,And go to bed with backward looksAt my dear land of Story-books.

VIII

ARMIES IN THE FIRE

THE lamps now glitter down the street;Faintly sound the falling feet;And the blue even slowly fallsAbout the garden trees and walls.Now in the falling of the gloomThe red fire paints the empty room:And warmly on the roof it looks,And flickers on the backs of books.Armies march by tower and spireOf cities blazing, in the fire; —Till as I gaze with staring eyes,The armies fade, the lustre dies.Then once again the glow returns;Again the phantom city burns;And down the red-hot valley, lo!The phantom armies marching go!Blinking embers, tell me trueWhere are those armies marching to,And what the burning city isThat crumbles in your furnaces!

IX

THE LITTLE LAND

WHEN at home alone I sitAnd am very tired of it,I have just to shut my eyesTo go sailing through the skies —To go sailing far awayTo the pleasant Land of Play;To the fairy land afarWhere the Little People are;Where the clover-tops are trees,And the rain-pools are the seas,And the leaves like little shipsSail about on tiny trips;And above the daisy treeThrough the grasses,High o'erhead the Bumble BeeHums and passes.In that forest to and froI can wander, I can go;See the spider and the fly,And the ants go marching byCarrying parcels with their feetDown the green and grassy street.I can in the sorrel sitWhere the ladybird alit.I can climb the jointed grass;And on highSee the greater swallows passIn the sky,And the round sun rolling byHeeding no such things as I.Through that forest I can passTill, as in a looking-glass,Humming fly and daisy treeAnd my tiny self I see,Painted very clear and neatOn the rain-pool at my feet.Should a leaflet come to landDrifting near to where I stand,Straight I'll board that tiny boatRound the rain-pool sea to float.Little thoughtful creatures sitOn the grassy coasts of it;Little things with lovely eyesSee me sailing with surprise.Some are clad in armour green —(These have sure to battle been!) —Some are pied with ev'ry hue,Black and crimson, gold and blue;Some have wings and swift are gone; —But they all look kindly on.When my eyes I once againOpen, and see all things plain:High bare walls, great bare floor;Great big knobs on drawer and door;Great big people perched on chairs,Stitching tucks and mending tears,Each a hill that I could climb,And talking nonsense all the time —O dear me,That I could beA sailor on the rain-pool sea,A climber in the clover tree,And just come back, a sleepy-head,Late at night to go to bed.

GARDEN DAYS

I

NIGHT AND DAY

WHEN the golden day is done,Through the closing portal,Child and garden, flower and sun,Vanish all things mortal.As the blinding shadows fall,As the rays diminish,Under evening's cloak, they allRoll away and vanish.Garden darkened, daisy shut,Child in bed, they slumber —Glow-worm in the highway rut,Mice among the lumber.In the darkness houses shine,Parents move with candles;Till on all, the night divineTurns the bedroom handles.Till at last the day beginsIn the east a-breaking,In the hedges and the whinsSleeping birds a-waking.In the darkness shapes of things,Houses, trees, and hedges,Clearer grow; and sparrow's wingsBeat on window ledges.These shall wake the yawning maid;She the door shall open —Finding dew on garden gladeAnd the morning broken.There my garden grows againGreen and rosy painted,As at eve behind the paneFrom my eyes it fainted.Just as it was shut away,Toy-like, in the even,Here I see it glow with dayUnder glowing heaven.Every path and every plot,Every bush of roses,Every blue forget-me-notWhere the dew reposes,"Up!" they cry, "the day is comeOn the smiling valleys;We have beat the morning drum;Playmate, join your allies!"

II

NEST EGGS

BIRDS all the sunny dayFlutter and quarrelHere in the arbour-likeTent of the laurel.Here in the forkThe brown nest is seated;Four little blue eggsThe mother keeps heated.While we stand watching her,Staring like gabies,Safe in each egg are theBird's little babies.Soon the frail eggs they shallChip, and upspringingMake all the April woodsMerry with singing.Younger than we are,O children, and frailer,Soon in blue air they'll be,Singer and sailor.We, so much older,Taller and stronger,We shall look down on theBirdies no longer.They shall go flyingWith musical speechesHigh overhead in theTops of the beeches.In spite of our wisdomAnd sensible talking,We on our feet must goPlodding and walking.

III

THE FLOWERS

ALL the names I know from nurse:Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,And the lady Hollyhock.Fairy places, fairy things,Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,Tiny trees for tiny dames —These must all be fairy names!Tiny woods below whose boughsShady fairies weave a house;Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,Where the braver fairies climb!Fair are grown-up people's trees,But the fairest woods are these;Where, if I were not so tall,I should live for good and all.

IV

SUMMER SUN

GREAT is the sun, and wide he goesThrough empty heaven without repose;And in the blue and glowing daysMore thick than rain he showers his raysThough closer still the blinds we pullTo keep the shady parlour cool,Yet he will find a chink or twoTo slip his golden fingers through.The dusty attic spider-cladHe, through the keyhole, maketh glad;And through the broken edge of tiles,Into the laddered hayloft smiles.Meantime his golden face aroundHe bares to all the garden ground,And sheds a warm and glittering lookAmong the ivy's inmost nook.Above the hills, along the blue,Round the bright air with footing true,To please the child, to paint the rose,The gardener of the World, he goes.

V

THE DUMB SOLDIER

WHEN the grass was closely mown,Walking on the lawn alone,In the turf a hole I foundAnd hid a soldier underground.Spring and daisies came apace;Grasses hide my hiding place;Grasses run like a green seaO'er the lawn up to my knee.Under grass alone he lies,Looking up with leaden eyes,Scarlet coat and pointed gun,To the stars and to the sun.When the grass is ripe like grainWhen the scythe is stoned again,When the lawn is shaven clear,Then my hole shall reappear.I shall find him, never fear,I shall find my grenadier;But for all that's gone and come,I shall find my soldier dumb.He has lived, a little thing,In the grassy woods of spring;Done, if he could tell me true,Just as I should like to do.He has seen the starry hoursAnd the springing of the flowers;And the fairy things that passIn the forests of the grass.In the silence he has heardTalking bee and ladybird,And the butterfly has flownO'er him as he lay alone.Not a word will he disclose,Not a word of all he knows.I must lay him on the shelf,And make up the tale myself.

VI

AUTUMN FIRES

IN the other gardensAnd all up the vale,From the autumn bonfiresSee the smoke trail!Pleasant summer overAnd all the summer flowers,The red fire blazes,The grey smoke towers.Sing a song of seasons!Something bright in all!Flowers in the summerFires in the fall!

VII

THE GARDENER

THE gardener does not love to talk,He makes me keep the gravel walk;And when he puts his tools away,He locks the door and takes the key.Away behind the currant rowWhere no one else but cook may go,Far in the plots, I see him dig,Old and serious, brown and big.He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,Nor wishes to be spoken to.He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,And never seems to want to play.Silly gardener! summer goes,And winter comes with pinching toes,When in the garden bare and brownYou must lay your barrow down.Well now, and while the summer stays,To profit by these garden days,O how much wiser you would beTo play at Indian wars with me!

VIII

HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS

DEAR Uncle Jim, this garden groundThat now you smoke your pipe around,Has seen immortal actions doneAnd valiant battles lost and won.Here we had best on tip-toe tread,While I for safety march ahead,For this is that enchanted groundWhere all who loiter slumber sound.Here is the sea, here is the sand,Here is simple Shepherd's Land,Here are the fairy hollyhocks,And there are Ali Baba's rocks.But yonder, see! apart and high,Frozen Siberia lies; where I,With Robert Bruce and William Tell,Was bound by an enchanter's spell.There, then, awhile in chains we lay,In wintry dungeons, far from day;But ris'n at length, with might and main,Our iron fetters burst in twain.Then all the horns were blown in town;And to the ramparts clanging down,All the giants leaped to horseAnd charged behind us through the gorse.On we rode, the others and I,Over the mountains blue, and byThe Silver River, the sounding sea,And the robber woods of Tartary.A thousand miles we galloped fast,And down the witches' lane we passed,And rode amain, with brandished sword,Up to the middle, through the ford.Last we drew rein – a weary three —Upon the lawn, in time for tea,And from our steeds alighted downBefore the gates of Babylon.

ENVOYS

I

TO WILLIE AND HENRIETTA

If two may read arightThese rhymes of old delightAnd house and garden play,You two, my cousins, and you only, may.You in a garden greenWith me were king and queen,Were hunter, soldier, tar,And all the thousand things that children are.Now in the elders' seatWe rest with quiet feet,And from the window-bayWe watch the children, our successors, play."Time was," the golden headIrrevocably said;But time which none can bind,While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.

II

TO MY MOTHER

YOU too, my mother, read my rhymesFor love of unforgotten times,And you may chance to hear once moreThe little feet along the floor.

III

TO AUNTIE

CHIEF of our aunts– not only I,But all your dozen of nurslings cry —What did the other children do?And what were childhood, wanting you?

IV

TO MINNIE

THE red room with the giant bedWhere none but elders laid their head;The little room where you and IDid for awhile together lieAnd, simple suitor, I your handIn decent marriage did demand;The great day nursery, best of all,With pictures pasted on the wallAnd leaves upon the blind —A pleasant room wherein to wakeAnd hear the leafy garden shakeAnd rustle in the wind —And pleasant there to lie in bedAnd see the pictures overhead —The wars about Sebastopol,The grinning guns along the wall,The daring escalade,The plunging ships, the bleating sheep,The happy children ankle-deepAnd laughing as they wade:All these are vanished clean away,And the old manse is changed today;It wears an altered faceAnd shields a stranger race.The river, on from mill to mill,Flows past our childhood's garden still;But ah! we children never moreShall watch it from the water-door!Below the yew – it still is there —Our phantom voices haunt the airAs we were still at play,And I can hear them call and say:"How far is it to Babylon?"Ah, far enough, my dear,Far, far enough from here —Yet you have farther gone!"Can I get there by candlelight?"So goes the old refrain.I do not know – perchance you might —But only, children, hear it right,Ah, never to return again!The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,Shall break on hill and plain,And put all stars and candles out,Ere we be young again.To you in distant India, theseI send across the seas,Nor count it far across.For which of us forgetsThe Indian cabinets,The bones of antelope, the wings of albatross,The pied and painted birds and beans,The junks and bangles, beads and screens,The gods and sacred bells,And the loud-humming, twisted shells?The level of the parlour floorWas honest, homely, Scottish shore;But when we climbed upon a chair,Behold the gorgeous East was there!Be this a fable; and beholdMe in the parlour as of old,And Minnie just above me setIn the quaint Indian cabinet!Smiling and kind, you grace a shelfToo high for me to reach myself.Reach down a hand, my dear, and takeThese rhymes for old acquaintance' sake.

V

TO MY NAME-CHILD

1Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed,Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read.Then shall you discover, that your name was printed downBy the English printers, long before, in London town.In the great and busy city where the East and West are met,All the little letters did the English printer set;While you thought of nothing, and were still too young to play,Foreign people thought of you in places far away.Ay, and while you slept, a baby, over all the English landsOther little children took the volume in their hands;Other children questioned, in their homes across the seas:Who was little Louis, won't you tell us, mother, please?2Now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play,Seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of Monterey,Watching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze,Tiny sandy-pipers, and the huge Pacific seas.And remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you,Long ere you could read it, how I told you what to do;And that while you thought of no one, nearly half the world awaySome one thought of Louis on the beach of Monterey!

VI

TO ANY READER

AS from the house your mother seesYou playing round the garden trees,So you may see, if you will lookThrough the windows of this book,Another child, far, far away,And in another garden, play.But do not think you can at all,By knocking on the window, callThat child to hear you. He intentIs all on his play-business bent.He does not hear; he will not look,Nor yet be lured out of this book.For, long ago, the truth to say,He has grown up and gone away,And it is but a child of airThat lingers in the garden there.