Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

The Two Little Stockings

Two little stockings hung side by side,Close to the fireside broad and wide."Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came,Loaded with toys and many a game."Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun,"I'll have no cheating, my pretty one."I know who dwells in this house, my dear,There's only one little girl lives here."So he crept up close to the chimney place,And measured a sock with a sober face;Just then a wee little note fell outAnd fluttered low, like a bird, about."Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise,As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes,And read the address in a child's rough plan."Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began,"The other stocking you see on the wallI have hung up for a child named Clara Hall."She's a poor little girl, but very good,So I thought, perhaps, you kindly wouldFill up her stocking, too, to-night,And help to make her Christmas bright.If you've not enough for both stockings there,Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care."Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye,And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh;Then softly he blew through the chimney highA note like a bird's, as it soars on high,When down came two of the funniest mortalsThat ever were seen this side earth's portals."Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepareAll a little girl wants where money is rare."Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room!Away went the elves, but down from the gloomOf the sooty old chimney came tumbling lowA child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe.How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in,And fastened each one to the sock with a pin;Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,—"She'll think it came from the sky, I guess,"Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue,And tying the hood to the stocking, too.When all the warm clothes were fastened on,And both little socks were filled and done,Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there,And hurried away to the frosty air,Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear childWho pities them, too, on this night so wild."The wind caught the words and bore them on highTill they died away in the midnight sky;While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air,Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere.Sara Keables Hunt.

I Have a Rendezvous with Death

I have a rendezvous with DeathAt some disputed barricade,When Spring comes back with rustling shadeAnd apple-blossoms fill the air—I have a rendezvous with DeathWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.It may be he shall take my handAnd lead me into his dark landAnd close my eyes and quench my breath—It may be I shall pass him still.I have a rendezvous with DeathOn some scarred slope of battered hill,When Spring comes round again this yearAnd the first meadow-flowers appear.God knows't were better to be deepPillowed in silk and scented down,Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath—Where hushed awakenings are dear....But I've a rendezvous with DeathAt midnight in some flaming town,When Spring trips north again this year,And I to my pledged word am true,I shall not fail that rendezvous.Alan Seeger.

Let Us Be Kind

Let us be kind;The way is long and lonely,And human hearts are asking for this blessing only—That we be kind.We cannot know the grief that men may borrow,We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow,But love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow—Let us be kind.Let us be kind;This is a wealth that has no measure,This is of Heaven and earth the highest treasure—Let us be kind.A tender word, a smile of love in meeting,A song of hope and victory to those retreating,A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting—Let us be kind.Let us be kind;Around the world the tears of time are falling,And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling—Let us be kind.To age and youth let gracious words be spoken;Upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken,We live in vain who give no tender token—Let us be kind.Let us be kind;The sunset tints will soon be in the west,Too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast—Let us be kind.And when the angel guides have sought and found us,Their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us,And Heaven and home shall brighten all around us—Let us be kind.W. Lomax Childress.

The Water Mill

Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day,As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away;How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leavesAs in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves!A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast,"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main,The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain;The rippling stream flows on—aye, tranquil, deep and still,But never glideth back again to busy water mill;The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast,"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true,For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too;Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day,For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away;Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast—"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by,Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh;Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word,Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard.Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast—"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will,The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill;Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way,For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day."Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last—"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last,For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past;Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view,And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true.Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast,"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."Sarah Doudney.

Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold

What makes the dog's nose always cold?I'll try to tell you, Curls of Gold,If you will good and quiet be,And come and stand by mamma's knee.Well, years and years and years ago—How many I don't really know—There came a rain on sea and shore,Its like was never seen beforeOr since. It fell unceasing down,Till all the world began to drown;But just before it began to pour,An old, old man—his name was Noah—Built him an Ark, that he might saveHis family from a wat'ry grave;And in it also he designedTo shelter two of every kindOf beast. Well, dear, when it was done,And heavy clouds obscured the sun,The Noah folks to it quickly ran,And then the animals beganTo gravely march along in pairs;The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears,The deer, the hippopotamuses,The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses,The camels, goats, cats and donkeys,The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys,The rats, the big rhinoceroses,The dromedaries and the horses,The sheep, and mice and kangaroos,Hyenas, elephants, koodoos,And hundreds more-'twould take all day,My dear, so many names to say—And at the very, very endOf the procession, by his friendAnd master, faithful dog was seen;The livelong time he'd helping been,To drive the crowd of creatures in;And now, with loud, exultant bark,He gaily sprang abroad the Ark.Alas! so crowded was the spaceHe could not in it find a place;So, patiently, he turned about,Stood half way in, half way out,And those extremely heavy showersDescended through nine hundred hoursAnd more; and, darling, at the close,'Most frozen was his honest nose;And never could it lose againThe dampness of that dreadful rain.And that is what, my Curls of Gold,Made all the doggies' noses cold.

The African Chief

Chained in the market-place he stood,A man of giant frame,Amid the gathering multitudeThat shrunk to hear his name—All stern of look and strong of limb,His dark eye on the ground:—And silently they gazed on him,As on a lion bound.Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,He was a captive now,Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,Was written on his brow.The scars his dark broad bosom woreShowed warrior true and brave;A prince among his tribe before,He could not be a slave.Then to his conqueror he spake:"My brother is a king;Undo this necklace from my neck,And take this bracelet ring,And send me where my brother reigns,And I will fill thy handsWith store of ivory from the plains,And gold-dust from the sands.""Not for thy ivory nor thy goldWill I unbind thy chain;That bloody hand shall never holdThe battle-spear again.A price thy nation never gaveShall yet be paid for thee;For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,In lands beyond the sea."Then wept the warrior chief and badeTo shred his locks away;And one by one, each heavy braidBefore the victor lay.Thick were the platted locks, and long,And deftly hidden thereShone many a wedge of gold amongThe dark and crispèd hair."Look, feast thy greedy eye with goldLong kept for sorest need:Take it—thou askest sums untold,And say that I am freed.Take it—my wife, the long, long dayWeeps by the cocoa-tree,And my young children leave their play,And ask in vain for me.""I take thy gold—but I have madeThy fetters fast and strong,And ween that by the cocoa shadeThy wife will wait thee long,"Strong was the agony that shookThe captive's frame to hear,And the proud meaning of his lookWas changed to mortal fear.His heart was broken—crazed his brain;At once his eye grew wild;He struggled fiercely with his chain,Whispered, and wept, and smiled;Yet wore not long those fatal bands,And once, at shut of day,They drew him forth upon the sands,The foul hyena's prey.William Cullen Bryant.

He Who Has Vision

Where there is no vision the people perish.—Prov. 29:17He who has the vision sees more than you or I;He who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby;Time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts assail his thought,But the visionary came ere the builders wrought;Ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch,He, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march!He who has the vision hears more than you may hear,Unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear;From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne,Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn;Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and showsGlimpses of the larger life that his vision knows!He who has the vision feels more than you may feel,Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel—For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday,In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away,He who has the vision lives round and all complete,And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet.Folger McKinsey.

The Children We Keep

The children kept coming one by one,Till the boys were five and the girls were three.And the big brown house was alive with fun,From the basement floor to the old roof-tree,Like garden flowers the little ones grew,Nurtured and trained with tenderest care;Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew,They blossomed into beauty rare.But one of the boys grew weary one day,And leaning his head on his mother's breast,He said, "I am tired and cannot play;Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest."She cradled him close to her fond embrace,She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song,And rapturous love still lightened his faceWhen his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes,Who stood where the "brook and the river meet,"Stole softly away into ParadiseE'er "the river" had reached her slender feet.While the father's eyes on the graves were bent,The mother looked upward beyond the skies:"Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent;Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."The years flew by, and the children beganWith longings to think of the world outside,And as each in turn became a man,The boys proudly went from the father's side.The girls were women so gentle and fair,That lovers were speedy to woo and to win;And with orange-blooms in their braided hair,Their old home they left, new homes to begin.So, one by one the children have gone—The boys were five, the girls were three;And the big brown house is gloomy and alone,With but two old folks for its company.They talk to each other about the past,As they sit together at eventide,And say, "All the children we keep at lastAre the boy and girl who in childhood died."Mrs. E.V. Wilson.

The Stranger on the Sill

Between broad fields of wheat and cornIs the lowly home where I was born;The peach-tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still,—But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.There is the barn—and, as of yore,I can smell the hay from the open door,And see the busy swallows throng,And hear the pewee's mournful song;But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments runTill my life imbibed more shade than sun:The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,—But the stranger's children are swinging there.There bubbles the shady spring below,With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;'Twas there I found the calamus root,And watched the minnows poise and shoot,And heard the robin lave his wing:—But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,Step lightly, for I love it still!And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within' that scented doorTo gladden eyes that are no more.Deal kindly with these orchard trees;And when your children crowd your knees,Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart:To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.Thomas Buchanan Read.

The Old Man In the Model Church

Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshiped there to-day!It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray;The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago.But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door;He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor;He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly throughThe long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring;The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!"The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled,Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall,Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more;I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form,And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm.The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said;I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eyeWent flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth;It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth;'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed;'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed.The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews;And—though I can't see very well—I saw the falling tearThat told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near.How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place!How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face!Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend—"When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end."I hope to meet that minister—that congregation, too—In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue;I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray,The happy hour of worship in that model church today.Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won;The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run;O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore,To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.John H. Yates.

The Volunteer Organist

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk,An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk;Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there,An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz:"Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here,Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle.Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin,An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin.Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:"This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!"The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet,An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat.He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strainThet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain;An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees,He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry,It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky;The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway,An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!"An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears,Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears;An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat,Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that!An' then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven—Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven;The morning stars together sung—no soul wuz left alone—We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne!An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again,An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight,An' then—the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night!But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word,An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard;He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day,W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray."Sam Walter Foss.

The Finding of the Lyre

There lay upon the ocean's shoreWhat once a tortoise served to cover;A year and more, with rush and roar,The surf had rolled it over,Had played with it, and flung it by,As wind and weather might decide it,Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dryCheap burial might provide it.It rested there to bleach or tan,The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;With many a ban the fishermanHad stumbled o'er and spurned it;And there the fisher-girl would stay,Conjecturing with her brotherHow in their play the poor estrayMight serve some use or other.So there it lay, through wet and dry,As empty as the last new sonnet,Till by and by came Mercury,And, having mused upon it,"Why, here," cried he, "the thing of thingsIn shape, material, and dimension!Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,A wonderful invention!"So said, so done; the chords he strained,And, as his fingers o'er them hovered,The shell disdained a soul had gained,The lyre had been discovered.O empty world that round us lies,Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,Brought we but eyes like Mercury's,In thee what songs should waken!James Russel Lowell.

The High Tide (1571)

(Or "The Brides of Enderby")The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,The ringers rang by two, by three;"Pull, if ye never pulled before;Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he."Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells!Play all your changes, all your swells,Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"Men say it was a stolen tyde—The Lord that sent it, He knows all;But in myne ears doth still abideThe message that the bells let fall:And there was naught of strange, besideThe flight of mews ans peewits piedBy millions crouched on the old sea-wall.I sat and spun within the doore,My thread break off, I raised myne eyes;The level sun, like ruddy ore,Lay sinking in the barren skies,And dark against day's golden deathShe moved where Lindis wandereth,My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth."Cusha! Cusha!" all along;Ere the early dews were falling,Farre away I heard her song."Cusha! Cusha!" all along;Where the reedy Lindis floweth,Floweth, floweth,From the meads where melick growethFaintly came her milking song:"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,"For the dews will soone be falling;Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow;Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow;Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,From the clovers lift your head;Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,Jetty, to the milking shed."If it be long, ay, long ago,When I beginne to think howe long,Againe I hear the Lindis flow,Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong;And all the aire, it seemeth mee,Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she),That ring the tune of Enderby.Alle fresh the level pasture lay,And not a shadowe mote be seene,Save where full fyve good miles awayThe steeple towered from out the greene;And lo! the great bell farre and wideWas heard in all the country sideThat Saturday at eventide.The swanherds where there sedges areMoved on in sunset's golden breath,The shepherde lads I heard affare,And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;Till floating o'er the grassy seaCame down that kindly message free,The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."Then some looked uppe into the sky,And all along where Lindis flowsTo where the goodly vessels lie,And where the lordly steeple shows,They sayde, "And why should this thing be?What danger lowers by land or sea?They ring the tune of Enderby!"For evil news from Mablethorpe,Of pyrate galleys warping downe;For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,They have not spared to wake the towne;But while the west bin red to see,And storms be none, and pyrates flee,Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"I looked without, and lo! my sonneCame riding down with might and main:He raised a shout as he drew on,Till all the welkin rang again,"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe,The rising tide comes on apace,And boats adrift in yonder towneGo sailing uppe the market-place."He shook as one that looks on death:"God save you, mother!" straight he saith,"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?""Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,With her two bairns I marked her long;And ere yon bells beganne to playAfar I heard her milking song."He looked across the grassy lea,To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!"They rang "The Brides of Enderby"!With that he cried and beat his breast;For, lo! along the river's bedA mighty eygre reared his crest,And uppe the Lindis raging sped.It swept with thunderous noises loud;Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,Or like a demon in a shroud.And rearing Lindis backward pressed,Shook all her trembling bankes amaine,Then madly at the eygre's breastFlung uppe her weltering walls again.Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout—Then beaten foam flew round about—Then all the mighty floods were out.So farre, so fast the eygre drave,The heart had hardly time to beat,Before a shallow seething waveSobbed in the grasses at oure feet.The feet had hardly time to fleeBefore it brake against the knee,And all the world was in the sea.Upon the roofe we sat that night,The noise of bells went sweeping by;I marked the lofty beacon lightStream from the church tower, red and high,—A lurid mark and dread to see;And awesome bells they were to mee,That in the dark rang "Enderby."They rang the sailor lads to guideFrom roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;And I—my sonne was at my side,And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;And yet he moaned beneath his breath,"Oh, come in life, or come in death!Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth."And didst thou visit him no more?Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;The waters laid thee at his doore,Ere yet the early dawn was clear;Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,The lifted sun shone on thy face,Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!To manye more than myne and me:But each will mourn his own (she saith),And sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.I shall never hear her moreBy the reedy Lindis shore,"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" callingEre the early dews be falling;I shall never hear her song,"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,Where the sunny Lindis floweth,Goeth, floweth;From the meads where melick groweth,When the water winding down,Onward floweth to the town.I shall never see her moreWhere the reeds and rushes quiver,Shiver, quiver;Stand beside the sobbing river,Sobbing, throbbing, in its fallingTo the sandy lonesome shore;I shall never hear her calling,"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow;Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow;Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;Lightfoot, Whitefoot,From your clovers lift the head;Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,Jetty, to the milking-shed."Jean Ingelow.