All up and down this reedy place Where lives the brook, We angled for the furtive dace; The redwing-blackbird did his best To make us think he 'd built his nest Hard by the stream, when, like as not, He 'd hung it in a secret spot Far from the brook, the telltale brook I And Fido-how he loved to swim The cooling brook, Whenever we 'd throw sticks for him; And how we boys did wish that we Could only swim as good as heWhy, Daniel Webster never was Recipient of such great applause As Fido, battling with the brook! But once-O most unhappy day For you, my brook!
Came Cousin Sam along that way;. Why do you scamper on your way, You little brook, When I come back to you to-day?
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Is it because you flee the grass That lunges at you as you pass, As if, in playful mood, it would Tickle the truant if it could, You chuckling brook-you saucy brook? Or is it you no longer know - You fickle brookThe honest friend of long ago? The years that kept us twain apart Have changed my face, but not my heartMany and sore those years, and yet I fancied you could not forget That happy time, my playmate brook! Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin' on the lea? Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to meGot a lump o' sugar an' a posie for you, Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin' doo!
Looked in er cradle, but did n't find you thereLooked f'r my wee, wee croodlin' doo ever'where; Be'n kind lonesome all er day withouten youWhere you be'n, my teeny, wee, wee croodlin' doo?
Jim and Them
And my heart it lieth where Mistress Sans-Merci doth fare. Little Mistress Sans-MerciShe hath made a slave of me! I knew the spot upon the hill Where checkerberries could be found, I knew the rushes near the mill Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound! And pining for the joys of youth, I tread the old familiar spot Only to learn this solemn truth: I have forgotten, am forgot. Yet here 's this youngster at my knee Knows all the things I used to know; To think I once was wise as he!
But that was very long ago. I know it 's folly to complain Of whatsoe'er the fates decree, Yet, were not wishes all in vain, I tell you what my wish should be: I 'd wish to be a boy again, Back with the friends I used to know. For I was, oh, so happy thenBut that was very long ago!
Endymion (Keats) - Wikisource, the free online library
And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes: "Now I lay me down to sleep. Oh, for an hour in that dear placeOh, for the peace of that dear timeOh, for that childish trust sublime - Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be aloneSweet magic of that treble tone And "Now I lay me down to sleep!
Full fifty years I 've dwelt Upon this honest tree, And long ago as people know! I brought thy father thee. What hail hath chilled thy heart, That thou shouldst bid me go? Speak out, I pray- then I '11 away, Since thou commandest so. Thou tellest of the time When, wheeling from the west, This hut thou sought'st and one thou brought'st Unto a mother's breast. I was the wretched child Was fetched that dismal morn'T were better die than be as I To life of misery born! And hadst thou borne me on Still farther up the town, A king I 'd be of high degree, And wear a golden crown! For yonder lives the prince Was brought that selfsame day: How happy he, while-look at me!
I toil my life away! And see my little boyTo what estate he 's born! Why, when I die no hoard leave I But poverty and scorn. And thou hast done it all Since, cobbler, thou dost speak Of one thou lovest well, Hear of that king what grievous thing This very morn befell. Whilst round thy homely bench They well-beloved played, In yonder hall beneath a pall A little one was laid; Thy well-beloved's face Was rosy with delight, But 'neath that pall in yonder hall The little face is white; Whilst by a merry voice Thy soul is filled with cheer, Another weeps for one that sleeps All mute and cold anear; One father hath his hope,.
Manual Myrtle Beach: ~ The sound of the waves is a hushed, lullaby of secrets.
I 'll nest no more above thy door, But, as thou bidst me, go. Nay, stork! I would not change my bench For any monarch's throne, Nor sacrifice at any price My darling and my own! Do other wimmin fret an' stew Like they wuz bein' crucifiedFrettin' a show or concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried? Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma 's there To see that everything is right, Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite; Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An' asks me every now and then: "I wonder if the baby cried?
Yes, wimmin folks is all alike - By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; There never wuz a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best. My heart were stone could it withstand The sweetness of my baby's plea,That timorous, baby knocking and "Please let me in,-it 's only me. The child shook sunlight from his hair, And caroled gaily all day longAye, with that specter gloating there, The innocent made mirth and song!
How like to harvest fruit wert thou, O sorrow, in that dismal roomGod ladeth not the tender bough Save with the joy of bud and bloom! Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys, And have been so since Abel's birth, And shall be so till dolls and toys Are with the children swept from earth. The selfsame sport that crowns the day Of many a Syrian shepherd's son, Beguiles the little lads at play By night in stately Babylon.
I hear their voices in the street, Yet 't is so different now from then! Come, brother! Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair; And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. Most generally it 's Marthy does the writing, but as she Is suffering with a felon, why, the job devolves on meSo, when the supper things are done and put away to-night, I '11 draw my boots and shed my coat and settle down to write. Oh, yes, there 's lots of pleasant things and no bad news to tell, Except that old Bill Graves was sick, but now he 's up and well.
Cy Cooper says- but I '11 not pass my word that it is so, For Cy he is some punkins on spinning yarns, you know He says that, since the freshet, the pickerel are so thick. The yellow rooster froze his feet, a-wadin' through the snow, And now he leans agin the fence when he starts in to crow; The chestnut colt that was so skittish when he went awayI 've broke him to the sulky and I drive him every day!
We 've got pink window curtains for the front spare-room up-stairs, And Lizzie 's made new covers for the parlor lounge and chairs;. His late lamented Sarah hain't been buried quite a year, So his purring 'round Miss Susan causes criticism here. At the last donation party, the minister opined That, if he 'd half suspicioned what was coming, he 'd resigned; For, though they brought him slippers like he was a centipede, His pantry was depleted by the consequential feed!
These are the things I '11 write him-our boy that 's in the West;. For when I went away from home, the weekly news I heard Was nothing to the tenderness I found in that one wordThe sacred name of mother-why, even now as then, The thought brings back the saintly face, the gracious love again;. I ate my crust in tears to-day, As scourged I went upon my wayAnd yet my darling smiled; Aye, beating at my breast, he laughedMy anguish curdled not the draught'T was sweet with love, my child!
Our harp is on the willow-tree-.
https://bankpresisin.tk I have no song to sing to thee, As shadows round us roll; But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer Judea's fainting soul! The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we toldWhy, thinking of them makes my presbyterian blood run cold!
How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his He 'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz! We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,. And, after tea, he 'd beckon us to join him in the shed Where he 'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red; Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!
For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; And when at last in self-defense she had to whip us, she Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we! But how we bellowed and took on, as if we 'd like to diePoor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made her cry! In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more!
Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: " I '11 see you in the woodshed after supper all alone! Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt! The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest Is often loath to realize that all is for the best;. The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rimesSo, Harvey, let us sit a while and think upon those times.
The pretty rose that bloomed anon Upon my mother breast, they stole; They let the dove I nursed with love Fly far awayso sped my soul! That falcon Death swooped down upon My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung; 'T is hushed and dark where soared the lark, And so, and so my heart was wrung! They shook my beauteous almond-tree, Beating its glorious bloom to deathThey strewed it round upon the ground, And mocked its fragrant dying breath. I was a mother, and I weep; I seek the rose where nestleth noneNo more is heard the singing bird-- I have no little golden son!
So fall the shadows over me, The blighted garden, lonely nest. Reach down in love, 0 God above! And fold my darling to thy breast,. And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow-- Heigho, my dearie!
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To think that I, who 've ruled alone So proudly in the past, Should be ejected from my throne By my own son at last! He trots his treason to and fro, As only babies can, And says he '11 be his mamma's beau When he 's a "gweat, big man"! He was never the same again, though his strength of will and his desperate courage fought with this infinite pain. For the rest of his life he lived as she would have had him live—guided his actions by the thought of what his wife, if living, would have had him do—loving her still, with the love that passeth all understanding.
He declined the sarcophagus fit for an emperor, that he might be buried like a simple citizen, in the garden by her side.