ACCOUNT OF A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS
Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering sight should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof--
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he look'd like a pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlfull of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And fill'd all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."
BABYLON
Robert
Graves (1895 – 1985)
The
child alone a poet is:
Spring
and Fairyland are his.
Truth
and reason show but dim,
And
all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme
and music flow in plenty
For
the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than
daisies to a munching cow;
Just
a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s
forgotten how he smiled
And
shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For
April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom
made him old and wary
Banishing
the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon
to bits: she scattered
To
the hedges and ditches
All
our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag
their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,
Mother
Goose and Oberon,
Bluebeard
and King Solomon,
Robin
and Red Riding Hood
Take
together to the wood,
And
Sir Galahad lies hid
In
a case with Captain Kidd.
None
of all the magic hosts,
None
remain but a few ghosts
Of
timorous heart, to linger on
Weeping
for lost Babylon.
A BOY IN CHURCH
Robert Graves
“GABBLE-GABBLE,….
Brethren, … gabble-gabble!”
My
window frames forest and heather.
I
hardly hear the tuneful babble,
Not
knowing nor much caring whether
The
text is praise or exhortation,
Prayer
or thanksgiving, or damnation.
Outside
it blows wetter and wetter,
The
tossing trees never stay still.
I
shift my elbows to catch better
The
full round sweep of heathered hill.
The
tortured copse bends to and fro
In
silence like a shadow-show.
The parson’s voice runs like a river
Over
smooth rocks. I like this church:
The
pews are staid, they never shiver,
They
never bend or sway or lurch.
“Prayer,”
says the kind voice, “is a chain
That
draws down Grace from Heaven again.
I
add the hymns up, over and over,
Until
there’s not the least mistake.
Seven-seventy-one. (Look! There’s a plover!
It’s
gone!) Who’s that Saint by the lake?
The
red light from his mantle passes
Across
the broad memorial brasses.
It’s
pleasant here for dreams and thinking,
Lolling
and letting reason nod,
With
ugly serious people linking
Sad
prayers to a forgiving God ….
But
a dumb blast sets the trees swaying
With
furious zeal like madmen praying.
CHILDHOOD
David
Bates (1809-1870)
Childhood,
sweet and sunny childhood,
With
its careless, thoughtless air,
Like
the verdant, tangled wildwood,
Wants
the training hand of care.
See
it springing all around us—
Glad
to know, and quick to learn;
Asking
questions that confound us;
Teaching
lessons in its turn.
Who
loves not its joyous revel,
Leaping
lightly on the lawn,
Up
the knoll, along the level,
Free
and graceful as a fawn?
Let
it revel; it is nature
Giving
to the little dears
Strength
of limb, and healthful features,
For
the toil of coming years.
He
who checks a child with terror,
Stops
its play, and stills its song,
Not
alone commits an error,
But
a great and moral wrong.
Give
it play, and never fear it—
Active
life is no defect;
Never,
never break its spirit—
Curb
it only to direct.
Would
you dam the flowing river,
Thinking
it would cease to flow?
Onward
it must go forever—
Better
teach it where to go.
Childhood
is a fountain welling,
Trace
its channel in the sand,
And
its currents, spreading, swelling,
Will
revive the withered land.
Childhood
is the vernal season;
Trim
and train the tender shoot;
Love
is to the coming reason,
As
the blossom to the fruit.
Tender
twigs are bent and folded—
Art
to nature beauty lends;
Childhood
easily is moulded;
Manhood
breaks, but seldom bends.
CRADLE SONG
William Blake (1757-1827)
SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.
DONG
WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE
Edward
Lear (1812 - 1888)
When
awful darkness and silence reign
Over
the great Gromboolian plain,
Through
the long, long wintry nights; --
When
the angry breakers roar
As
they beat on the rocky shore; --
When
Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
Of
the Hills of the Chankly Bore: --
Then,
through the vast and gloomy dark,
There
moves what seems a fiery spark,
A
lonely spark with silvery rays
Piercing
the coal-black night, --
A
Meteor strange and bright: --
Hither
and thither the vision strays,
A
single lurid light.
Slowly
it wander, -- pauses, -- creeps, --
Anon
it sparkles, -- flashes and leaps;
And
ever as onward it gleaming goes
A
light on the Bong-tree stems it throws.
And
those who watch at that midnight hour
From
Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
Cry,
as the wild light passes along, --
"The Dong! -- the Dong!"
The
wandering Dong through the forest goes!
"The
Dong! the Dong!
"The
Dong with a luminous Nose!"
Long
years ago
The
Dong was happy and gay,
Till
he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl
Who
came to those shores one day.
For
the Jumblies came in a sieve, they did, --
Landing
at eve near the Zemmery Fidd
Where
the Oblong Oysters grow,
And
the rocks are smooth and gray.
And
all the woods and the valleys rang
With
the Chorus they daily and nightly sang, --
"Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and the hands are blue
And
they went to sea in a sieve.
Happily,
happily passed those days!
While
the cheerful Jumblies staid;
They
danced in circlets all night long,
To
the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong,
In
moonlight, shine, or shade.
For
day and night he was always there
By
the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair,
With
her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair.
Till
the morning came of that hateful day
When
the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away,
And
the Dong was left on the cruel shore
Gazing
-- gazing for evermore, --
Ever
keeping his weary eyes on
That
pea-green sail on the far horizon, --
Singing
the Jumbly Chorus still
As
he sate all day on the grassy hill, --
"Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and the hands are blue
And
they went to sea in a sieve.
But
when the sun was low in the West,
The
Dong arose and said;
--
"What little sense I once possessed
Has
quite gone out of my head!" --
And
since that day he wanders still
By
lake and dorest, marsh and hills,
Singing
-- "O somewhere, in valley or plain
"Might
I find my Jumbly Girl again!
"For
ever I'll seek by lake and shore
"Till
I find my Jumbly Girl once more!"
Playing
a pipe with silvery squeaks,
Since
then his Jumbly Girl he seeks,
And
because by night he could not see,
He
gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree
On
the flowery plain that grows.
And
he wove him a wondrous Nose, --
A
Nose as strange as a Nose could be!
Of
vast proportions and painted red,
And
tied with cords to the back of his head.
--
In a hollow rounded space it ended
With
a luminous Lamp within suspended,
All
fenced about
To
prevent the wind from blowing it out;
And
with holes all round to send the light,
In
gleaming rays on the dismal night.
And
now each night, and all night long,
Over
those plains still roams the Dong;
And
above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe
You
may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe
While
ever he seeks, but seeks in vain
To
meet with his Jumbly Girl again;
Lonely
and wild -- all night he goes, --
The
Dong with a luminous Nose!
And
all who watch at the midnight hour,
From
Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
Cry,
as they trace the Meteor bright,
Moving
along through the dreary night, --
"This
is the hour when forth he goes,
"The
Dong with a luminous Nose!
"Yonder
-- over the plain he goes;
"He
goes!
"He
goes;
"The Dong with a luminous Nose!
IN
SCHOOL DAYS
John
Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)
Still
sits the school-house by the road,
A
ragged beggar sleeping;
Around
it still the sumachs grow,
And
blackberry-vines are creeping.
Within,
the master’s desk is seen,
Deep
scarred by raps official;
The
warping floor, the battered seats,
The
jack-knife’s carved initial;
The
charcoal frescos on its wall;
Its
door’s worn sill, betraying
The
feet, that creeping slow to school,
Went
storming out to playing!
Long
years ago a winter sun
Shone
over it at setting;
Lit
up its western window-panes,
And
low eaves’ icy fretting.
It
touched the tangled golden curls,
And
brown eyes full of grieving,
Of
one who still her steps delayed
When
all the school were leaving.
For
near her stood the little boy
Her
childish favor singled:
His
cap pulled low upon a face
Where
pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing
with restless feet the snow
To
right and left, he lingered;--
As
restlessly her tiny hands
The
blue-checked apron fingered.
He
saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The
soft hand’s light caressing,
And
heard the tremble of her voice,
As
if a fault confessing.
“I’m
sorry that I spelt the word:
I
hate to go above you,
Because,”
–the brown eyes lower fell,--
“Because,
you see, I love you!”
Still
memory to a gray-haired man
That
sweet child-face is showing.
Dear
girl! The grasses on her grave
Have
forty years been growing!
He
lives to learn, in life’s hard school,
How
few who pass above him
Lament
their triumph and his loss
Like
her--because they love him.
THE
JUMBLIES
Edward
Lear (1812 - 1888)
They
went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In
a Sieve they went to sea:
In
spite of all their friends could say,
On
a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In
a Sieve they went to sea!
And
when the Sieve turned round and round,
And
every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
They
called aloud, "Our Sieve ain't big,
But
we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In
a Sieve we'll go to sea!"
Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And
they went to sea in a Sieve.
They
sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In
a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With
only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied
with a riband by way of a sail,
To
a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And
every one said, who saw them go,
"Oh
won't they be soon upset, you know!
For
the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And
happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In
a Sieve to sail so fast!"
Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And
they went to sea in a Sieve.
The
water it soon came in, it did,
The
water it soon came in;
So
to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In
a pinky paper all folded neat,
And
they fastened it down with a pin.
And
they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And
each of them said, "How wise we are!
Though
the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet
we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While
round in our Sieve we spin!"
Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And
they went to sea in a Sieve.
And
all night long they sailed away;
And
when the sun went down
They
whistled and warbled a moony song
To
the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In
the shade of the mountains brown.
"O
Timballoo! How happy we are,
When
we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And
all night long in the moonlight pale,
We
sail away with a pea-green sail,
In
the shade of the mountains brown!"
Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And
they went to sea in a Sieve.
They
sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To
a land all covered with trees,
And
they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And
a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And
a hive of silvery Bees.
And
they bought a Pig, and some green Jackdaws,
And
a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And
forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And
no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And
they went to sea in a Sieve.
And
in twenty years they all came back,
In
twenty years or more,
And
every one said, "How tall they've grown!
For
they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And
the hills of the Chankly Bore;"
And
they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of
dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And
everyone said, "If we only live,
We
too will go to sea in a Sieve,
To
the hills of the Chankly Bore!"
Far
and few, far and few,
Are
the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their
heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And
they went to sea in a Sieve.
Eugene
Field (1850-1895)
The
little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And
the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And the musket moulds in his hands.
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.
“Now,
don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So,
toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And,
as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh!
The years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Aye,
faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place—
Awaiting
the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And
they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What
has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.
LOOKING FORWARD
Robert Louis Stevenson
When
I am grown to man’s estate
I
shall be very proud and great,
And
tell the other girls and boys
Not
to meddle with my toys.
PIANO
D.
H. Lawrence (1885)
Softly,
in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking
me back down the vista of years, till I see
A
child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small poised feet
of
a mother who smiles as she sings.
In
spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays
me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To
the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And
hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So
now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With
the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of
childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down
in the floor of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
PITTYPAT
AND TIPPYTOE
Eugene
Field (1850-1895)
All
day long they come and go—
Pittypat
and Tippytoe;
Footprints up and down the hall,
Playthings scattered on the floor,
Finger-marks along the wall,
Tell-tale smudges on the door—
By
these presents you shall know
Pittypat
and Tippytoe.
How
they riot at their play!
And
a dozen times a day
In they troop, demanding bread—
Only buttered bread will do,
And the butter must be spread
Inches thick with sugar too!
And
I never can say “No,
Pittypat
and Tippytoe!”
Sometimes
there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes
ruffled brows to smooth;
For (I much regret to say)
Tittytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie,
for shame! To quarrel so—
Pittypat
and Tippytoe!
Oh
the thousand worrying things
Every
day recurrent brings!
Hands to scrub and hair to brush
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a wee complaint to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life
seems one vain, fleeting show
To
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
And
when day is at an end,
There
are little duds to mend;
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shoes great holes reveal.
Little hose, but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
Who
but you could work such woe,
Pittypat
and Tippytoe!
On
the floor and down the hall,
Rudely
smutched upon the wall,
There are proofs in every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought,
And upon my heart you’d find
Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
Oh,
how glad I am ‘tis so,
Pittypat
and Tippytoe!
THE PROPHET: ON CHILDREN
Kahlil Gibran
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said,
Speak
to us of Children.
And
he said:
Your
children are not your children.
They
are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They
come through you but not from you,
And
though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You
may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For
they have their own thoughts.
You
may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which
you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You
may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For
life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as
living arrows are sent forth.
The
archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His
might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let
your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies,
so
He loves also the bow that is stable.
THE
SPIDER AND THE FLY
Mary
Howitt
“Will
you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,
‘Tis
the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The
way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And
I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.”
“Oh
no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For
who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”
“I’m
sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will
you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around;
the
sheets are fine and thin,
And
if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!”
“Oh
no, no” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,
They
never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”
Said
the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend what can I do,
To
prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I
have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;
I’m
sure you’re very welcome—will you please to take a slice?”
“Oh
no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind Sir, that cannot be,
I’ve
heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!”
“Sweet
creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise,
How
handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I’ve
a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If
you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”
“I
thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,
And
bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.”
The
Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For
well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So
he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And
set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then
he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
“Come
hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your
robes are green and purple—there’s a crest upon your head;
Your
eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”
Alas,
alas! How very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing
his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With
buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking
only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue—
Thinking
only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last,
Up
jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He
dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den.
Within
his little parlour—but she ne’er came out again!
And
now dear little children, who may this story read,
To
idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:
Unto
an evil counselor, close heart and ear and eye,
And
take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.