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SPRING AND SUMMER.
SPRING is growing up,
Isn't it a pity ?
And so very pretty !
We must pay her duty; (But it is to little Spring
That she owes her beauty !)
All the buds are blown,
Trees are dark and shady, (It was Spring who dress'd them, though,
Such a little lady!)
Their enchanting hist'ries. (It was Spring who taught them, though,
Such a singing mistress !)
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,
We have Summer only!
And her stately paces,
With her childish graces !
A MIDSUMMER SONG.
R. W. GILDER.
Oh, father's gone to market-town: he was up before
And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that
minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a
Oh, where's Polly ?”
From all the misty morning air there comes a summer
sound, A murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and
COO; And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo : “Polly!- Polly!— The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where's Polly ?”
Above the trees, the honey-bees swarm by with buzz
and boom, And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny
But Polly!— Polly! — The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where's Polly ? How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop
its clatter! The farmer's wife is listening now, and wonders what's
the matter. Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the
hill, While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds
the mill. But Polly!— Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where's Polly!
THE WAY FOR BILLY AND ME.
WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
A CHILD TO A ROSE.
WHITE Rose, talk to me!
I don't know what to do.
Who say so much to you?
And I shall be so proud If, when you feel it on your face,
You take me for a cloud. Here I come so softly,
You cannot hear me walking; If I take you by surprise, I
you talking Tell all your thoughts to me,
Whisper in my ear; Talk against the winter,
He shall never hear. I can keep a secret
Since I was five years old. Tell if you were frighten'd
When first you felt the cold; And, in the splendid summer,
While you flush and grow, Are you ever out of heart
Thinking of the snow? Did it feel like dying
When first your blossoms fell ? Did you know about the spring ?
Did the daisies tell ? If you
had no notion, Only fear and doubt, How I should have liked to see
When you found it out! Such a beautiful surprise !
What must you have felt,