LITTLE BROWN HANDS. M. H. KROUT. THEY drive home the cows from the pasture, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, They gather the earliest snowdrops, And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the new hay in the meadow; They know where the apples hang ripest, They gather the delicate sea-weeds, And so from these brown-handed children -- OVER AND OVER AGAIN. ANONYMOUS. OVER and over again, No matter which way I turn, I must take my turn at the mill, I must grind out the golden grain, I must work at my task with a resolute will, Over and over again. We cannot measure the need Of even the tiniest flower, Nor check the flow of the golden sands That run through a single hour; But the morning dews must fall, And the sun and the summer rain Must do their part, and perform it all Over and over again The brook through the meadows flows, And over and over again Though doing be not in vain ; The path that has once been trod, And the heart to its depths be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all To render us meet for Heaven. SUNSHINE. FROM THE FRENCH OF DELAVIGNE. TRANSLATED AND ARRANGED BY THE EDITORS. WHEN the bright sun Doth smiling rise, A ruddy ball Through cloudy skies, The wood and field And flower and leaf In childish hearts Chasing black care Joys, like the flowers, Still in their eyes. SIXTY AND SIX. THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. "FONS DELICIUM DOMUS." Joy of the morning, Darling of dawning, Blithe little, lithe little daughter of mine, While with thee ranging, Sure I'm exchanging Sixty of my years for six years like thine. Gay as the thistle-down over the lea; Comic or tragic, Played as thou playest it daily with me. Floating and ringing, Thy merry singing Comes when the light comes, like that of the birds. All's in the music and naught in the words. Glad or grief-laden, Schubert or Haydn, Ballad of Erin, or merry Scotch lay; Some baby angel, Brought from sky-nursery, stealing away. Surely I know it, Artist nor poet Guesses my treasure of jubilant hours. Nearer or far, they Vanish like sunshine, like dew from the flowers. Years, I am glad of them! Would that I had of them More and yet more, while thus mingled with thine. Age, I make light of it, Fear not the sight of it; Time's but our playmate, whose toys are divine. SEVEN TIMES ONE. JEAN INGELOW. THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, I've said my "seven times" over and over, I am old, so old I can write a letter; |