Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 52

Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.

Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, Fer to see 'f the' 's anyone pa.s.sin' by; But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.

_They_ turn up at him a wonderin' eye, To see--The dragon! he's goin' to fly!

Away he goes! Jimmmy! what a jump!

Flop-flop-an' plump To the ground with a thump!

Flutt'rin an' flound'rin', all in a lump!"

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere,-- Heels over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-- So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barnyard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs, Broken tail and broken wings, Shooting-stars, and various things!

Away with a bellow fled the calf, And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?

'Tis a merry roar From the old barn-door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, "Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?

Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff.

"Wall, I like flyin' well enough,"

He said; "but the' ain't sich a thunder-in' sight O' fun in 't when ye come to light."

MORAL

I just have room for the moral here: And this is the moral,--Stick to your sphere.

Or if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is,--Take care how you light.

_John T. Trowbridge._

Song of the Shirt

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- St.i.tch! st.i.tch! st.i.tch!

In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the c.o.c.k is crowing aloof!

And work--work--work, Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where a woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work--work--work, Till the brain begins to swim; Work--work--work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the b.u.t.tons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"O men, with sisters dear!

O men, with mothers and wives!

It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

St.i.tch--st.i.tch--st.i.tch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,-- Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt!

"But why do I talk of Death,-- That phantom of grisly bone?

I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own,-- It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; O G.o.d! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work! work! work!

My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread--and rags, That shattered roof--this naked floor-- A table--a broken chair-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!

"Work--work--work!

From weary chime to chime!

Work--work--work As prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band,-- Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work--work--work!

In the dull December light!

And Work--work--work!

When the weather is warm, and bright!

While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the spring.

"Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,-- With the sky above my head, And the gra.s.s beneath my feet!

For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour,-- A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,-- St.i.tch! st.i.tch! st.i.tch!

In poverty, hunger and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-- Would that its tone could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt."

_Thomas Hood._

Christmas Everywhere

Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!

Christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine, Christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine, Christmas where snow-peaks stand solemn and white, Christmas where corn-fields lie sunny and bright, Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!

Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, Christmas where old men are patient and gray, Christmas where peace, like a dove in its flight, Broods o'er brave men in the thick of the fight; Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

For the Christ-child who comes is the Master of all, No palace too great and no cottage too small, The angels who welcome Him sing from the height: "In the city of David, a King in his might."

Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

Then let every heart keep its Christmas within, Christ's pity for sorrow, Christ's hatred of sin, Christ's care for the weakest, Christ's courage for right, Christ's dread of the darkness, Christ's love of the light.

Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

So the stars of the midnight which compa.s.s us round Shall see a strange glory, and hear a sweet sound, And cry, "Look! the earth is aflame with delight, O sons of the morning, rejoice at the sight."

Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

_Philllips Brooks._

The Cloud