Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 57

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; "Doth G.o.d exact day-labor, light denied?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "G.o.d doth not need Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."

_John Milton._

A Boy's Song

Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee.

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest; There to trace the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the cl.u.s.tering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from their play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay, Up the water and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

_James Hogg._

November

The leaves are fading and falling, The winds are rough and wild, The birds have ceased their calling, But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes, Doth darker and colder grow, The roots of the bright red roses Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over, The boughs will get new leaves, The quail come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves.

There must be rough, cold weather, And winds and rains so wild; Not all good things together Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses Its beauteous summer glow, Think how the roots of the roses Are kept alive in the snow.

_Alice Gary._

Little Birdie

What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day?

"Let me fly," says little birdie-- "Mother, let me fly away."

"Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger."

So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie, "Let me rise and fly away."

"Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger.

If she sleeps a little longer, Baby, too, shall fly away."

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

The Fairies

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky sh.o.r.e Some make their home; They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold, starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn trees For pleasure here and there; Is any man so daring, As dig them up in spite?

He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather,

_William Allingham._

The Wonderful World

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful gra.s.s upon your breast, World, you are beautifully drest.

The wonderful air is over me.

And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-- It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the top of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?