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And all the rivers and all the rills
Were foaming mad with him.
That awful day
Then the little boy cried, “Let me go, let me go!"
For a scared, scared boy was he.
And the wind roared, “Follow me!"
Oh, the awful day
Then the moon looked out from a cloud and said:
"Are you sorry you ran away? If I light you home to your trundle bed,
Will you stay, little boy, will you stay?"
But, oh what a day
A Song in Winter,
A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK.
ROBIN sings on the leafless spray,
Hey ho, winter will go! Sunlight shines on the desolate way,
And under my feet
I feel the beat
Never is still,
Life out of death, as day out of night,
Hey ho, winter will go!
A delicate sheen
Of budding green, Then, silent, the dawn o' summer breaks,
As morning breaks, O'er valley and height.
The tide ebbs out, and the tide flows back;
Hey ho, winter will go! Though heaven be screened by stormy rack,
It rains, and the blue
Comes laughing through; And, cloud-like, winter goes from the earth,
Goes from the earth That flowers in his track.
Sing, robin, sing on your leafless spray,
Hey ho, winter will go! Sunlight and song shall shorten the way, And under
feet I feel the beat, Of the world's heart that never is still,
Never is still, Whatever may stay.
The Hang-Bird's Nest.
A Cradle Song.
GEO. S. BURLEIGH.
OCK-A-BY, birdies, upon the elm-tree,
Where the long limbs wave gently and free; Tough as a bow-string, and drooping and small, Nothing can break them to give you a fall; Rock-a-by, birdies, along with the breeze, All the leaves over you humming like bees; High away, low away, come again, go! Go again, come again, rock-a-by-low! Wonder how papa-bird braided that nest, Binding the twigs about close to his breast; Wonder how many there are in your bed, Bonny swing-cradle hung far overhead. Never mind, birdies, how lightly it swings, Mother-bird covers you close with her wings. High away, low away, come again, go! Go again, come again, rock-a-by-low! Rock-a-by, birdies, there's no one to tire; Mother rides with you; her wings are like fire; All the bright feathers are round you so warm; Rain cannot reach you and wind cannot harm; Pretty bird-babies, let baby go swing In your high cradle, while mamma shall sing: High away, low away, come again, go! Go again, come again, rock-a-by-low!
ARCH! March! March! They are coming
In troops, to the tune of the wind; Red-headed woodpeckers drumming,
Gold-crested thrushes behind;
Past every gateway door;
Just where they stopped years before.
March! March! March! They are slipping
Into their places at lastLittle white lily-buds, dripping
Under the showers that fall fast; Buttercups, violets, roses,
Snowdrop, and bluebell, and pink, Throng upon throng of sweet posies,
Bending the dewdrops to drink.
March! March! March! They will hurry
Forth at the wild bugle-sound-
Fluttering all over the ground.
Shake out your red tassels, larch!
Hear who is calling you-March!