THE HUMAN SEASONS FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year; He has his Summer, when luxuriously Is nearest unto Heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, John Keats [1795-1821] SOMETHING to live for came to the place, Something to die for maybe, Something to give even sorrow a grace, Cooing, and laughter, and gurgles, and cries, Chaos of hopes, and of raptures, and sighs, Last year, like all years, the rose and the thorn; But heaven stooped under the roof on the morn Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835 INFANT JOY "I HAVE no name; I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee; Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee! William Blake [1757-1827] BABY From "At the Back of the North Wind " WHERE did you come from, baby dear? Where did you get those eyes so blue? What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? Strange Lands What makes your forehead so smooth and high? What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Where did you get this pearly ear? Where did you get those arms and hands? Feet, where did you come, you darling things? How did they all just come to be you? But how did you come to us, you dear? George Macdonald [1824-1905] STRANGE LANDS WHERE do you come from, Mr. Jay? "From the land of Play, from the land of Play." And where can that be, Mr. Jay? "Far away-far away." Where do you come from, Mrs. Dove? "From the land of Love, from the land of Love." And how do you get there, Mrs. Dove? "Look above-look above." Where do you come from, Baby Miss? "From the land of Bliss, from the land of Bliss.” And what is the way there, Baby Miss? "Mother's kiss-mother's kiss." Laurence Alma-Tadema [18 5 A RHYME OF ONE You sleep upon your mother's breast, A welcome, long a wished-for Guest, A Baby-Boy, you wonder why You try to talk-how hard you try!— Ere long you won't be such a dunce: And fly your kite, like folk who once You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke, Such feats are never done by folk Some day, too, you may have your joy, Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy, He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do (You crown a happy home, though you But when he's grown shall you be here And talk of times when he (the Dear!) Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be I'm glad, though I am old, you see, While you are One. Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895] |