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TREES
I
think that I shall never see,
a poem as lovely as a tree,
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest,
Against the earth's
sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer
wear
a nest of Robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain,
Poems are made
by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.
Joyce Kilmer-(1886-1918)
LITTLE THINGS
Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand
Make the mighty ocean
And the pleasant land.
Little
deeds of kindness,
Make our world an eden
Like the Heaven above.
WE ARE SEVEN
A simple child,That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?
I
met a little cottage girl:She was eight years old she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clusterd round her
head.
She had a rustic,woodland air:And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair and very fair;-her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters
and brothers,little maid,How many may you be?"
"How many?Seven in all,"she said,And wondering looked at me.
"and where
are they?I pray you tell."She answerd,Seven are we:
And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea:
"Two of us
in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother,
And,in the churchyard cottage,I Dwell with them with my Mother".
"You
say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!I pray you tell,Sweet, maid how this may be?"
Then
did the little maid reply"Seven boys and girls are we;
"Two of us in the churchyard lieBeneath the churchyard tree."
"You
run about,my little maid";"Your limbs they are alive;"
"If two are in the churchyard laid,""Then ye are only five?"
"Their
graves are green,they may be seen,"the little maid replied:
"Twelve steps or more from my mothers door",
And they are side by side."My stockings there I often knit;
My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit,
And
sing a song to them."And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,I take my little poringer,
And eat my supper
there."The first that died was Sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went
away."So in the churchyard she was laid;
And,then the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,
My brother John
and I"."And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,
And
he lies by her side.""How many are you then said I?
"If they two are in heaven?"Quick was the little maids reply:
"O Master!we are seven,""But they are dead; those two
are dead!
"Their spirits are in heaven!"-Twas throwing words away;for still
The little maid would have her will,And
said,"Nay we are seven!"
William Wordsworth,(1770-1850)
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