Puslapio vaizdai
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Crumbs of Pity.

KEEN is the morning, keen and bright,
And all the lawn with frost is white;
In every bush, in every tree,
The birds sit watching warily.
Now out, now in, they hop and peer,
And cock their cunning heads to hear
The chirping of a childish voice:
They know it well, and they rejoice
When resolutely stepping, comes
To scatter here her gift of crumbs,
Her round face topped with shining curls,
My little laughing girl of girls.

And, O ye soft and feathered things,
Readbreasts who flit on fearless wings,
Familiar, friendly, boldly shy,
Birds of the liquid, trustful eye;
Ye sparrows, chattering o'er your food,
Linnets, and all the pretty brood
Of finches, blackbirds yellow-billed,
And thrushes with your music stilled-
Since winter's icy breath makes mute
The swelling ripple of your flute;
Ye, too, ye sable suited rooks,

Timid for all your threatening looks,

Who in solemnity survey

Your twittering colleagues at their play,

Where on the poplar's top you swing,

And desperately claw and cling;

Then, when each bird has pecked its last, And all the fluttering rout is past,

And all the chirping duly dumb,

Swoop down, but rarely find a crumb;—
All ye, whose hungry bills are fed
By Helen's daily doles of bread,
Be not afraid, be not afraid
To gather round my rosy maid.
Oh, give a kindly thought to her,
Your little friend and minister;
And, as you watch her, pass the word—
"She's but a plump unfeathered bird."
So when the day is done, and night
Sets all the twinkling stars alight,
You'll breathe a bird-wish as you sleep,
That One who guards the birds may keep
Cosy and safe from every ill,

From winds that bite and frosts that chill,
And through the night's long hours defend
The birds' unfeathered little friend.

Ye sportive mice that swiftly go
Behind the wainscot to and fro,
And sometimes to your outlets creep
And half pop out and take a peep,
Alert, but ready to retreat,

Into a world where cheese smells sweet

Ye quivering, twisting specks of fur
With whisking tails and ears astir,
We do not grudge you of our store;
A little less, a little more,

It matters not, so nibble on

In peace, then like a flash begone.

I cannot bear to bar the house
To here and there a tiny mouse.
And Helen, if she marks at all
Your scamperings from wall to wall,
Will smile to hear you frisk and run:
"It's mousies, Daddy, having fun."
So, Helen, ere at eve you steep
Your busy baby-brain in sleep,
Your mother takes you on her knee
And whispers to you tenderly.
You watch her lips, you clasp her hand,
And, though you may not understand
Each word she says or all that's meant,
You listen and you purr assent.
And it may chance that on a day

Far hence, to this your thoughts will stray,
And in a dream you'll seem to hear
The words with all their meaning clear:
Ah, then you'll recollect and know
What the dear voice said long ago:
"My sweet, be sure no gentle thought
That from God's love a ray has caught,

No tender childish pity spent
On creatures meek and innocent,

No mercy for their lowly lot

Is ever wasted or forgot.

God, who gave children pity, heeds

Such loving thoughts, such gentle deeds: He sets them, gold and clustering gems On angels' brows as diadems,

And looks Himself in pity mild

On bird, and mouse, and little child."

The Fields of Dream.

THE fields are like a tapestry:
Afar, they seem one hue, design,
But near, what curious tracery,
What subtle and what flowing line!
Carnations, violets, gentians shine
In scrolls outlined by living grass-
Those fields where never footsteps pass.
A joyous summer, ne'er despoiled
By weathers, keeps them aye in bloom;
And lovely, lucent roots are coiled
Deep in the stems' illumined gloom;
Beyond the breath of Death and Doom
Those fields extend their parquetries,
Their fine and mingled harmonies.

Winged insects, monstrous or minute,
Drill through the aromatic air,
Creep round the aromatic root;
And doves embroider, pair by pair,

The lyric heavens; and storms have there
The shapes of Beasts, with horns and scales
That feather them, and jewelled tails.

The grasses' soft enamelling

On the enchanted sky is thrown;
Like birds in chaste cloisonné wing
Great jays and kingfishers, wide flown,

Like winds of blue and emerald blown

Like winds that stir not, but are seen
Above the sweet, concerted green.

'Mid mushrooms, bells, and pollen rise
Quaint orchids, licking at the air

Like snakes; and snakes with golden eyes
And smooth and supple bracelets stare,
And amble, jimp and debonnaire,
By blond and perfumed roots that beat
As hearts, and crawl with living feet!

Fanged, rufous beetles drop and leap,
Red vampires, venomous and blind,
And earthy griffins, stirred from sleep,
Peer out and arch them, serpent-spined,
War bloodily, each kind with kind;
Yet overhead no tremors pass
On the bright symbols of this grass.

O fields where never footsteps pass,
Whose roses and whose lilies flow
In rhythmic lines; whose patterned grass
Is crosst by winds that never blow!
O fields I see yet never know,

Stopped by a Mask with orbs of stone,
Named Sleep, who holds you as his own!

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