The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 32 : They don't know much about the moss And all the stones they pa.s.s: They never lie

They don't know much about the moss And all the stones they pa.s.s: They never lie and play among The forests in the gra.s.s:

They walk about a long way off; And, when we're at the sea, Let father stoop as best he can He can't find things like me.

But, when the snow is on the ground And all the puddles freeze, I wish that I were very tall, High up above the trees.

Laurence Alma-Tadema [18--

"WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?"

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is pa.s.sing through.

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is pa.s.sing by.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

THE WIND'S SONG

O winds that blow across the sea, What is the story that you bring?

Leaves clap their hands on every tree And birds about their branches sing.

You sing to flowers and trees and birds Your sea-songs over all the land.

Could you not stay and whisper words A little child might understand?

The roses nod to hear you sing; But though I listen all the day, You never tell me anything Of father's s.h.i.+p so far away.

Its masts are taller than the trees; Its sails are silver in the sun; There's not a s.h.i.+p upon the seas So beautiful as father's one.

With wings spread out it flies so fast It leaves the waves all white with foam.

Just whisper to me, blowing past, If you have seen it sailing home.

I feel your breath upon my cheek, And in my hair, and on my brow.

Dear winds, if you could only speak, I know that you would tell me now.

My father's coming home, you'd say, With precious presents, one, two, three; A shawl for mother, beads for May, And eggs and sh.e.l.ls for Rob and me.

The winds sing songs where'er they roam; The leaves all clap their little hands; For father's s.h.i.+p is coming home With wondrous things from foreign lands.

Gabriel Setoun [1861-

THE PIPER ON THE HILL A Child's Song

There sits a piper on the hill Who pipes the livelong day, And when he pipes both loud and shrill, The frightened people say: "The wind, the wind is blowing up 'Tis rising to a gale."

The women hurry to the sh.o.r.e To watch some distant sail.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing to a gale.

But when he pipes all sweet and low, The piper on the hill, I hear the merry women go With laughter, loud and shrill: "The wind, the wind is coming south 'Twill blow a gentle day."

They gather on the meadow-land To toss the yellow hay.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing south to-day.

And in the morn, when winter comes, To keep the piper warm, The little Angels shake their wings To make a feather storm: "The snow, the snow has come at last!"

The happy children call, And "ring around" they dance in glee, And watch the snowflakes fall.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Has spread a snowy pall.

But when at night the piper plays, I have not any fear, Because G.o.d's windows open wide The pretty tune to hear; And when each crowding spirit looks, From its star window-pane, A watching mother may behold Her little child again.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, May blow her home again.

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]

THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out; You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about-- I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.

So, deep On a heap Of clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again!

On high In the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain.

Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.

"With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge!

If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.

"One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff!

One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.

In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone-- Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar-- "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the Moon-sc.r.a.p grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.