Poems About Children

"To-night will be a stormy night,--You to the town must go;And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour mother through the snow."

"That, Father, will I gladly do:'Tis scarcely afternoon,--The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook,And snapped a fagot-brand.He plied his work;--and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down:And many a hill did Lucy climb:But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on the hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.

They wept,--and, turning homeward, cried,"In heaven we all shall meet;"When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small:And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,And by the low stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed--The marks were still the same--They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.

"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 answered, "Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea;

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the church-yard cottage, IDwell near 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 church-yard lieBeneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid;Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the church-yard laid,Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"The little Maid replied:"Twelve steps or more from my mother's 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 porringer,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 church-yard she was laid;And, when 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 Maid's reply,"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!"'Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,--Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the ground-nut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,--Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pondMine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread;Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden skyThat arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remember the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not knowThat my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

A whisper, and then a silence:Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning togetherTo take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,A sudden raid from the hall!By three doors left unguardedThey enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turretO'er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they surround me;They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,Their arms about me entwine,Till I think of the Bishop of BingenIn his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,Because you have scaled the wall,Such an old mustache as I amIs not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeonIn the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,And moulder in dust away.

And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy who canAppease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound And parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound; Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid,Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarm; But most procureThat violets may a longer age endure.

But O, young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make th’ example yours; And ere we see,Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.

A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart, he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare,And wearies in his easy-chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?A patience learned of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toilThat with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten, soft white hands;This is the best crop from thy lands,A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thine,In merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God,Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.

The rain and the night togetherCame down and the wind came after,Bending the props of the pine-tree roof,And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness,Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,--Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining,Crouching, I sought to hide me:Something rustled, two green eyes shone,And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened;I and the wolf together,Side by side, through the long, long night,Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me;Each of us warmed the other;Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,That beast and man was brother.

And when the falling forestNo longer crashed in warning,Each of us went from our hiding-placeForth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me payment!Hark, how the wind is roaring;Father's house is a better placeWhen the stormy rain is pouring!

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;For, on a table drawn beside his head,He had put, within his reach,A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,A piece of glass abraded by the beach,And six or seven shells,A bottle with bluebells,And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,To comfort his sad heart.So when that night I pray’dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,Not vexing Thee in death,And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys,How weakly understoodThy great commanded good,Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’

For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear;Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby’s hair;

She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it,She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends,She’ll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move, ’Tis so ordain’d (would Fate but mend it!),That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

Yet abandon'd to thy will,Yet imagining no ill,Yet too innocent to blush,Like the linnet in the bushTo the mother-linnet's noteModuling her slender throat;Chirping forth thy petty joys,Wanton in the change of toys,Like the linnet green, in MayFlitting to each bloomy spray;Wearied then and glad of rest,Like the linnet in the nest:--This thy present happy lotThis, in time will be forgot:Other pleasures, other cares,Ever-busy Time prepares;And thou shalt in thy daughter see,This picture, once, resembled thee.

I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet,With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye,Scarcely believing that--he is not there!

I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid;Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt;Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there!

I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed,So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly,Before the thought comes, that--he is not there!

When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake.With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy;Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there!

When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose,I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit prayingFor our boy's spirit, though--he is not there!

Not there!--Where, then, is he? The form I used to seeWas but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress,Is but his wardrobe locked--he is not there!

He lives!--In all the past He lives; nor, to the last,Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow,I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rodSo help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand,'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there!

Behind her cradle bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray,As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue,As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown,As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower,The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour;And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say,As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God, That she must wither up,Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup;We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head,Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round,--We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground;The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth,But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth.

Earth! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain!Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, Her spirit to sustain;But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall seeOur morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

Ere the world and its wickedness made meA partner of sorrow and sin,When the glory of God was about me,And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's,And the fountain of feeling will flow,When I think of the paths steep and stony,Where the feet of the dear ones must go,--Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;--Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holyAs the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households;They are angels of God in disguise;His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,His glory still shines in their eyes;Those truants from home and from heaven,--They have made me more manly and mild;And I know now how Jesus could likenThe kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones,All radiant, as others have done,But that life may have just enough shadowTo temper the glare of the sun;I would pray God to guard them from evil,But my prayer would bound back to myself;--Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,I have banished the rule and the rodI have taught them the goodness of knowledge,They have taught me the goodness of God:My heart is the dungeon of darknessWhere I shut them for breaking a rule;My frown is sufficient correction;My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,To traverse its threshold no more;Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear onesThat meet me each morn at the door!I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses,And the gush of their innocent glee,The group on the green, and the flowersThat are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,Their song in the school and the street;I shall miss the low hum of their voices,And the tread of their delicate feet.When the lessons of life are all ended,And death says: "The school is dismissed!"May the little ones gather around me,To bid me good night and be kissed!

Fitted with words of lowly praise,And patience learned of mournful days,And memories of the dead child's ways.His will be done, His will be done!Who gave and took away my son,In "the far land" to shine and singBefore the Beautiful, the King,Who every day does Christmas make,All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;I will anoint me where he lies,And change my raiment, and go inTo the Lord's house, and leave my sinWithout, and seat me at his board,Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.For wherefore should I fast and weep,And sullen moods of mourning keep?I cannot bring him back, nor he,For any calling, come to me.The bond the angel Death did sign,God sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine.

I'm very poor--this slender stoneMarks all the narrow field I own;Yet, patient husbandman, I tillWith faith and prayers, that precious hill,Sow it with penitential pains,And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;Content if, after all, the spotYield barely one forget-me-not--Whether or figs or thistle makeMy crop content for Charlie's sake.

I have no houses, builded well--Only that little lonesome cell,Where never romping playmates come,Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb--An April burst of girls and boys,Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joysBorn with their songs, gone with their toys;Nor ever is its stillness stirredBy purr of cat, or chirp of bird,Or mother's twilight legend, toldOf Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,Or fairy hobbling to the door,Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,To bless the good child's gracious eyes,The good child's wistful charities,And crippled changeling's hunch to makeDance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

How is it with the child? 'Tis well;Nor would I any miracleMight stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,Or plague his painless countenance:I would not any seer might placeHis staff on my immortal's face.Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,Charm back his pale mortality.No, Shunamite! I would not breakGod's stillness. Let them weep who wake.

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:No comfort like his mother's breast,No praise like hers; no charm expressedIn fairest forms hath half her zest.For Charlie's sake this bird's caressedThat death left lonely in the nest;For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,As for its birthday, in its best;For Charlie's sake we leave the rest.To Him who gave, and who did take,And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.

I think of thee with many fearsFor what may be thy lot in future years.I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,Lord of thy house and hospitality;And Grief, uneasy lover! never restBut when she sate within the touch of thee.O too industrious folly!O vain and causeless melancholy!Nature will either end thee quite;Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,Preserve for thee, by individual right,A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.What hast thou to do with sorrow,Or the injuries of to-morrow?Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;A gem that glitters while it lives,And no forewarning gives;But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife,Slips in a moment out of life.