The Tree
See the leaves upon the tree !
That is where they ought to be :
Whether they be foul or fair.
Papa did not put them there.
Poems on the topic: childhood
Poems on the topic “childhood” on Poets.by.
Quoits
In wintertime I have such fun
When I play quoits with father.
I beat him almost every game.
He never seems to bother.
He looks at mother and just smiles.
All this seems strange to me,
For when he plays with grown-up folks,
He beats them easily.
Sassafras Tea
The sass’fras tea is red and clear
In my white china cup,
So pretty I keep peeping in
Before I drink it up.
I stir it with a silver spoon,
And sometimes I just hold
A little tea inside the spoon,
Like it was lined with gold.
It makes me hungry just to smell
The nice hot sass’fras tea,
And that’s one thing I really like
That they say’s good for me.
Dance
Down at the hall at midnight sometimes,
You hear them singing rhymes.
These girls are dancing with boys.
They are too big for toys.
Me Alone
As I was going to town,
I saw a King and a Queen.
Such ringing of bells you never heard,
The clerks ran out of the stores;
You know how it was, Me alone.
I was standing as the others were,
“Oh! you little girl,” some one said,
“The King wants you,”
I became frightened
Wondering what he had to say,
Me alone.
Here’s what he wanted:
He wanted me to ride in his coach,
I felt myself so much riding in a King’s coach,
Me alone.
Red Currants
“Well! The red currants must be picked to-day.
They’re ready for jelly” Grandmother would say.
She never wasted words yet had her way.
In cool gray cotton gown, and black straw hat
Securely tied--She made a point of that
Though no breeze stirred the lilacs where she sat
To superintend old Jock and Marie Anne
At tasks of picking. When her palm-leaf fan
Waved slowly all was well; but my blood ran
Quicker when it moved very fast ... one knew
The hours were slipping past ... then old Jock too
And Marie Anne, would pick with greater zest.
“Granny! Red currant jelly’s much the best!”
“Black’s best for colds” she’d say, as she caressed
With firm kind fingers my rough curly head.
Memory
Through tortured weeks of hospital surgery
The old fruit garden of my childhood days
Grew close about me. Through black storms of pain
Swayed joyous boughs of rosy apple-bloom;
White blossomed branches of an old plum-tree;
Old grape-vines clinging to a sunny wall;
Great bushes of red currants and raspberries.
Through hours of torturing thirst I found again
That old fruit garden--as if body and soul
Clutched at cool juicy fruits--remembering--
Devouring them through a parched mouth of the brain.
Mistress Mary
“O Mistress Mary--Mistress Mary--
What have you found in your new old house?
Paperers are waiting you, and carpenters, and gardeners--
And you are up garret, just as still as a mouse!
What makes your eyes so wet and so round?
Mary--Mary! What have you found?”
“Where the sour old wind grieves under the eaves
There’s an old trunk hid--Oh the dust on the lid!
I pulled out from it a gay round box,
And in it were worn-out boots and socks--
Little, soft socks and little, stout boots--
And a child’s crude drawings of flowers and fruits,
And a tiny toy whip, and a ship and a ball--
Oh--they’re just like a little lost boy! That’s all!”
Dawn Wind
Wind, just arisen--
(Off what cool mattress of marsh-moss
In tented boughs leaf-drawn before the stars,
Or niche of cliff under the eagles?)
You of living things,
So gay and tender and full of play--
Why do you blow on my thoughts--like cut flowers
Gathered and laid to dry on this paper, rolled out of dead wood?
I see you
Shaking that flower at me with soft invitation
And frisking away,
Deliciously rumpling the grass...
So you fluttered the curtains about my cradle,
Prattling of fields
Before I had had my milk...
Did I stir on my pillow, making to follow you, Fleet One?
Autumn Song
Now’s the time when children’s noses
All become as red as roses
And the colour of their faces
Makes me think of orchard places
Where the juicy apples grow
And tomatoes in a row.
And to-day the hardened sinner
Never could be late for dinner,
But will jump up to the table
Just as soon as he is able,
Ask for three times hot roast mutton--
Oh! the shocking little glutton.
Come then, find your ball and racket,
Pop into your winter jacket,
With the lovely bear-skin lining.
While the sun is brightly shining,
Evening Song of the Thoughtful Child
Shadow children, thin and small,
Now the day is left behind,
You are dancing on the wall,
On the curtains, on the blind.
On the ceiling, children, too,
Peeping round the nursery door,
Let me come and play with you,
As we always played before.
Let’s pretend that we have wings
And can really truly fly
Over every sort of things
Up and up into the sky,
Where the sweet star children play--
It does seem a dreadful rule,
They must stay inside all day.
I suppose they go to school.
A Day in Bed
I wish I had not got a cold,
The wind is big and wild,
I wish that I was very old,
Not just a little child.
Somehow the day is very long
Just keeping here, alone;
I do not like the big wind’s song,
He’s growling for a bone.
He’s like an awful dog we had
Who used to creep around
And snatch at things--he was so bad,
With just that horrid sound.
I’m sitting up and nurse has made
Me wear a woolly shawl;
I wish I was not so afraid;
It’s horrid to be small.
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