Volume I Part 31 (1/2)

”Pipe a song about a lamb!”

So I piped with merry cheer.

”Piper, pipe that song again;”

So I piped: he wept to hear.

”Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!”

So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

”Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.”

So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE WONDERFUL WORLD

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful gra.s.s upon your breast, World, you are beautifully dressed.

The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-- It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, ”You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!”

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

THE WORLD'S MUSIC

The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything.

I waken when the morning's come, And feel the air and light alive With strange sweet music like the hum Of bees about their busy hive.

The linnets play among the leaves At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing; While, flas.h.i.+ng to and from the eaves, The swallows twitter on the wing.

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway; And tall old trees you could not climb; And winds that come, but cannot stay, Are gaily singing all the time.

From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel Makes music, going round and round; And dusty-white with flour and meal, The miller whistles to its sound.

And if you listen to the rain When leaves and birds and bees are dumb, You hear it pattering on the pane Like Andrew beating on his drum.

The coals beneath the kettle croon, And clap their hands and dance in glee; And even the kettle hums a tune To tell you when it's time for tea.