Volume I Part 42 (2/2)
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
HOLY THURSDAY
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.
Oh what a mult.i.tude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of mult.i.tudes was there, but mult.i.tudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
William Blake [1757-1827]
A STORY FOR A CHILD
Little one, come to my knee!
Hark, how the rain is pouring Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, And the wind in the woods a-roaring!
Hush, my darling, and listen, Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is!
High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.
The rain and the night together Came 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 forest No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-place Forth in the wild, wet morning.
Darling, kiss me payment!
Hark, how the wind is roaring; Father's house is a better place When the stormy rain is pouring!
Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
”Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly.
”'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to show when you are there.”
”Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, ”to ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again.”
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