Читать книгу Graded Memory Selections - Various - Страница 22

Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together,

Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.

A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy,

Was resting near this buttercup who wished she was a daisy.

For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passion

For wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies’ fashion.

And buttercups must always be the same old tiresome color;

While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.

“Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind trying

To find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying.”

“You silly thing!” the Robin said, “I think you must be crazy;

I’d rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.

“You’re nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.

Be the best buttercup you can, and think no flower above you.

Though swallows leave me out of sight, we’d better keep our places:

Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.

Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowing

That God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing.”

There are many flags in many lands,

There are flags of every hue,

But there is no flag in any land

Like our own Red, White and Blue.

I know where the prettiest colors are,

I’m sure, if I only knew

How to get them here, I could make a flag

Of glorious Red, White and Blue.

I would cut a piece from the evening sky

Where the stars were shining through,

And use it just as it was on high

For my stars and field of Blue.

Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud

And some red from a rainbow bright,

And I’d put them together, side by side

For my stripes of Red and White.

Then “Hurrah for the Flag!” our country’s flag,

Its stripes and white stars too;

There is no flag in any land

Like our own “Red, White and Blue.”

The year’s at the spring,

And day’s at the morn;

Morning’s at seven;

The hill-side’s dew-pearled;

The lark’s on the wing;

The snail’s on the thorn:

God’s in his heaven—

All’s right with the world.

They drive home the cows from the pasture,

Up through the long shady lane,

Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,

That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick, waving grasses,

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow;

They gather the elder-bloom white;

They find where the dusky grapes purple

In the soft-tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest,

And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;

They know where the fruit hangs the thickest

On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,

And build tiny castles of sand;

They pick up the beautiful sea-shells—

Fairy barks that have drifted to land.

They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops

Where the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;

And at night-time are folded in slumber

By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest;

The humble and poor become great;

And so from these brown-handed children

Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen of the author and statesman—

The noble and wise of the land—

The sword, and the chisel, and palette,

Shall be held in the little brown hand.

Oh, I wish the Winter would go,

And I wish the Summer would come,

Then the big brown farmers will hoe,

And the little brown bee will hum.

Then the robin his fife will trill,

And the wood-piper beat his drum;

And out of their tents on the hill

The little green troops will come.

Then around and over the trees

With a flutter and flirt we’ll go,

A rollicking, frolicking breeze,

And away with a frisk ho! ho!

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down the valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles;

I bubble into eddying bays;

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my bank I fret

By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter as I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,

And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me as I travel,

With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers,

I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;

I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars;

I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go

But I go on forever.

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water around you curled,

And the wonderful grass 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 wheatfields 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 can not!”

If you’ve tried and have not won,

Never stop for crying;

All that’s great and good is done

Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall,

Still their wings grow stronger;

And the next time they can keep

Up a little longer.

Though the sturdy oak has known

Many a blast that bowed her,

She has risen again, and grown

Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat,

Who the more will prize you?

Gaining victory from defeat,

That’s the test that tries you!

—A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair—

Her beauty made me glad.

“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 churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell 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;