Bodh A ia pi] RTE SEE a Memory My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and births of kings, And yet recalls the very hour — ’Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue moon in May — The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree. — Thomas Bailey Aldrich: - THURSDAY, MAY 7, 3 & 1964 General Store Some day I’m going to have a store With a tinkly bell hung over the door, With real glass cases and counters wide And drawers all spilly with things inside. There’ll be a little of everything: Bolts of calico; balls of string; Jars of peppermint; tins of tea; Pots and kettles and crockery; Seeds in packets; scissors bright; Kegs of sugar, brown and white; Sarsaparilla for picnic lunches, Bananas and rubber boots in bunches. I’ll fix the window and dust each shelf, And take the money in all myself. It will be my store and I will say: “What can I do for you today?” Prayer For A New House May nothing evil cross this door, And may ill-fortune never pry About these windows; may the roar And rains go by. Strengthened by faith, these rafters will Withstand the battering of the storm; This hearth, though all the world grow chill, Will keep us warm. Peace shall walk softly through these rooms, Touching our lips with holy wine, Till every casual corner blooms Into a shrine. Laughter shall drown the raucous shout; And, though these sheltering walls are thin May they be strong to keep hate out And hold love in. The Lake Isle Of Innisfree I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree; And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes. dropping slow. Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, .And evening full of the linnet’s wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day — Louis Untermeyer Gifts I gave my first love laughter, I gave my second tears, I gave my third love silence Through all the years. My first love gave me singing, My second eyes to see, But oh, it was my third love Who gave my soul to $ Prayer For A Little Home God send us a little home To come back to when we roam — Low walls and flutes tiles, Wide windows, a view for miles; Red firelight and deep chairs; Small white beds upstairs; Great talk in little nooks; Dim colors, rows of books; One picture on each wall; Not many things at all. God send us a little ground — Tall trees standing round, Homely flowers in brown sod, Overhead Thy stars, O God! God bless when winds blow Our home and all we know. — Selected. o Eo The Goose-Girl Spring rides no horses down the hill, But comes on foot, a goose-girl still. & And all the loveliest things there be \ Come simply, so, it seems to me. = If ever I said, in grief or pride, Zz I tried of honest things, I lied; And should be cursed forevermore I With Love in laces, like a whore, And neighbors cold, and friends unsteady And Spring on horseback, like a lady! — Edna St. Vincent Millay me. — Sara Teasdale I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the. shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart’s core. — William Butler Yeats An Evening In England From its blue vase the rose of evening drops; Upon the streams its petals float away. The hills all blue with distance hide their tops In the dim silence falling on the grey. A little wind said “Hush! ”’ and shook a spray Heavy with May’s white crop of opening bloom; A silent bat went dipping in the gloom. Night tells her rosary of stars full soon, They drop from out her dark hand to her knees. Sonnet VI Then cautiously she pushed the cellar door And stepped into the kitchen —saw the track Of muddy rubber boots across the floor, The many paper parcels in a stack Upon the dresser; with accustomed care Removed the twine and put the wrappings by, Folded, and the bags flat, that with an air Of ease had been whipped open skillfully, To the gape of children. Treacherously dear Adn simple was the dull, familiar task. And so it was she came at length to ask: How came the soda there? The sugar here? Then the dream broke. Silent, she brought the mop, And forced the trade-slip on the nail that held his razor strop. ’ — Edna St. Vincent Millay The Song Of The Old Mother I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow. And then I must scrub, and bake, and sweep, Till stars are beginning to blink and peep; But the young lie long and dream in their bed Of the matching of ribbons, the blue and the red, And their day goes over in idleness, And they sigh if the wind but lift up a tress. While I must work, because I am old Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold. Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease From all her changes which have stirred the seas. Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil. I and a marsh bird only make a wail. — Francis Ledwidge A Daddy Like Mine Oh, I worried a lot (and what father has not?) That our house was a little bit queer. Ea It’s a roof from the rain, but old-fashioned and plain, For it’s sheltered us many a year; And the house is so small there’s no parlour at all, Just a living-room pleasant and bright, Just a place where we play at the end of the day When we gather together at night. Once a rich little girl, with her hair all a-curl, Came to visit our own little lass, And she talked of the things only wealth ever brings, Of the mansion you glimpse as you pass. Then I feared that our own, who no riches had known, Would be wishing our house were as fine; But she lifted her head, our wee daughter, and said, ‘But have you got a Daddy like mine?’ Yes, I worried, I guess; that I didn’t possess All the wealth that a mortal can win, But I worry no more, though so humble our door, For I know there are riches within. There’s a fortune of old that is greater than gold, It’s a fortune that always will do, If your children are glad; little lass, little lad, That their dad is a daddy like you. — William Butler Yeats Home Thoughts, From Abroad Oh, to be in England Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England —now! And after April, when May foll ows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray’s edge — That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never The first fine careless rapture! could recapture And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! — Robert Browning
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