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Poems Every Child Should Know

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<h3>Ingratitude.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"Ingratitude," by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be grateful. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou are not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou are not seen, Although thy breath be rude. </div> <div class="stanza"> Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. </div> </td></tr></table> William Shakespeare. <h3>The Ivy Green.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Ivy Green," by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed. To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. </div> <div class="stanza"> Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. </div> <div class="stanza"> Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. </div> </td></tr></table> Charles Dickens. <h3>The Noble Nature.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Noble Nature," by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea. A small virtue well polished is better than none. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,— It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. </div> </td></tr></table> Ben Jonson. <h3>The Flying Squirrel.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Flying Squirrel" is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> Of all the woodland creatures, The quaintest little sprite Is the dainty flying squirrel In vest of shining white, In coat of silver gray, And vest of shining white. </div> <div class="stanza"> His furry Quaker jacket Is trimmed with stripe of black; A furry plume to match it Is curling o'er his back; New curved with every motion, His plume curls o'er his back. </div> <div class="stanza"> No little new-born baby Has pinker feet than he; Each tiny toe is cushioned With velvet cushions three; Three wee, pink, velvet cushions Almost too small to see. </div> <div class="stanza"> Who said, "The foot of baby Might tempt an angel's kiss"? I know a score of school-boys Who put their lips to this,— This wee foot of the squirrel, And left a loving kiss. </div> <div class="stanza"> The tiny thief has hidden My candy and my plum; Ah, there he comes unbidden To gently nip my thumb,— Down in his home (my pocket) He gently nips my thumb. </div> <div class="stanza"> How strange the food he covets, The restless, restless wight;— Fred's old stuffed armadillo He found a tempting bite, Fred's old stuffed armadillo, With ears a perfect fright. </div> <div class="stanza"> The Lady Ruth's great bureau, Each foot a dragon's paw! The midget ate the nails from His famous antique claw. Oh, what a cruel beastie To hurt a dragon's claw! </div> <div class="stanza"> To autographic copies Upon my choicest shelf,— To every dainty volume The rogue has helped himself. My books! Oh dear! No matter! The rogue has helped himself. </div> <div class="stanza"> And yet, my little squirrel, Your taste is not so bad; You've swallowed Caird completely And psychologic Ladd. Rosmini you've digested, And Kant in rags you've clad. </div> <div class="stanza"> Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! Lay all the sages low! My pretty lace and ribbons, They're yours for weal or woe! My pocket-book's in tatters Because you like it so. </div> </td></tr></table> Mary E. Burt. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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