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Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children

<h1>THE POSY RING</h1> <h3>A BOOK OF VERSE FOR CHILDREN</h3> <h3>CHOSEN AND CLASSIFIED BY</h3> <h2>Kate Douglas Wiggin</h2> <h3>AND</h3> <h2>Nora Archibald Smith</h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>I</h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>A YEAR'S WINDFALLS</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='poem'> Who comes dancing over the snow, His soft little feet all bare and rosy? Open the door, though the wild winds blow, Take the child in and make him cosy. Take him in and hold him dear, He is the wonderful glad New Year. </div> <div class='signature'>Dinah M. Mulock.</div> [3] <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>A YEAR'S WINDFALLS</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Marjorie's Almanac </div> <div class='poem'> Robins in the tree-top, Blossoms in the grass, Green things a-growing Everywhere you pass; Sudden little breezes, Showers of silver dew, Black bough and bent twig Budding out anew; Pine-tree and willow-tree, Fringèd elm and larch,— Don't you think that May-time's Pleasanter than March? Apples in the orchard Mellowing one by one; Strawberries upturning Soft cheeks to the sun; Roses faint with sweetness, Lilies fair of face, Drowsy scents and murmurs [4]Haunting every place; Lengths of golden sunshine, Moonlight bright as day,— Don't you think that summer's Pleasanter than May? Roger in the corn-patch Whistling negro songs; Pussy by the hearth-side Romping with the tongs; Chestnuts in the ashes Bursting through the rind; Red leaf and gold leaf Rustling down the wind; Mother "doin' peaches" All the afternoon,— Don't you think that autumn's Pleasanter than June? Little fairy snow-flakes Dancing in the flue; Old Mr. Santa Claus, What is keeping you? Twilight and firelight Shadows come and go; Merry chime of sleigh-bells Tinkling through the snow; Mother knitting stockings [5](Pussy's got the ball),— Don't you think that winter's Pleasanter than all? </div> <div class='signature'>Thomas Bailey Aldrich.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> In February </div> <div class='poem'> The birds have been singing to-day, And saying: "The spring is near! The sun is as warm as in May, And the deep blue heavens are clear." The little bird on the boughs Of the sombre snow-laden pine Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house, And how shall I make it fine? "For the season of snow is past; The mild south wind is on high; And the scent of the spring is cast From his wing as he hurries by." The little birds twitter and cheep To their loves on the leafless larch; But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep, And the year hath not worn to March. </div> <div class='signature'>John Addington Symonds.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [6] <div class='center'> March </div> <div class='poem'> The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one. Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon! There's joy on the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone. </div> <div class='signature'>William Wordsworth.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'>Nearly Ready[A] </div> [7] <div class='poem'> In the snowing and the blowing, In the cruel sleet, Little flowers begin their growing Far beneath our feet. Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly, "Darlings, are you here?" Till they answer, "We are nearly, Nearly ready, dear." "Where is Winter, with his snowing? Tell us, Spring," they say. Then she answers, "He is going, Going on his way. Poor old Winter does not love you; But his time is past; Soon my birds shall sing above you,— Set you free at last." </div> <div class='signature'>Mary Mapes Dodge.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Spring Song </div> <div class='poem'> Spring comes hither, Buds the rose; Roses wither, [8]Sweet spring goes. Summer soars,— Wide-winged day; White light pours, Flies away. Soft winds blow, Westward born; Onward go, Toward the morn. </div> <div class='signature'>George Eliot</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> In April </div> <div class='poem'> The poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray; The chestnut pouts its great brown buds Impatient for the laggard May. The honeysuckles lace the wall, The hyacinths grow fair and tall; And mellow sun and pleasant wind And odorous bees are over all. </div> <div class='signature'>Elizabeth Akers.</div> [9] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Spring </div> <div class='poem'> The alder by the river Shakes out her powdery curls; The willow buds in silver For little boys and girls. The little birds fly over, And oh, how sweet they sing! To tell the happy children That once again 'tis spring. The gay green grass comes creeping So soft beneath their feet; The frogs begin to ripple A music clear and sweet. And buttercups are coming, And scarlet columbine; And in the sunny meadows The dandelions shine. And just as many daisies As their soft hands can hold The little ones may gather, All fair in white and gold. Here blows the warm red clover, There peeps the violet blue; O happy little children, God made them all for you! </div> <div class='signature'>Celia Thaxter.</div> [10] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Voice of Spring </div> <div class='poem'> I am coming, I am coming! Hark! the little bee is humming; See, the lark is soaring high In the blue and sunny sky; And the gnats are on the wing, Wheeling round in airy ring. See, the yellow catkins cover All the slender willows over! And on the banks of mossy green Star-like primroses are seen; And, their clustering leaves below, White and purple violets blow. Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating, And the cawing rooks are meeting In the elms,—a noisy crowd; All the birds are singing loud; And the first white butterfly In the sunshine dances by. Look around thee, look around! Flowers in all the fields abound; Every running stream is bright; All the orchard trees are white; And each small and waving shoot [11]Promises sweet flowers and fruit. Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven: God for thee the spring has given, Taught the birds their melodies, Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies, For thy pleasure or thy food: Pour thy soul in gratitude. </div> <div class='signature'>Mary Howitt.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Coming of Spring </div> <div class='poem'> There's something in the air That's new and sweet and rare— A scent of summer things, A whir as if of wings. There's something, too, that's new In the color of the blue That's in the morning sky, Before the sun is high. And though on plain and hill 'Tis winter, winter still, There's something seems to say That winter's had its day. And all this changing tint, This whispering stir and hint Of bud and bloom and wing, [12]Is the coming of the spring. And to-morrow or to-day The brooks will break away From their icy, frozen sleep, And run, and laugh, and leap. And the next thing, in the woods, The catkins in their hoods Of fur and silk will stand, A sturdy little band. And the tassels soft and fine Of the hazel will entwine, And the elder branches show Their buds against the snow. So, silently but swift, Above the wintry drift, The long days gain and gain, Until on hill and plain,— Once more, and yet once more, Returning as before, We see the bloom of birth Make young again the earth. </div> <div class='signature'>Nora Perry.</div> [13] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> May </div> <div class='poem'> May shall make the world anew; Golden sun and silver dew, Money minted in the sky, Shall the earth's new garments buy. May shall make the orchards bloom; And the blossoms' fine perfume Shall set all the honey-bees Murmuring among the trees. May shall make the bud appear Like a jewel, crystal clear, 'Mid the leaves upon the limb Where the robin lilts his hymn. May shall make the wild flowers tell Where the shining snowflakes fell; Just as though each snow-flake's heart, By some secret, magic art, Were transmuted to a flower In the sunlight and the shower. Is there such another, pray, Wonder-making month as May? </div> <div class='signature'>Frank Dempster Sherman.</div> [14] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Spring and Summer </div> <div class='poem'> Spring is growing up, Is not it a pity? She was such a little thing, And so very pretty! Summer is extremely grand, We must pay her duty, (But it is to little Spring That she owes her beauty!) All the buds are blown, Trees are dark and shady, (It was Spring who dress'd them, though, Such a little lady!) And the birds sing loud and sweet Their enchanting hist'ries, (It was Spring who taught them, though, Such a singing mistress!) From the glowing sky Summer shines above us; Spring was such a little dear, But will Summer love us? She is very beautiful, With her grown-up blisses, Summer we must bow before; [15]Spring we coaxed with kisses! Spring is growing up, Leaving us so lonely, In the place of little Spring We have Summer only! Summer with her lofty airs, And her stately faces, In the place of little Spring, With her childish graces! </div> <div class='signature'>"A."</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Summer Days </div> <div class='poem'> Winter is cold-hearted; Spring is yea and nay; Autumn is a weathercock, Blown every way: Summer days for me, When every leaf is on its tree, When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny Wren's a bride, And larks hang, singing, singing, singing, Over the wheat-fields wide, And anchored lilies ride, And the pendulum spider Swings from side to side, And blue-black beetles transact business, [16]And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive. Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town— Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere. </div> <div class='signature'>Christina G. Rossetti.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> September </div> <div class='poem'> The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down; The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun; The sedges flaunt their harvest In every meadow nook, And asters by the brookside [17]Make asters in the brook; From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies— By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer. </div> <div class='signature'>H. H.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> How the Leaves Came Down </div> <div class='poem'> I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time you went to bed." "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief, 'Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away." So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, [18]Whispering all their sports among, "Perhaps the great Tree will forget And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering. "Come, children all, to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm. The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said; And from below each sleepy child Replied "Good-night," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed." </div> <div class='signature'>Susan Coolidge.</div> [19] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Winter Night </div> <div class='poem'> Blow, wind, blow! Drift the flying snow! Send it twirling, whirling overhead! There's a bedroom in a tree Where, snug as snug can be, The squirrel nests in his cosey bed. Shriek, wind, shriek! Make the branches creak! Battle with the boughs till break o' day! In a snow-cave warm and tight, Through the icy winter night The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away. Call, wind, call, In entry and in hall, Straight from off the mountain white and wild! Soft purrs the pussy-cat On her little fluffy mat, And beside her nestles close her furry child. Scold, wind, scold, So bitter and so bold! Shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap! With half-shut, dreamy eyes The drowsy baby lies Cuddled closely in his mother's lap. </div> <div class='signature'>Mary F. Butts.</div> [20] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'>A Year's Windfalls </div> <div class='poem'> On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast, Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire, And toss him of your crumbs. On the wind in February Snowflakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea:— If the winter ever ends How pleasant it will be. In the wind of windy March The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like, Curious green and brown. With concourse of nest-building birds And leaf-buds by the way, We begin to think of flowers [21]And life and nuts some day. With the gusts of April Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, On the hedged-in orchard-green, From the southern wall. Apple-trees and pear-trees Shed petals white or pink, Plum-trees and peach-trees; While sharp showers sink and sink. Little brings the May breeze Beside pure scent of flowers, While all things wax and nothing wanes In lengthening daylight hours. Across the hyacinth beds The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops, Across the blades of wheat. In the wind of sunny June Thrives the red rose crop, Every day fresh blossoms blow While the first leaves drop; White rose and yellow rose And moss rose choice to find, And the cottage cabbage-rose Not one whit behind. On the blast of scorched July [22]Drives the pelting hail, From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot Blue heaven grown lurid-pale. Weedy waves are tossed ashore, Sea-things strange to sight Gasp upon the barren shore And fade away in light. In the parching August wind Corn-fields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths, On low hills outspread. Early leaves drop loitering down Weightless on the breeze, First fruits of the year's decay From the withering trees. In brisk wind of September The heavy-headed fruits Shake upon their bending boughs And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun, Some show green and streaked, Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked. In strong blast of October At the equinox, Stirred up in his hollow bed [23]Broad ocean rocks; Plunge the ships on his bosom, Leaps and plunges the foam, It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea, That they were safe at home. In slack wind of November The fog forms and shifts; All the world comes out again When the fog lifts. Loosened from their sapless twigs Leaves drop with every gust; Drifting, rustling, out of sight In the damp or dust. Last of all, December, The year's sands nearly run, Speeds on the shortest day, Curtails the sun; With its bleak raw wind Lays the last leaves low, Brings back the nightly frosts, Brings back the snow. </div> <div class='signature'>Christina G. Rossetti.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [24] <hr style="width: 65%;" />[25] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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