Around their party prowled about.

  So, when my nurse comes in for me,

  Home I return across the sea,

  And go to bed with backward looks

  At my dear land of Story-books.

  ARMIES IN THE FIRE

  The lamps now glitter down the street;

  Faintly sound the falling feet;

  And the blue even slowly falls

  About the garden trees and walls.

  Now in the falling of the gloom

  The red fire paints the empty room:

  And warmly on the roof it looks,

  And flickers on the backs of books.

  Armies march by tower and spire

  Of cities blazing, in the fire; —

  Till as I gaze with staring eyes,

  The armies fade, the lustre dies.

  Then once again the glow returns;

  Again the phantom city burns;

  And down the red-hot valley, lo!

  The phantom armies marching go!

  Blinking embers, tell me true

  Where are those armies marching to,

  And what the burning city is

  That crumbles in your furnaces!

  THE LITTLE LAND

  When at home alone I sit,

  And am very tired of it,

  I have just to shut my eyes

  To go sailing through the skies —

  To go sailing far away

  To the pleasant Land of Play;

  To the fairy land afar

  Where the Little People are;

  Where the clover-tops are trees,

  And the rain-pools are the seas,

  And the leaves, like little ships,

  Sail about on tiny trips;

  And above the daisy tree

  Through the grasses,

  High o’erhead the Bumble Bee

  Hums and passes.

  In that forest to and fro

  I can wander, I can go;

  See the spider and the fly,

  And the ants go marching by,

  Carrying parcels with their feet

  Down the green and grassy street.

  I can in the sorrel sit

  Where the ladybird alit.

  I can climb the jointed grass

  And on high

  See the greater swallows pass

  In the sky,

  And the round sun rolling by

  Heeding no such things as I.

  Through that forest I can pass

  Till, as in a looking-glass,

  Humming fly and daisy tree

  And my tiny self I see,

  Painted very clear and neat

  On the rain-pool at my feet.

  Should a leaflet come to land

  Drifting near to where I stand,

  Straight I’ll board that tiny boat

  Round the rain-pool sea to float.

  Little thoughtful creatures sit

  On the grassy coasts of it;

  Little things with lovely eyes

  See me sailing with surprise.

  Some are clad in armour green —

  (These have sure to battle been!) —

  Some are pied with ev’ry hue,

  Black and crimson, gold and blue;

  Some have wings and swift are gone; —

  But they all look kindly on.

  THE LITTLE LAND

  When my eyes I once again

  Open, and see all things plain:

  High bare walls, great bare floor;

  Great big knobs on drawer and door;

  Great big people perched on chairs,

  Stitching tucks and mending tears,

  Each a hill that I could climb,

  And talking nonsense all the time —

  O dear me,

  That I could be

  A sailor on the rain-pool sea,

  A climber in the clover tree,

  And just come back, a sleepy-head,

  Late at night to go to bed.

  GARDEN DAYS

  NIGHT AND DAY

  When the golden day is done,

  Through the closing portal,

  Child and garden, flower and sun,

  Vanish all things mortal.

  As the blinding shadows fall

  As the rays diminish,

  Under evening’s cloak, they all

  Roll away and vanish.

  Garden darkened, daisy shut,

  Child in bed, they slumber —

  Glow-worm in the highway rut,

  Mice among the lumber.

  In the darkness houses shine,

  Parents move with candles;

  Till on all, the night divine

  Turns the bedroom handles.

  Till at last the day begins

  In the east a-breaking,

  In the hedges and the whins

  Sleeping birds a-waking.

  In the darkness shapes of things,

  Houses, trees and hedges,

  Clearer grow; and sparrow’s wings

  Beat on window ledges.

  These shall wake the yawning maid;

  She the door shall open —

  Finding dew on garden glade

  And the morning broken.

  There my garden grows again

  Green and rosy painted,

  As at eve behind the pane

  From my eyes it fainted.

  Just as it was shut away,

  Toy-like, in the even,

  Here I see it glow with day

  Under glowing heaven.

  Every path and every plot,

  Every bush of roses,

  Every blue forget-me-not

  Where the dew reposes.

  “Up!” they cry, “the day is come

  On the smiling valleys:

  We have beat the morning drum;

  Playmate, join your allies!”

  NEST EGGS

  Birds all the sunny day

  Flutter and quarrel

  Here in the arbour-like

  Tent of the laurel.

  Here in the fork

  The brown nest is seated;

  Four little blue eggs

  The mother keeps heated.

  While we stand watching her

  Staring like gabies,

  Safe in each egg are the

  Bird’s little babies.

  Soon the frail eggs they shall

  Chip, and upspringing

  Make all the April woods

  Merry with singing.

  Younger than we are,

  O children, and frailer,

  Soon in blue air they’ll be,

  Singer and sailor.

  We, so much older,

  Taller and stronger,

  We shall look down on the

  Birdies no longer.

  They shall go flying

  With musical speeches

  High over head in the

  Tops of the beeches.

  In spite of our wisdom

  And sensible talking,

  We on our feet must go

  Plodding and walking.

  THE FLOWERS

  All the names I know from nurse:

  Gardener’s garters, Shepherd’s purse,

  Bachelor’s buttons, Lady’s smock,

  And the Lady Hollyhock.

  Fairy places, fairy things,

  Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,

  Tiny trees for tiny dames —

  These must all be fairy names!

  Tiny woods below whose boughs

  Shady fairies weave a house;

  Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,

  Where the braver fairies climb!

  THE FLOWERS

  Fair are grown-up people’s trees,

  But the fairest woods are these;

  Where, if I were not so tall,

  I should live for good and all.

  SUMMER SUN

  Great is the sun, and wide he goes

  Through empty heaven without repose;

  And in the blue and glowing days

  More thick than rain he showers his rays.

  Though closer still the blinds we pull

  To keep the shady parlour cool,

  Yet he will find a chink or two

  To slip his golden fingers through.

  The dusty attic spider-clad

  He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;

  And through the broken edge of tiles

  Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

  Meantime his golden face around

  He bares to all the garden ground,

  And sheds a warm and glittering look

  Among the ivy’s inmost nook.

  Above the hills, along the blue,

  Round the bright air with footing true,

  To please the child, to paint the rose,

  The gardener of the World, he goes.

  THE DUMB SOLDIER

  When the grass was closely mown,

  Walking on the lawn alone,

  In the turf a hole I found,

  And hid a soldier underground.

  Spring and daisies came apace;

  Grasses hide my hiding place;

  Grasses run like a green sea

  O’er the lawn up to my knee.

  Under grass alone he lies,

  Looking up with leaden eyes,

  Scarlet coat and pointed gun,

  To the stars and to the sun.

  When the grass is ripe like grain,

  When the scythe is stoned again,

  When the lawn is shaven clear,

  Then my hole shall reappear.

  I shall find him, never fear,

  I shall find my grenadier;

  But for all that’s gone and come,

  I shall find my soldier dumb.

  He has lived, a little thing,

  In the grassy woods of spring;

  Done, if he could tell me true,

  Just as I should like to do.

  He has seen the starry hours

  And the springing of the flowers;

  And the fairy things that pass

  In the forests of the grass.

  In the silence he has heard

  Talking bee and ladybird,

  And the butterfly has flown

  O’er him as he lay alone.

  Not a word will he disclose,

  Not a word of all he knows.

  I must lay him on the shelf,

  And make up the tale myself.

  AUTUMN FIRES

  In the other gardens

  And all up the vale,

  From the autumn bonfires

  See the smoke trail!

  Pleasant summer over

  And all the summer flowers,

  The red fire blazes,

  The grey smoke towers.

  Sing a song of seasons!

  Something bright in all!

  Flowers in the summer,

  Fires in the fall!

  THE GARDENER

  The gardener does not love to talk,

  He makes me keep the gravel walk;

  And when he puts his tools away,

  He locks the door and takes the key.

  Away behind the currant row,

  Where no one else but cook may go,

  Far in the plots, I see him dig,

  Old and serious, brown and big.

  He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,

  Nor wishes to be spoken to.

  He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,

  And never seems to want to play.

  Silly gardener! summer goes,

  And winter comes with pinching toes,

  When in the garden bare and brown

  You must lay your barrow down.

  Well now, and while the summer stays,

  To profit by these garden days

  O how much wiser you would be

  To play at Indian wars with me!

  HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS

  Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground

  That now you smoke your pipe around.

  Has seen immortal actions done

  And valiant battles lost and won.

  Here we had best on tip-toe tread,

  While I for safety march ahead,

  For this is that enchanted ground

  Where all who loiter slumber sound.

  Here is the sea, here is the sand,

  Here is simple Shepherd’s Land,

  Here are the fairy hollyhocks,

  And there are Ali Baba’s rocks.

  But yonder, see! apart and high,

  Frozen Siberia lies; where I,

  With Robert Bruce and William Tell,

  Was bound by an enchanter’s spell.

  ENVOYS

  TO WILLIE AND HENRIETTA

  If two may read aright

  These rhymes of old delight

  And house and garden play,

  You too, my cousins, and you only, may.

  You in a garden green

  With me were king and queen,

  Were hunter, soldier, tar,

  And all the thousand things that children are.

  Now in the elders’ seat

  We rest with quiet feet,

  And from the window-bay

  We watch the children, our successors, play.

  “Time was,” the golden head

  Irrevocably said;

  But time which none can bind,

  While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.

  TO MY MOTHER

  You too, my mother, read my rhymes

  For love of unforgotten times,

  And you may chance to hear once more

  The little feet along the floor.

  TO AUNTIE

  Chief of our aunts — not only I,

  But all your dozen of nurselings cry —

  What did the other children do?

  And what were childhood, wanting you?

  TO AUNTIE

  TO MINNIE

  The red room with the giant bed

  Where none but elders laid their head;

  The little room where you and I

  Did for awhile together lie

  And, simple suitor, I your hand

  In decent marriage did demand;

  The great day nursery, best of all,

  With pictures pasted on the wall

  And leaves upon the blind

  A pleasant room wherein to wake

  And hear the leafy garden shake

  And rustle in the wind —

  And pleasant there to lie in bed

  And see the pictures overhead —

  The wars about Sebastopol,

  The grinning guns along the wall,

  The daring escalade,

  The plunging ships, the bleating sheep,

  The happy children ankle-deep

  And laughing as they wade;

  All these are vanished clean away,

  And the old manse is changed to-day;

  It wears an altered face

  And shields a stranger race.

  The river, on from mill to mill,

  Flows past our childhood’s garden still;

  But ah! we children never more

  Shall watch it from the water-door.

  Below the yew — it still is there —

  Our phantom voices haunt the air

  As we were still at play,

  And I can hear them call and say:

  “How far is it to Babylon?”

  Ah, far enough, my dear,

  Far, far enough from here —

  Yet you have farther gone!

  “Can I get there by candlelight?”

  So goes the old refrain.

  I do not know — perchance you might —

  But only, children, hear it right,

  Ah, never to return again!

  The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,

  Shall break on hill and plain,

  And put all stars and candles out

  Ere we be young again.

  To you in distant India, these

  I send across the seas,

  Nor count it far across.

  For which of us forgets

  The Indian cabinets,

  The bones of antelope, the wings of albatross,

  The pied and painted birds and beans,

  The junks and bangles, beads and screens,

  The gods and sacred bells,

  And the loud-humming, twisting shells!

  The level of the parlour floor

  Was honest, homely, Scottish shore;

  But when we climbed upon a chair,

  Behold the gorgeous East was there!

  Be this a fable; and behold

  Me in the parlour as of old,

  And Minnie just above me set

  In the quaint Indian cabinet!

  Smiling and kind, you grace a shelf

  Too high for me to reach myself.

  Reach down a hand, my dear, and take

  These rhymes for old acquaintance’ sake!

  TO MY NAME-CHILD

  1

  Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed,

  Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read.

  Then shall you discover, that your name was printed down

  By the English printers, long before, in London town.

  In the great and busy city where the East and West are met,

  All the little letters did the English printer set;

  While you thought of nothing, and were still too young to play,

  Foreign people thought of you in places far away.

  Ay, and while you slept, a baby, over all the English lands

  Other little children took the volume in their hands;

  Other children questioned, in their homes across the seas:

  Who was little Louis, won’t you tell us, mother, please?

  2

  Now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play,

  Seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of Monterey,

  Watching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze,

  Tiny sandpipers, and the huge Pacific seas.

  And remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you,

  Long ere you could read it, how I told you what to do;

  And that while you thought of no one, nearly half the world away