Piano by D.

H Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling
strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as
she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the
past.
A Bird Came Down The Walk by Emily Dickson

A bird came down the walk:

He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew

From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes

That hurried all abroad,
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,

I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,

Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The Childrens Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Between the dark and the They climb up into my turret
daylight, O'er the arms and back of
When the night is beginning my chair;
to lower, If I try to escape, they surround
Comes a pause in the day's me;
occupations, They seem to be
That is known as the Children's everywhere.
Hour.
They almost devour me with
I hear in the chamber above kisses,
me Their arms about me
The patter of little feet, entwine,
The sound of a door that is Till I think of the Bishop of
opened, Bingen
And voices soft and sweet. In his Mouse-Tower on the
Rhine!
From my study I see in the
lamplight, Do you think, o blue-eyed
Descending the broad hall banditti,
stair, Because you have scaled the
Grave Alice, and laughing wall,
Allegra, Such an old moustache as I am
And Edith with golden hair. Is not a match for you all!

A whisper, and then a silence: I have you fast in my fortress,

Yet I know by their merry And will not let you depart,
eyes But put you down into the
They are plotting and planning dungeon
together In the round-tower of my
To take me by surprise. heart.

A sudden rush from the And there will I keep you

stairway, forever,
A sudden raid from the hall! Yes, forever and a day,
By three doors left unguarded Till the walls shall crumble to
They enter my castle wall! ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
The Caterpillar by Robert Graves
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.

Down beneath grow dandelions,

Daisies, old-man's-looking-glasses;
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
I eat and swallow and eat again.

Here come raindrops helter-skelter;

I munch and nibble unregarding:
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
I'll mind my business: I'm a good worm.

When I'm old, tired, melancholy,

I'll build a leaf-green mausoleum
Close by, here on this lovely spray,
And die and dream the ages away.

Some say worms win resurrection,

With white wings beating flitter-flutter,
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?
Either way I'll miss my share.
 Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A hungry, hairy caterpillar,
I crawl on my high and swinging seat,
And eat, eat, eatas one ought to eat.

The Echoing Green by William Blake

The sun does arise,

And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells' cheerful sound;
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair,

Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
"Such, such were the joys
When we allgirls and boys
In our youth-time were seen
On the echoing Green."

Till the little ones, weary,

No more can be merry:
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green.

The Bean-Stalk by Edna St.Vincent Millay

Ho, Giant! This is I! As the money that you find
I have built me a bean-stalk In a dream of finding money
into your sky!
La,but it's lovely, up so What a wind! What a
high! morning!

This is how I came,I put

Here my knee, there my
foot,
Up and up, from shoot to
shoot
And the blessed bean-stalk
thinning
Like the mischief all the
time,
Till it took me rocking,
spinning,
In a dizzy, sunny circle,
Making angles with the root,
Far and out above the
cackle
Of the city I was born in,
Till the little dirty city
In the light so sheer and Till the tiny, shiny city,
sunny When I shot a glance below,
Shone as dazzling bright Shaken with a giddy
and pretty laughter,
 Sick and blissfully afraid, And I felt my foot slip,
Was a dew-drop on a blade, And I scratched the wind
And a pair of moments after and whined,
Was the whirling guess I And I clutched the stalk and
made, jabbered,
And the wind was like a With my eyes shut blind,
whip What a wind! What a wind!

Cracking past my icy ears, Your broad sky, Giant,

And my hair stood out Is the shelf of a cupboard;
behind, I make bean-stalks, I'm
And my eyes were full of A builder, like yourself,
tears, But bean-stalks is my trade,
Wide-open and cold, I couldn't make a shelf,
More tears than they could Don't know how they're
hold, made,
The wind was blowing so, Now, a bean-stalk is more
And my teeth were in a row, pliant
Dry and grinning, La, what a climb!

The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth

Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut- You can hear his bellows blow;
tree You can hear him swing his
The village smithy stands; heavy sledge,
The smith, a mighty man is he, With measured beat and slow,
With large and sinewy hands; Like a sexton ringing the village
And the muscles of his brawny bell,
arms When the evening sun is low.
Are strong as iron bands. And children coming home
His hair is crisp, and black, and from school
long, Look in at the open door;
His face is like the tan; They love to see the flaming
His brow is wet with honest forge,
sweat, And bear the bellows roar,
He earns whate'er he can, And catch the burning sparks
And looks the whole world in that fly
the face, Like chaff from a threshing-
For he owes not any man. floor.
Week in, week out, from morn He goes on Sunday to the
till night, church,
 And sits among his boys; Thus at the flaming forge of life
He hears the parson pray and Our fortunes must be
preach, wrought;
He hears his daughter's voice, Thus on its sounding anvil
Singing in the village choir, shaped
And it makes his heart rejoice. Each burning deed and
It sounds to him like her thought.
mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her
once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand
he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,rejoicing,sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task
begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted,
something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my
worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast
taught!