And are baffled, and beaten and blown about The By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; Inglenook To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best. HENRY WADSWORTH LONgfellow. Etude Réaliste I A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat No flower-bells that expand and shrink As shine on life's untrodden brink,- The Inglenook II A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,- Then, even as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. No rose-buds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, III A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies, Sees perfect in them Paradise! Their glance might cast out pain and sin, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. We Are Seven -A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; She had a rustic, woodland air, Her eyes were fair, and very fair;— "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be? "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, “Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; The Inglenook The "You say that two at Conway dwell, Inglenook And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; "So in the churchyard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, "And when the ground was white with snow And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" "Twas throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The Inglenook |