Poems By a Little Girl | Page 8

sandals?Not to make a noise of going.?The caterpillars, like little snow men,?Had wound themselves in their winter coats.?The hands of the trees were bare?And their fingers fluttered.?I was a queen of yellow leaves and brown,?And the redness of my fairy ring?Kept me warm.?For the wind blew near,?Though he made no noise of going,?And I hadn't a close-made wrap?Like the caterpillars.?Even a queen of fairies can be cold?When summer has forgotten and gone!?Keep me warm, red leaves;?Don't let the frost tiptoe into my ring?On the magic grass!
THE DREAM
When I slept, I thought I was upon the mountain-tops,?And this is my dream.?I saw the little people come out into the night,?I saw their wings glittering under the stars.?Crickets played all the tunes they knew.?It was so comfortable with light . . .?Stars, a rainbow, the moon!?The fairies had shiny crowns?On their bright hair.?The bottoms of their little gowns were roses!?It was musical in the moony light,?And the fairy queen,?Oh, it was all golden where she came?With tiny pages on her trail.?She walked slowly to her high throne,?Slowly, slowly to music,?And watched the dancing that went on?All night long in star-glitter?On the mountain-tops.
BUTTERFLY
Butterfly,?I like the way you wear your wings.?Show me their colors,?For the light is going.?Spread out their edges of gold,?Before the Sandman puts me to sleep?And evening murmurs by.
EVENING
Now it is dusky,?And the hermit thrush and the black and white warbler?Are singing and answering together.?There is sweetness in the tree,?And fireflies are counting the leaves.?I like this country,?I like the way it has,?But I cannot forget my dream I had of the sea,?The gulls swinging and calling,?And the foamy towers of the waves.
THUNDER SHOWER
The dark cloud raged.?Gone was the morning light.?The big drops darted down:?The storm stood tall on the rose-trees:?And the bees that were getting honey?Out of wet roses,?The hiding bees would not come out of the flowers?Into the rain.
RED CROSS SONG
When I heard the bees humming in the hive,?They were so busy about their honey,?I said to my mother,?What can I give,?What can I give to help the Red Cross??And Mother said to me:?You can give honey too!?Honey of smiles!?Honey of love!
PURPLE ASTERS
It isn't alone the asters?In my garden,?It is the butterflies gleaming?Like crowns of kings and queens!?It isn't alone purple?And blue on the edge of purple,?It is what the sun does,?And the air moving clearly,?The petals moving and the wings,?In my queer little garden!
SONG FOR A PLAY
Soldier drop that golden spear!?Wait till the fires arise!?Wait till the sky drops down and touches the spear,?Crystal and mother-of-pearl!?The sunlight droops forward?Like wings.?The birds sing songs of sun-drops.?The sky leans down where the spear stands upward. . .?I hear music . . .?It is the end . . .
PEACOCK FEATHERS
On trees of fairyland?Grow peacock feathers of daylight colors?Like an Austrian fan.?But there is a strange thing!?I have heard that night gathers these feathers?For her cloak;?I have heard that the stars, the moon,?Are the eyes of peacock feathers?From fairy trees.?It is a thing that may be,?But I should not be sure of it, my dear,?If I were you!
RED ROOSTER
Red rooster in your gray coop,?O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue,?Yellow and black,?You have a comb gay as a parade?On your head:?You have pearl trinkets?On your feet:?The short feathers smooth along your back?Are the dark color of wet rocks,?Or the rippled green of ships?When I look at their sides through water.?I don't know how you happened to be made?So proud, so foolish,?Wearing your coat of many colors,?Shouting all day long your crooked words,?Loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful!
TREE-TOAD
Tree-toad is a small gray person?With a silver voice.?Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadow?That sings.?Tree-toad is never seen?Unless a star squeezes through the leaves,?Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.?How would it be, I wonder,?To sing patiently all night,?Never thinking that people are asleep??Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees,?The moon, the dew, the other little singers,?Cricket . . . toad . . . leaf rustling . . .?They would listen:?It would be music like weather?That gets into all the corners?Of out-of-doors.
Every night I see little shadows?I never saw before.?Every night I hear little voices?I never heard before.?When night comes trailing her starry cloak,?I start out for slumberland,?With tree-toads calling along the roadside.?Good-night, I say to one, Good-by, I say to another:?I hope to find you on the way?We have traveled before!?I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!
SEVEN TO NINE YEARS OLD
THE LONESOME WAVE
There is an island?In the middle of my heart,?And all day comes lapping on the shore?A long silver wave.?It is the lonesome wave;?I cannot see the other side of it.?It will never go away?Until it meets the glad gold wave?Of happiness!
Wandering over the monstrous rocks,?Looking into the caves,?I see my island dark, all cold,?Until the gold wave sweeps in?From a sea deep blue,?And