ALFRED TENNYSON

ENGLAND, 1809-1892

The Throstle

"Summer is coming, summer is coming, I know it, I know it, I know it.

Light again, leaf again, love again."

Yes, my wild little Poet.

Sing the new year in under the blue. 5 Last year you sang it as gladly.

"New, new, new, new!" Is it then _so_ new That you should carol so madly?

"Love again, song again, nest again, young again."

Never a prophet so crazy! 10 And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy.

"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!"

O warble, unchidden, unbidden!

Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 15 And all the winters are hidden.

JANE TAYLOR

ENGLAND, 1783-1824

The Violet

Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew, Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower, 5 Its colors bright and fair!

It might have graced a rosy bower Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom In modest tints arrayed; 10 And there diffused its sweet perfume Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see, That I may also learn to grow 15 In sweet humility.

CLINTON SCOLLARD[1]

AMERICA, 1860-

Bobolink

Bobolink-- He is here!

_Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_ Hark, how clear Drops the note 5 From his throat, Where he sways On the sprays Of the wheat In the heat! 10 Bobolink, _Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_

Bobolink Is a beau.

See him prink! 15 Watch him go Through the air To his fair!

Hear him sing On the wing,-- Sing his best O'er her nest! 5 "Bobolink, _Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_"

Bobolink, Linger long!

There's a kink 10 In your song Like the joy Of a boy Left to run In the sun,-- 15 Left to play All the day.

Bobolink, _Spink-a-c.h.i.n.k!_

FOOTNOTE:

[1] From "A Boy's Book of Rhyme."

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

AMERICA, 1860-

The Four Winds

In winter, when the wind I hear, I know the clouds will disappear; For 'tis the wind who sweeps the sky And piles the snow in ridges high.

In spring, when stirs the wind, I know 5 That soon the crocus buds will show; For 'tis the wind who bids them wake And into pretty blossoms break.

In summer, when it softly blows, Soon red I know will be the rose; 10 For 'tis the wind to her who speaks, And brings the blushes to her cheeks.

In autumn, when the wind is up, I know the acorn's out its cup; For 'tis the wind who takes it out, And plants an oak somewhere about.

LUCY LARCOM

AMERICA, 1826-1893

The Violet

Dear little violet, 5 Don't be afraid!

Lift your blue eyes From the rock's mossy shade.

All the birds call for you, Out of the sky; 10 May is here waiting, And here, too, am I.

Why do you shiver so, Violet, sweet?