The Posy Ring

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Who comes dancing over the snow,

His soft little feet all bare and rosy?

Open the door, though the wild winds blow,

Take the child in and make him cosy.

Take him in and hold him dear,

He is the wonderful glad New Year.

Dinah M. Mulock.

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A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Marjorie's Almanac

Robins in the tree-top,

Blossoms in the grass,

Green things a-growing

Everywhere you pass;

Sudden little breezes,

Showers of silver dew,

Black bough and bent twig

Budding out anew;

Pine-tree and willow-tree,

Fringèd elm and larch,-

Don't you think that May-time's

Pleasanter than March?

Apples in the orchard

Mellowing one by one;

Strawberries upturning

Soft cheeks to the sun;

Roses faint with sweetness,

Lilies fair of face,

Drowsy scents and murmurs

Haunting every place;

Lengths of golden sunshine,

Moonlight bright as day,-

Don't you think that summer's

Pleasanter than May?

Roger in the corn-patch

Whistling negro songs;

Pussy by the hearth-side

Romping with the tongs;

Chestnuts in the ashes

Bursting through the rind;

Red leaf and gold leaf

Rustling down the wind;

Mother "doin' peaches"

All the afternoon,-

Don't you think that autumn's

Pleasanter than June?

Little fairy snow-flakes

Dancing in the flue;

Old Mr. Santa Claus,

What is keeping you?

Twilight and firelight

Shadows come and go;

Merry chime of sleigh-bells

Tinkling through the snow;

Mother knitting stockings

(Pussy's got the ball),-

Don't you think that winter's

Pleasanter than all?

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

In February

The birds have been singing to-day,

And saying: "The spring is near!

The sun is as warm as in May,

And the deep blue heavens are clear."

The little bird on the boughs

Of the sombre snow-laden pine

Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house,

And how shall I make it fine?

"For the season of snow is past;

The mild south wind is on high;

And the scent of the spring is cast

From his wing as he hurries by."

The little birds twitter and cheep

To their loves on the leafless larch;

But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep,

And the year hath not worn to March.

John Addington Symonds.

March

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one.

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon!

There's joy on the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone.

William Wordsworth.

Nearly Ready[A]

In the snowing and the blowing,

In the cruel sleet,

Little flowers begin their growing

Far beneath our feet.

Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,

"Darlings, are you here?"

Till they answer, "We are nearly,

Nearly ready, dear."

"Where is Winter, with his snowing?

Tell us, Spring," they say.

Then she answers, "He is going,

Going on his way.

Poor old Winter does not love you;

But his time is past;

Soon my birds shall sing above you,-

Set you free at last."

Mary Mapes Dodge.

Spring Song

Spring comes hither,

Buds the rose;

Roses wither,

Sweet spring goes.

Summer soars,-

Wide-winged day;

White light pours,

Flies away.

Soft winds blow,

Westward born;

Onward go,

Toward the morn.

George Eliot

In April

The poplar drops beside the way

Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray;

The chestnut pouts its great brown buds

Impatient for the laggard May.

The honeysuckles lace the wall,

The hyacinths grow fair and tall;

And mellow sun and pleasant wind

And odorous bees are over all.

Elizabeth Akers.

Spring

The alder by the river

Shakes out her powdery curls;

The willow buds in silver

For little boys and girls.

The little birds fly over,

And oh, how sweet they sing!

To tell the happy children

That once again 'tis spring.

The gay green grass comes creeping

So soft beneath their feet;

The frogs begin to ripple

A music clear and sweet.

And buttercups are coming,

And scarlet columbine;

And in the sunny meadows

The dandelions shine.

And just as many daisies

As their soft hands can hold

The little ones may gather,

All fair in white and gold.

Here blows the warm red clover,

There peeps the violet blue;

O happy little children,

God made them all for you!

Celia Thaxter.

The Voice of Spring

I am coming, I am coming!

Hark! the little bee is humming;

See, the lark is soaring high

In the blue and sunny sky;

And the gnats are on the wing,

Wheeling round in airy ring.

See, the yellow catkins cover

All the slender willows over!

And on the banks of mossy green

Star-like primroses are seen;

And, their clustering leaves below,

White and purple violets blow.

Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating,

And the cawing rooks are meeting

In the elms,-a noisy crowd;

All the birds are singing loud;

And the first white butterfly

In the sunshine dances by.

Look around thee, look around!

Flowers in all the fields abound;

Every running stream is bright;

All the orchard trees are white;

And each small and waving shoot

Promises sweet flowers and fruit.

Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven:

God for thee the spring has given,

Taught the birds their melodies,

Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies,

For thy pleasure or thy food:

Pour thy soul in gratitude.

Mary Howitt.

The Coming of Spring

There's something in the air

That's new and sweet and rare-

A scent of summer things,

A whir as if of wings.

There's something, too, that's new

In the color of the blue

That's in the morning sky,

Before the sun is high.

And though on plain and hill

'Tis winter, winter still,

There's something seems to say

That winter's had its day.

And all this changing tint,

This whispering stir and hint

Of bud and bloom and wing,

Is the coming of the spring.

And to-morrow or to-day

The brooks will break away

From their icy, frozen sleep,

And run, and laugh, and leap.

And the next thing, in the woods,

The catkins in their hoods

Of fur and silk will stand,

A sturdy little band.

And the tassels soft and fine

Of the hazel will entwine,

And the elder branches show

Their buds against the snow.

So, silently but swift,

Above the wintry drift,

The long days gain and gain,

Until on hill and plain,-

Once more, and yet once more,

Returning as before,

We see the bloom of birth

Make young again the earth.

Nora Perry.

May

May shall make the world anew;

Golden sun and silver dew,

Money minted in the sky,

Shall the earth's new garments buy.

May shall make the orchards bloom;

And the blossoms' fine perfume

Shall set all the honey-bees

Murmuring among the trees.

May shall make the bud appear

Like a jewel, crystal clear,

'Mid the leaves upon the limb

Where the robin lilts his hymn.

May shall make the wild flowers tell

Where the shining snowflakes fell;

Just as though each snow-flake's heart,

By some secret, magic art,

Were transmuted to a flower

In the sunlight and the shower.

Is there such another, pray,

Wonder-making month as May?

Frank Dempster Sherman.

Spring and Summer

Spring is growing up,

Is not it a pity?

She was such a little thing,

And so very pretty!

Summer is extremely grand,

We must pay her duty,

(But it is to little Spring

That she owes her beauty!)

All the buds are blown,

Trees are dark and shady,

(It was Spring who dress'd them, though,

Such a little lady!)

And the birds sing loud and sweet

Their enchanting hist'ries,

(It was Spring who taught them, though,

Such a singing mistress!)

From the glowing sky

Summer shines above us;

Spring was such a little dear,

But will Summer love us?

She is very beautiful,

With her grown-up blisses,

Summer we must bow before;

Spring we coaxed with kisses!

Spring is growing up,

Leaving us so lonely,

In the place of little Spring

We have Summer only!

Summer with her lofty airs,

And her stately faces,

In the place of little Spring,

With her childish graces!

"A."

Summer Days

Winter is cold-hearted;

Spring is yea and nay;

Autumn is a weathercock,

Blown every way:

Summer days for me,

When every leaf is on its tree,

When Robin's not a beggar,

And Jenny Wren's a bride,

And larks hang, singing, singing, singing,

Over the wheat-fields wide,

And anchored lilies ride,

And the pendulum spider

Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business,

And gnats fly in a host,

And furry caterpillars hasten

That no time be lost,

And moths grow fat and thrive,

And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush,

Before green nuts embrown,

Why, one day in the country

Is worth a month in town-

Is worth a day and a year

Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion

That days drone elsewhere.

Christina G. Rossetti.

September

The goldenrod is yellow,

The corn is turning brown,

The trees in apple orchards

With fruit are bending down;

The gentian's bluest fringes

Are curling in the sun;

In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun;

The sedges flaunt their harvest

In every meadow nook,

And asters by the brookside

Make asters in the brook;

From dewy lanes at morning

The grapes' sweet odors rise;

At noon the roads all flutter

With yellow butterflies-

By all these lovely tokens

September days are here,

With summer's best of weather

And autumn's best of cheer.

H. H.

How the Leaves Came Down

I'll tell you how the leaves came down.

The great Tree to his children said,

"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,

Yes, very sleepy, little Red;

It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,

"Let us a little longer stay;

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,

'Tis such a very pleasant day

We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day

To the great Tree the leaflets clung,

Frolicked and danced and had their way,

Upon the autumn breezes swung,

Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget

And let us stay until the spring,

If we all beg and coax and fret."

But the great Tree did no such thing;

He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer

He shook his head, and far and wide,

Fluttering and rustling everywhere,

Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,

Golden and red, a huddled swarm,

Waiting till one from far away,

White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,

Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.

"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;

And from below each sleepy child

Replied "Good-night," and murmured,

"It is so nice to go to bed."

Susan Coolidge.

Winter Night

Blow, wind, blow!

Drift the flying snow!

Send it twirling, whirling overhead!

There's a bedroom in a tree

Where, snug as snug can be,

The squirrel nests in his cosey bed.

Shriek, wind, shriek!

Make the branches creak!

Battle with the boughs till break o' day!

In a snow-cave warm and tight,

Through the icy winter night

The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away.

Call, wind, call,

In entry and in hall,

Straight from off the mountain white and wild!

Soft purrs the pussy-cat

On her little fluffy mat,

And beside her nestles close her furry child.

Scold, wind, scold,

So bitter and so bold!

Shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap!

With half-shut, dreamy eyes

The drowsy baby lies

Cuddled closely in his mother's lap.

Mary F. Butts.

A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of January

Down flits the snow,

Travelling from the frozen North

As cold as it can blow.

Poor robin redbreast,

Look where he comes;

Let him in to feel your fire,

And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February

Snowflakes float still,

Half inclined to turn to rain,

Nipping, dripping, chill.

Then the thaws swell the streams,

And swollen rivers swell the sea:-

If the winter ever ends

How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March

The catkins drop down,

Curly, caterpillar-like,

Curious green and brown.

With concourse of nest-building birds

And leaf-buds by the way,

We begin to think of flowers

And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April

Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,

On the hedged-in orchard-green,

From the southern wall.

Apple-trees and pear-trees

Shed petals white or pink,

Plum-trees and peach-trees;

While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze

Beside pure scent of flowers,

While all things wax and nothing wanes

In lengthening daylight hours.

Across the hyacinth beds

The wind lags warm and sweet,

Across the hawthorn tops,

Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June

Thrives the red rose crop,

Every day fresh blossoms blow

While the first leaves drop;

White rose and yellow rose

And moss rose choice to find,

And the cottage cabbage-rose

Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July

Drives the pelting hail,

From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot

Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.

Weedy waves are tossed ashore,

Sea-things strange to sight

Gasp upon the barren shore

And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind

Corn-fields bow the head,

Sheltered in round valley depths,

On low hills outspread.

Early leaves drop loitering down

Weightless on the breeze,

First fruits of the year's decay

From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September

The heavy-headed fruits

Shake upon their bending boughs

And drop from the shoots;

Some glow golden in the sun,

Some show green and streaked,

Some set forth a purple bloom,

Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October

At the equinox,

Stirred up in his hollow bed

Broad ocean rocks;

Plunge the ships on his bosom,

Leaps and plunges the foam,

It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea,

That they were safe at home.

In slack wind of November

The fog forms and shifts;

All the world comes out again

When the fog lifts.

Loosened from their sapless twigs

Leaves drop with every gust;

Drifting, rustling, out of sight

In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,

The year's sands nearly run,

Speeds on the shortest day,

Curtails the sun;

With its bleak raw wind

Lays the last leaves low,

Brings back the nightly frosts,

Brings back the snow.

Christina G. Rossetti.

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