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قراءة كتاب Mother's Dream and Other Poems
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
cold.
I saw, when she met some poor children one day,
Who asked her for alms, she turned frowning away;
And told them, “Poor people must work, to be fed,
And not trouble ladies, to help them to bread.”
Who asked her for alms, she turned frowning away;
And told them, “Poor people must work, to be fed,
And not trouble ladies, to help them to bread.”
And just as the sad little mendicants said,
Their mother was dying, their father was dead,
She entered a store, with a smooth, smiling face,
To lay out her purse in gay ribbons and lace.
Their mother was dying, their father was dead,
She entered a store, with a smooth, smiling face,
To lay out her purse in gay ribbons and lace.
I saw her curl up her sour lip in disdain,
Because Ellen Pitiful picked up the cane,
A feeble old man had let fall in the sand,
And placed it again in his tremulous hand.
Because Ellen Pitiful picked up the cane,
A feeble old man had let fall in the sand,
And placed it again in his tremulous hand.
But little does haughty Miss Patty suppose,
Of all, whom she visits, that any one knows
How stern she can look, when she ’s out of their sight,
And fret at the servants, if all is not right.
Of all, whom she visits, that any one knows
How stern she can look, when she ’s out of their sight,
And fret at the servants, if all is not right.
At home, she ’s unyielding, and sullen, and cross:
Her friends, when she ’s absent, esteem it no loss;
And some, where she visits, in secret confess,
That they love her no more, though they dread her much less.
Her friends, when she ’s absent, esteem it no loss;
And some, where she visits, in secret confess,
That they love her no more, though they dread her much less.
The truth is, Miss Patty, when young, never tried
To govern her temper, or conquer her pride.
The passions, unchecked in the heart of the child,
Like weeds in a garden neglected, ran wild.
To govern her temper, or conquer her pride.
The passions, unchecked in the heart of the child,
Like weeds in a garden neglected, ran wild.
They grew with her growth, with her strength became strong:
Her head, not then righted, has ever been wrong;
And so she would never submit to be told
Of faults, by long habit made stubborn and bold.
Her head, not then righted, has ever been wrong;
And so she would never submit to be told
Of faults, by long habit made stubborn and bold.
And now, among all my young friends, is there one,—
A fair little girl is there under the sun,
Who ’d rise to a woman, and have it allowed
That she is a likeness of Miss Patty Proud?
A fair little girl is there under the sun,
Who ’d rise to a woman, and have it allowed
That she is a likeness of Miss Patty Proud?
I CAUGHT A BIRD.
I caught a bird: She flitted by,
So near my window lifted high,
She softly ventured in, to spy
What I might be about:
And then, a little wildered thing,
Like many a one without a wing,
She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing,
“Alas! I can’t get out.”
So near my window lifted high,
She softly ventured in, to spy
What I might be about:
And then, a little wildered thing,
Like many a one without a wing,
She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing,
“Alas! I can’t get out.”
She saw her kindred on the tree
Before her, sporting light and free;
But felt a power, she could not see,
Repel and hold her back.
In vain her beak, and breast, and feet
Against the crystal pane were beat:
She could not break the clear deceit,
Nor find her airy track.
Before her, sporting light and free;
But felt a power, she could not see,
Repel and hold her back.
In vain her beak, and breast, and feet
Against the crystal pane were beat:
She could not break the clear deceit,
Nor find her airy track.
The pretty wanderer then I took;
And felt her frame with terror shook:
She gave the sad and piteous look
Of helplessness and fear;
Till quick I spread my hand, to show,
I caught her but to let her go;
And I, perhaps, may never know
A dearer moment here.
And felt her frame with terror shook:
She gave the sad and piteous look
Of helplessness and fear;
Till quick I spread my hand, to show,
I caught her but to let her go;
And I, perhaps, may never know
A dearer moment here.
She piped a short and sweet adieu,
As, humming on the air, she threw
Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew
Away from fear and me:
But, ere the hour of setting sun,
That little constant, grateful one,
Returning, had her hymn begun
In our old rustling tree.
As, humming on the air, she threw
Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew
Away from fear and me:
But, ere the hour of setting sun,
That little constant, grateful one,
Returning, had her hymn begun
In our old rustling tree.
Now do not take the fatal aim,
My tender bird to kill, or maim;
Nor let the fatal shot proclaim
Her anguish, or her fall!
But, would you know the bird I mean,
She is the first that will be seen—
The last—and every one between:
She represents them all!
My tender bird to kill, or maim;
Nor let the fatal shot proclaim
Her anguish, or her fall!
But, would you know the bird I mean,
She is the first that will be seen—
The last—and every one between:
She represents them all!
THE FLOWER OF SHELLS AND SILVER WIRE.
TO ——.
I sought a meet gift, it might please thee to wear
Among the soft locks of thy fine silken hair;
And asked the two deeps for some treasure or gem,
By nature first formed and imbosomed in them.
Among the soft locks of thy fine silken hair;
And asked the two deeps for some treasure or gem,
By nature first formed and imbosomed in them.
The mine gave me threads of its fine silver ore;
The ocean cast up its smooth shells to the shore:
Of these I combined the free offering, that now
I bring, and would set o’er thy fair, peaceful brow.
The ocean cast up its smooth shells to the shore:
Of these I combined the free offering, that now
I bring, and would set o’er thy fair, peaceful brow.
The shells, thou wilt see, are unsullied and white;
The silver is modest, and precious, and bright,—
A type! thy quick fancy will readily see,
Yet thou ’lt not confess what its meaning may be.
The silver is modest, and precious, and bright,—
A type! thy quick fancy will readily see,
Yet thou ’lt not confess what its meaning may be.
And let the gift sometimes recall to thy mind
The friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined;
But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skill
The earth and the seas with their treasures to fill!
The friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined;
But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skill
The earth and the seas with their treasures to fill!
THE LITTLE BLIND BOY.
O tell me the form of the soft summer air,
That tosses so gently the curls of my hair!
It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek,
But gives me no answer, though often I speak:
I feel it play o’er me, refreshing and light,
And yet cannot touch it, because I ’ve no sight!
That tosses so gently the curls of my hair!
It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek,
But gives me no answer, though often I speak:
I feel it play o’er me, refreshing and light,
And yet cannot touch it, because I ’ve no sight!
And music—what is it? and where does it dwell?