PALE and cold are your beams, fair moon,
As they are falling on my bed,
I can look you in the face, sweet moon,
Without even raising my head.
Your form is a lovely crescent now,
Very soon its beauty will change,
As among the crowds of stars you go,
And away through the clouds you range.
I do not delight in your full, round face,
Nor your broad and shining glare,
But sweet is your present form of grace,
And your light so soft and fair.
I wonder, as on the city you shine,
And peep in at our windows so bright,
If you really look on its houses fine,
And its children asleep for the night.
I love to watch your way in the sky,
As behind the church you sink,
It minds me of shining paths on high,
And it always leads me to think.
WHAT IS IT MAKES ME HAPPIEST?
WHAT is it makes me happiest ?
Is it my last new play?
Is it my bounding ball, or hoop -
I follow every day?
Is it my puzzles or my blocks?
My pleasant solitaire?
My dolls, my kitten, or my books,
My flowers fresh and fair?
What is it makes me happiest ?
It is not one of these;
Yet they are treasures dear to me,
And never fail to please.
O, it is looks and tones of love,
From those I love the best,
That follow me when I do right;
These make me happiest !
Do you know I'm alone? No creature save Fred,
And he, darling baby, asleep in his bed;
As he now lies before me, his dark eyes shut close,
A smile on his lip, on his cheek the blush-rose,
I wonder what visions disturb his repose;
There's no cloud or shadow to darken his brow,
"T is sunshine, bright sunshine, that blesses him.
How innocent must be the thoughts that now
Through his tiny mind,-may they ever be thus!
I SHALL be glad when evening comes,
Papa I then shall see;
And he will take me in his arms,
And seat me on his knee.
The sunset sky he'll show me,
And evening's brightest star;
I tried to blow it out one night –
O then, how laughed Papa!
He'll tell me pretty stories,
And mend my last new toy,
And wonder why I broke it;
A careless little boy!
|