260 Childhood poems

I saw a boy with eager eye Open a book upon a stall, And read as he’d devour it all; Which when the stall-man did espy, Soon to the boy I heard him call, ‘You, Sir, you never buy a book, Therefore in one you shall not look.’ The boy passed slowly on, and with a sigh He wished he never had been taught to read, Then of the old churl’s books he should have had no need. Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy. I soon perceived another boy Who looked as if he’d not had any Food for that day at least, enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy’s case, thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat; No wonder if he wish he ne’er had learned to eat.

Two little dickie birds sitting on a wall, One named Peter, one named Paul. Fly away, Peter!   Fly away, Paul! Come back, Peter!   Come back, Paul!

This little piggy went to market, This little piggy stayed home, This little piggy had roast beef, This little piggy had none. This little piggy went ... Wee, wee, wee, all the way home!

The three little kittens, they lost their mittens, And they began to cry, "Oh, mother dear, we sadly fear, That we have lost our mittens." "What!   Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie." "Meow, meow, meow." "Then you shall have no pie." The three little kittens, they found their mittens, And they began to cry, "Oh, mother dear, see here, see here, For we have found our mittens." "Put on your mittens, you silly kittens, And you shall have some pie." "Purr, purr, purr, Oh, let us have some pie." The three little kittens put on their mittens, And soon ate up the pie, "Oh, mother dear, we greatly fear, That we have soiled our mittens." "What, soiled your mittens, you naughty kittens!" Then they began to sigh, "Meow, meow, meow," Then they began to sigh. The three little kittens, they washed their mittens, And hung them out to dry, "Oh, mother dear, do you not hear, That we have washed our mittens?" "What, washed your mittens, then you're good kittens, But I smell a rat close by." "Meow, meow, meow, We smell a rat close by."

Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake—The work was done— How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.

Is it only when you’re little you know tigers live in your closet— one with your shoes on his two ears, another with your umbrella tied to his tail; the rest wearing your red coat and blue trousers with the red buttons? Is it only when you’re little the dustballs have mountainous shadows in the crack of light under the door? Or is it also NOW you fear that tigers will eat you— when you wake in the middle of the night and don’t know where you are, nor remember how far you’ve come. Your nose hurts like a plowed field, your fingers stiff— Then somehow, you remember what you’ve accomplished. The sewing is finished— The red buttons threaded to the blue pants and the little coat with its sleeves. And you know you have given them to the tigers (so they won’t eat you). But they chased themselves around a tree and melted into butter. NOW you can pick up your coat and trousers, your shoes and umbrella. Soon, even, you can start your car and go— The promise of dawn already on the face of the clock-radio.

The leaves talked in the twilight, dear; Hearken the tale they told: How in some far-off place and year, Before the world grew old, I was a dreaming forest tree, You were a wild, sweet bird Who sheltered at the heart of me Because the north wind stirred; How, when the chiding gale was still, When peace fell soft on fear, You stayed one golden hour to fill My dream with singing, dear. To-night the self-same songs are sung The first green forest heard; My heart and the gray world grow young— To shelter you, my bird.

Like a loose island on the wide expanse, Unconscious floating on the fickle sea, Herself her all, she lives in privacy; Her waking life as lonely as a trance, Doom’d to behold the universal dance, And never hear the music which expounds The solemn step, coy slide, the merry bounds. The vague, mute language of the countenance. In vain for her I smooth my antic rhyme; She cannot hear it. All her little being Concentrated in her solitary seeing— What can she know of beauty or sublime? And yet methinks she looks so calm and good, God must be with her in her solitude!

As from the house your mother sees You playing round the garden trees, So you may see, if you will look Through the windows of this book, Another child, far, far away, And in another garden, play. But do not think you can at all, By knocking on the window, call That child to hear you. He intent Is all on his play-business bent. He does not hear; he will not look, Nor yet be lured out of this book. For, long ago, the truth to say, He has grown up and gone away, And it is but a child of air That lingers in the garden there.

The world is full of mostly invisible things, And there is no way but putting the mind’s eye, Or its nose, in a book, to find them out, Things like the square root of Everest Or how many times Byron goes into Texas, Or whether the law of the excluded middle Applies west of the Rockies. For these And the like reasons, you have to go to school And study books and listen to what you are told, And sometimes try to remember. Though I don’t know What you will do with the mean annual rainfall On Plato’s Republic, or the calorie content Of the Diet of Worms, such things are said to be Good for you, and you will have to learn them In order to become one of the grown-ups Who sees invisible things neither steadily nor whole, But keeps gravely the grand confusion of the world Under his hat, which is where it belongs, And teaches small children to do this in their turn.