"Nay, nay! you must borrow Or the beauty will vanish, The music will die." - Lucy Larcom. THIS A SUMMER DAY. HIS is the way the morning dawns: Rosy tints on flowers and trees, Winds that wake the birds and bees, Dew-drops on the flowers and lawns This is the way the morning dawns. This is the way the sun comes up: Vine and rose and buttercup This is the way the sun comes up. This is the way the rain comes down: Over roof and chimney-top; Boughs that bend, and clouds that frown This is the way the river flows: Here a whirl, and there a dance, Slowly now, then, like a lance, Swiftly to the sea it goes This is the way the river flows. I This is the way the daylight dies: - Selected. MUSIC OF NATURE. HAV ́AVE you heard the waters singing, Where the willows green are leaning O'er their way? Do you know how low and sweet, Have you heard the robins singing, Where the rosy day is breaking - Have you heard the wooing breeze, And the drowsy hum of bees All the earth is full of music, Little May; Bird and bee and water singing On its way. Let their silver voices fall On thy heart with happy call: "Praise the Lord who loveth all, - Selected. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. NDER the greenwood tree, UNDER Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat? Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live in the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets? Come hither, come hither, come hither; COM SUMMER WOODS. OME ye unto the summer woods All greenly wave the chestnut leaves, There come the little gentle birds, Down to the murmuring water's edge, And dash about and splash about, The merry little things, And look askance with bright black eyes, There's enough for every one, We might learn a lesson all of us, - Mary Howitt. IN THE MEADOW. HE meadow is a battle-field TH Where summer's army comes; Each soldier with a clover shield, 'Tis only when the breezes blow They shoulder arms, and, to and fro, And wave their gleaming spears; Charge!" cries the captain, giving sign, But when the day is growing dim, THE RIVER. TELL me, pretty river! Whence do thy waters flow? And whither art thou roaming, So pensive and so slow? "My birthplace was the mountain, O'ercurtained by wild flowers. - Selected. |