Classic Poem

I

DUET

We have a Harp, and it is blue;
You tune it with a silver key.
And some days it is all for me;
Some days for Brother, too.
And it has honey-colored strings: —
But four of them are rosy red
And three of them are blue, instead:
That is how it sings.

Brother has a lovely, long,
Shepherd-pipe to blow.
But still, whatever way it is,
He wants mine, and I want his,
The way you would, you know;
And if we change about, why then,
We want it different again;
We want them to and fro.

Brother, how can I hear to play,
With all your piping in the way?
How can I find the way it sings,
With you there, laughing through the strings?

II

The A RCHITECT

It had some twigs,
For roundabout,
And little feathers, in and out;
And here, I think he'd fit some moss,
And maybe tie a thread across; —
A ravelling from off the line. —
So will I, with mine.

And there was down; —
And there were strings,
And different little kinds of things;
And once a torn-off bit of lace
To make it softer, in that place.
And I'd have liked a Flag to be
On top of all. —
— Why didn'The?

But oh, it was a round one, his!
Though not so beautiful as this. 
Except three eggs, so greeny-blue;
All three alike, and speckled, too;
And they were new ones, I suppose.
 What shall I do for those?

III

L OVE-IN-A- M IST

Oh, what if I could only learn to read,
— To-day!
Why not? Oh, why? I know I could, indeed,
Learn all they say,
Those letters,  if I tried;
And then beside,
If only once I wanted to be good,
I know I could!

And wouldn't that be soon?
The bells, you see, are ringing afternoon;
But still it's very light.
All in one day! Oh, wouldn't that surprise him,
To hear me read, to-night!

And when we hear him humming in the hall,
He'll never know;
But up he'll come to kiss me in my cot;
And then I'll call,
Oh, very softly, so, —

" Father!"  And he'll say, " What?"
And then I'll tell, this way:
" You don't know what your little girl was doing
All the day. —
But I've found out just how the letters read;
And here is what they say!"
IV

R IIORNELLO

I make songs on the window-pane;
Songs, that I rub out again.
(Mother says we may.)
Silver things they are, like rain;
Bright, and gone away.

Martha says, " O there you've been, —
Where I had the glass all clean!" —
But I only say;
" You don't know what things they mean;
Nor how the musics play." —

" Wash it off then, do, and soon!"
But I'll write another tune,
I made yesterday.
All the bells it was, — at noon:
And it went  this way.

V

The H APPY F ARMER

And now we're hoping it will rain,
With warmness in the night;
And then a burning sun again
As soon as it is light.
For this is where we ploughed the path,
— And never left a weed; —
And sowed the corn, and strawberries,
And morning-glory seed.

And in between, it looked so bare,
I set that lily-stalk;
And then I planted bean-rows there,
All up and down the walk.
Oh, won't the path be lovely now?
Up to the very door? —
With all our garden for surprise
Where nothing grew before, —
Nothing grew before!
VI

The P ENITENT

Now I'm going to be good; —
Now, and all the day.
I'll do everything I should;
Everything you say.
I won't fresco on the wall;
And I won't be rude;
And I won't break anything more at all;
Because, you see, I'm good.

Good as St. Francis and St. John;
Yes, good as all I've read;
Yes, every single holy one
With a halo round its head: —
Maybe for mine I might put on
A holly-wreath instead!

For don't you almost see the moon?
(And here she brings our tray! — )
So bed-time will be coming soon;
There can't be much more day.

VII

A LISON 's S ONG

This is how my song goes;
Wait till you see how.
I'll say the way I think it is
For I can't sing it now.
It's just the way a rose is
With curly leaves around:
Yes, that is how my song will be
When I can make it sound.

And this is how my song goes;
You'll like to hear this one!
It's full of those bright dancing things
That go along the sun;
And it has little bells, too,
That edge it all around. —
And that is how my song will be;
When I can make it sound.

VIII

The P AINT -B OX

Blue is my favorite color;
Blue is what I love best.
Violet-and-blue is my favorite too;
That's how I'd rather be dressed.

Yellow is Brother's, — think of that!
(Brother's a funny fellow.)
The Sun, — and the next-door pussy-cat, —
They're yellow. '

But blue is my favorite color
And I know it's Mother's too:
For the ribbon, now, in my hair, is it;
She kisses me more in blue.

Green is very good, too, for trees, —
Most of them are, you know;
Tho' some ways of pink I like, I think;
That's why I paint them so.

But yellow's the color our Bird was, once,
Juniper, — poor little fellow! —
And the Sun — and he — are the best, you see: —
Oh, let's make everything Yellow!

IX

S IMPLE A VOWAL

I love you more than you do me,
Yes I do, I do!
More than the sky and more than the sea,
And more than Music too.

I love you more than you do me,
Truly, I do you;
I love you more than all the world.
(Would that mean playthings, too?)

I love you more than you do me;
Oh, I do, I do!
More than this whole Universe.
(Would that mean birthdays, too?)