Little ships of whitest pearl
With sailors who were ancient kings,
Come over the sea when my little girl
Sings.

And if my little girl should weep,
Little ships with torn sails
Go headlong down among the deep

A little Madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own!

“Little girl, little girl,
Where have you been?”
“Gathering roses
To give to the Queen.”
“Little girl, little girl,
What gave she you?”
“She gave me a diamond
As big as my shoe.”

Little Charlie Chipmunk was a talker . Mercy me!
He chattered after breakfast and he chattered after tea!
He chattered to his father and he chattered to his mother!
He chattered to his sister and he chattered to his brother!
He chattered till his family was almost driven wild .
Oh, little Charlie Chipmunk was a very tiresome child!

The little boat, tied up at the dock,
its scull not working now:
it is just like the tranquil man,
far from the noise of the world.
— Green shade filling the path,
he rises from his nap
and sits watching the river swelling
with spring tides.

The little boat floats by the dock,
no one rows the oar:
truly this is a quiet spot
far from the noisy world!
Filling the path, verdant shade,
I rise now from my nap
and joy to watch the flowing river
swell with tides of spring.

Little bat, little bat,
Pray, when you speak,
Speak a bit louder,
You've such a high squeak,
That only those people
With quite a good ear,
Who know all about you,
Can possibly hear.

List! list! the sleigh bells peal across the snow;
The frost's sharp arrows touch the earth and lo!
How diamond-bright the stars do scintillate
When Night hath lit her lamps to Heaven's gate.
To the dim forest's cloistered arches go,
And seek the holly and the mistletoe;
For soon the bells of Christmas-tide will ring
To hail the Heavenly King!

The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.

Like to a Baker's oven is the grave,
Wherein the bodies of the faithful have
A setting in, and where they do remain
In hopes to rise, and to be drawn again:
Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead;
Though set like dough, they shall be drawn like bread.