by Laura Barber
Bringing the fishermen home;
’T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought ’t was a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock on the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, –
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
WALT WHITMAN
There Was a Child Went Forth
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part
of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red
clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and
the mare’s foal and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the
pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and
the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became
part of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part
of him,
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light-yellow corn, and the
esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms and the fruit
afterward, and wood-berries and the commonest weeds by
the road,
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the
tavern whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d, and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls, and the barefoot negro boy
and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents, he that had father’d him and she that had
conceiv’d him in her womb and birth’d him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day, they became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the
supper-table,
The mother with mild words, clean her cap and gown, a
wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she
walks by,
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture, the
yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay’d, the sense of what is real, the
thoughts if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time, the curious
whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and
specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, if they are not
flashes and specks what are they?
The streets themselves and the façades of houses, and goods in
the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves, the huge crossing at
the ferries,
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river
between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables
of white or brown two miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide, the little
boat slack-tow’d astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away
solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt
marsh and shore mud,
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and
who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
ANONYMOUS
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails
And puppy-dogs’ tails,
That’s what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice
And all things nice,
That’s what little girls are made of.
ANONYMOUS
There was a little girl, who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she was good, she was very, very good,
But when she was bad, she was horrid.
LEWIS CARROLL
from Alice Through the Looking-Glass
Jabberwocky
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!’
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
THOMAS MORE
Childhood
I am called Childhood, in play is all my mind,
To cast a coyte, a cokstele, and a ball.
A top can I set, and drive it in his kind.
But would to god these hateful books all,
Were in a fire burnt to powder small.
Than might I lead my life always in play:
Which life god send me to mine ending day.
A. A. MILNE
The End
When I was One,
I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three,
I was hardly Me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am Six, I’m as clever as clever.
So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
Childhood and His Visitors
Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers;
Happy, – he knew not whence or how;
And smiling, – who could choose but love him?
For not more glad than Childhood’s brow,
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.
Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley’s green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded;
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.
With curling lip, and glancing eye,
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute,
But Childhood’s glance of purity
Had such a holy spell within it,
That the dark demon to the air
Spread forth again his baffled pinion,
And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.
Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup,
Full to the brim of bitter water:
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name,
And when the beldame muttered ‘Sorrow’,
He said, –‘don’t interrupt my game,
I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.’
The Muse of Pindus thither came,
And wooed him with the softest numbers
That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet’s slumbers;
Though sweet the music of the lay,
To Childhood it was all a riddle,
And ‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘do send away
That noisy woman with the fiddle.’
Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him, with most sage endeavour,
Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall,
And why no toy may last for ever:
She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature’s open book discloses,
And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.
Sleep on, sleep on! – Oh! Manhood’s dreams
Are all of earthly pain, or pleasure,
Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,
Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where Childhood lies
A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from Seraph eyes,
And glimpses of remembered Heaven!
DEREK MAHON
Jardin du Luxembourg
(after Rilke)
A merry-go-round of freshly painted horses
sprung from a childish world vividly bright
before dispersing in adult oblivion
and losing its quaint legendary light
spins in the shadows of a burbling circus.
Some draw toy coaches but remain upright;
a roebuck flashes past, a fierce red lion
and every time an elephant ivory-white.
As if down in the forest of Fontainebleau
a little girl wrapped up in royal blue
rides round on a unicorn; a valiant son
hangs on to the lion with a frantic laugh,
hot fists gripping the handles for dear life;
then that white elephant with ivory tusks –
an intense scrum of scarves and rumpled socks
though the great whirligig is just for fun.
The ring revolves until the time runs out,
squealing excitedly to the final shout
as pop-eyed children gasp there in their grey
jackets and skirts, wild bobble and beret.
Now you can study faces, different types,
the tiny features starting to take shape
with proud, heroic grins for the grown-ups,
shining and blind as if from a mad scrape.
WILLIAM BARNES
Children
When folk come on, as summer burns,
O’er flower-bloomings, year by year,
To men and women in their turns,
And strive in hope, or toil in fear,
And their sweet children come to show
Before them, each its pretty face,
How friends come, one by one, to know
Whom most they match, of all their race.
‘Oh! he is like his sire,’ some cry,
‘Cast in his father’s very mould,’
Or ‘She would fit the very die
Her mother fitted, just as old;’
Or ‘Ah! that boy has uncle’s nose,
Of uncle’s shapings more than half,’
Or ‘Oh! that smiling baby shows
Her aunty Polly’s merry laugh.’
Thus coming children bring again
The lines and looks of earlier lives,
The gait and ways of father-men,
The smile or voice of long gone wives;
And, oh! how well in tune we see
The copied lines, for ever shown,
Though every coming child shall be
An unmatch’d self, Himself alone.
SPIKE MILLIGAN
My Sister Laura
My sister Laura’s bigger than me
And lifts me up quite easily.
I can’t lift her, I’ve tried and tried;
She must have something heavy inside.
LOUIS UNTERMEYER
Portrait of a Child
Unconscious of amused and tolerant eyes,
He sits among his scattered dreams, and plays,
True to no one thing long; running for praise
With something less than half begun. He tries
To build his blocks against the furthest skies.
They fall; his soldiers tumble; but he stays
And plans and struts and laughs at fresh dismays,
Too confident and busy to be wise.
His toys are towns and temples; his commands
Bring forth vast armies trembling at his nod.
He shapes and shatters with impartial hands.
And, in his crude and tireless play, I see
The savage, the creator, and the god:
All that man was and all he hopes to be.
GEORGE ELIOT
from Brother and Sister
i
I cannot choose but think upon the time
When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss
At lightest thrill from the bee’s swinging chime,
Because the one so near the other is.
He was the elder and a little man
Of forty inches, bound to show no dread,
And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,
Now lagged behind my brother’s larger tread.
I held him wise, and when he talked to me
Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best,
I thought his knowledge marked the boundary
Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest.
If he said ‘Hush!’ I tried to hold my breath
Wherever he said ‘Come!’ I stepped in faith.
OLIVIA MCCANNON
Probability
He always tried to make it better
Put it right
To stop it happening at all was best.
Crossing the road he held her small hand
So tightly
Her knuckles turned white with his stress.
On cliff walks he kept her pressed right in
On the inside
Once she walked through a wasps’ nest.
Once she jumped out of an upstairs window
She was fine
She wanted to see what can happen.
SEAMUS HEANEY
The Railway Children
When we climbed the slopes of the cutting
We were eye-level with the white cups
Of the telegraph poles and the sizzling wires.
Like lovely freehand they curved for miles
East and miles west beyond us, sagging
Under their burden of swallows.
We were small and thought we knew nothing
Worth knowing. We thought words travelled the wires
In the shiny pouches of raindrops,
Each one seeded full with the light
Of the sky, the gleam of the lines, and ourselves
So infinitesimally scaled
We could stream through the eye of a needle.
JUDITH WRIGHT
Legend
The blacksmith’s boy went out with a rifle
and a black dog running behind.
Cobwebs snatched at his feet,
rivers hindered him,
thorn-branches caught at his eyes to make him blind
and the sky turned into an unlucky opal,
but he didn’t mind,
I can break branches, I can swim rivers, I can stare
out any spider I meet,
said he to his dog and his rifle.
The blacksmith’s boy went over the paddocks
with his old black hat on his head.
Mountains jumped in his way,
rocks rolled down on him,
and the old crow cried, ‘You’ll soon be dead.’
And the rain came down like mattocks.
But he only said
I can climb mountains, I can dodge rocks, I can
shoot an old crow any day,
and he went on over the paddocks.