3 May poems / Annette Wynne

May

"Moon of Green Leaves," so
They called you long ago,
So the Indian child at play
Spoke your name, dear Month of May.


The First of May

If I could stay up late no doubt
I'd catch the buds just bursting out;
And up from every hidden root
Would jump a tiny slender shoot;
I wonder how seeds learn the way,
They always know the very day —
The pretty, happy first of May;
If I could stay up then, no doubt
I'd catch the buds just bursting out.


May Is Pretty, May Is Mild

May is pretty, May is mild,
Dances like a happy child;
Sing out, robin; spring out, flowers;
April went with all her showers,
And the world is green again;
Come out, children, to the glen,
To the meadows, to the wood,
For the earth is clean and good,
And the sky is clear and blue,
And bright May is calling you!

May is pretty. May is mild,
Dances like a happy child,
On a blessèd holiday.
Come out, children, join the play!

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and  the European Union]

Ettore Tito (1859-1941), Holiday, 1910 (detail). Wikimedia Commons.

[June]

Annette Wynne biography

To My Mother / Christina Rossetti

    To My Mother

Harrison Weir (1824-1906),

 Flowers for Mother,  ca. 1880.

 Wikimedia Commons. 

    
    To-day's your natal day;
            Sweet flowers I bring:
    Mother, accept, I pray
            My offering.

    And may you happy live,
            And long us bless;
    Receiving as you give
            Great happiness.

~~
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
from Poems for Children, 1907

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Christina Rossetti biography

"To My Mother" read for Eternal Poems.

April the Magician / Annette Wynne

April the Magician

Norman Rockwell (1894-1978),

The Magician, November 1919.

April has a wand of gold.
    To touch the trees; and then
They who were quite poor and old
    Grow young and rich again.

When April changes hill and tree,
    The birds rush back to you,
And grasses come again for me,
    And all the world grows new!

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in

Canada, the United States, and  

the European Union]

[May[

Annette Wynne biography

March / Annette Wynne

A.M. Mailick (1869-1946), Children running, 

circa 1908 (detail). Wikimedia Commons.

March

March is windy, March is wild,
Hurries like an eager child;
Puffing mouth and ruddy face,
Rushing in a windy race;
A breath or two he stops, and then
He's puffing madly off again.

March is windy, March is wild,
A rushing, blowing, puffing child.
And why does March go rushing so?
He's trying to catch spring, you know.

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and  the European Union]

[April]

Annette Wynne biography

"March" text, summary, and analysis. Courtesy iswearenglish.com.

I'm Not Just February / Annette Wynne

I'm Not Just February

Frances Tipton Hunter (1896-1957),

Our Valentine Party, from The Children's 

Party Book, 1923. Wikimedia Commons.

I'm not just February
With winds that blow
All day, and piled-up snow;
I'm Washington and Lincoln, too,
Who kept our country's flag for you!
I'm Valentine of airy grace —
With golden hearts and hearts of lace
And pretty cards that people send,
Quite as a secret, to a friend.
Though I am short of days and small,
I'm quite a big month, after all!

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in

Canada, the United States, and  

the European Union]

[March]

Annette Wynne biography

I'm January / Annette Wynne

I'm January

I'm January bringing you
A year of days — all brand, brand new;
I step upon the frosty ground
When chimes and sleighbells ring around;
You welcome me and children sing,
And joy comes into everything.
I bring you love and lots of cheer,
And work and friends for all the year.

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

[February]

Annette Wynne biography

Norman Rockwell (1894-1978), Girl in Snow with Dog, 1916 (detail). Wikimedia Commons.

Snow, Snow / George J. Dance

Snow, Snow

Snow, snow, get out of here;
Come again some other year.
I'd rather that the skies were clear.
Snow, snow, get out of here.

~~
George J. Dance, 2026

["Snow, Snow" by George J. Dance is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International Unported License.]

George J. Dance biography

Ser Armantio de Nicolao, Snowstorm aftermath in northern Virginia, 2009.

CC BY-SA 3.0, Wikimedia Commons.

The Poor Boy's Christmas / Ellis Parker Butler

The Poor Boy's Christmas

Observe, my child, this pretty scene,
And note the air of pleasure keen
With which the widow's orphan boy
Toots his tin horn, his only toy.
What need of costly gifts has he?
The widow has nowhere to flee,
And ample noise his horn emits
To drive the widow into fits.

Moral:

The philosophic mind can see
The uses of adversity.

~~
Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937)
from Leslie's Monthly, December 1902

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ellis Parker Butler biography

(Illustration by B. Cory Kilvert, Leslie's Monthly)

The Rich Boy's Christmas / Ellis Parker Butler

The Rich Boy's Christmas

And now behold this sulking boy,
His costly presents bring no joy;
Harsh tears of anger fill his eye
Tho' he has all that wealth can buy.
What profits it that he employs
His many gifts to make a noise?
His playroom is so placed that he
Can cause his folks no agony.

Moral:

Mere worldly wealth does not possess
The power of giving happiness.

~~
Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937)
from Leslie's Monthly, December 1902

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ellis Parker Butler biography

Illustration by B. Cory Kilvert, Leslie's Monthly.

October / Tom MacInnes

October

When I was a little fellow, long ago,
    The season of all seasons seemed to me
    The Summer's afterglow and fantasy —
The red October of Ontario:
To ramble unrestrain'd where maples grow
    Thick-set with butternut and hickory,
    And be the while companion'd airily
By elfin things a child alone may know!

And how with mugs of cider, sweet and mellow,
    And block and hammer for the gather'd store
    Of toothsome nuts, we'd lie around before
The fire at nights, and hear the old folks tell o'
    Red Indians and bears, and the Yankee war —
Long ago, when I was a little fellow!

~~
Tom MacInnes (1867-1951)
from In Amber Lands, 1910

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Tom MacInnes biography

Robert Berdan, Oxtongue River, Ontario, Canada, in autumn (detail).

CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

An April Shower / George J. Dance

James Ensor (1860-1949),

 Boulevard Van Iseghem in the Rain. 

Wikimedia Commons.

An April Shower

The rain has returned, the wonderful rain!

        Who cares if we're shut inside?
We'll sit at the glass and see our world
        Baptized and sanctified.

See how like magic overnight
        The frozen waste is gone,
How green light gleams from every tree,
        Green lace decks every lawn.

We'll watch the water of life pour down
        And later, after the rain,
We'll see the rainbow and the sun
        And we'll go out again.

~~
George J. Dance, 2020

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

George J. Dance biography

March Sunset / Hilda Conkling

March Sunset

Pines cut dark on a bronze sky . . .
A juniper tree laughing to the harp of the wind . . .
Last year's oak leaves rustling . . .
And oh, the sky like a heart of fire
Burned down to those coals that have the color of fruit . . .
Cherries . . . light red grapes . . .

~~
Hilda Conkling (1910-1986)
from Shoes of the Wind, 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in the United States]

Hilda Conkling biography

Ardfern, Sunset over Trafford, UK, March 2020. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

March / Mary Slade

March

The stormy March has come again,—
        March! March! March!
And rattling down the window pane,—
        March! March! March!
Come rushing torrents of the rain,—
        March! March! March!
But o'er my head my hat I swing,
And shout hurrah! like anything!
Because it is the first of Spring,—
        March! March! March!

~~
Mary Slade (1826-1882)

from The Children's Hour, 1880

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Mary Slade biography

David Howard, "Rain in Lindford," March 2015. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

My Father / Ann Taylor

Sanket Mehta, Father and Son, 2014. CC BY 3.0, Wikimedia Commons.

My Father

Who took me from my mother's arms,
And, smiling at her soft alarms,
Show'd me the world and nature's charms?
                                        My Father.

Who made me feel and understand
The wonders of the sea and land,
And mark, through all, the Maker's hand?
                                         My Father.

Who climb'd with me, the mountain's height,
And watch'd my look of dread delight,
While rose the glorious orb of light?
                                        My Father

Who, from each flower and verdant stalk,
Gather'd a honey'd store of talk,
To fill the long, delightful walk?
                                        My Father.

Not on an insect would he tread;
Nor strike the stinging nettle dead;
Who taught at once my heart and head?
                                        My Father

Who wrote upon that heart the line
Religion grav'd on Virtue's shrine,
To make the human race divine?
                                        My Father.

Who taught my early mind to know
The God from whom all blessings flow,
Creator of all things below?
                                        My Father.

Who, now, in pale and placid light
Of mem'ry gleams upon my sight,
Bursting the sepulchre of night?
                                        My Father.

Oh! teach me still the Christian plan;
Thy practice with thy precept ran:
Nor yet desert me now a man,
                                        My Father.

Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice,
With charms of thy angelic voice,
Still prompt the motive and the choice,
                                        My Father.

For yet remains a little space,
Till I shall meet thee face to face,
And not, as now, in vain embrace
                                        My Father.

Soon, and before the mercy seat,
Spirits made perfect – we shall meet;
Thee with what transport shall I greet,
                                        My Father!

 

~~

Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
from Original Poems for Infant Minds, 1834

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Ann Taylor biography

"My Father" performed for Dead Poets Revival.

My Mother / Ann Taylor

Illustration by Walter Crane (1845-1915). Public domain.

My Mother

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
                                        My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
                                        My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
                                        My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
                                        My Mother.

Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play.
And minded all I had to say?
                                        My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
                                        My Mother.
 

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in Wisdom’s pleasant way?
                                        My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?
                                        My Mother.

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
                                        My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
                                        My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
‘Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
                                        My Mother.

For God who lives above the skies
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
                                        My Mother.

~~

Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
from Original Poems for Infant Minds, 1834

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Ann Taylor biography

"My Mother" read by Ghizela Rowe. Courtesy Morphing Reality.

March / Mary Mapes Dodge

March

In the snowing and the blowing,
    In the cruel sleet,
Little flowers begin their growing
    Far beneath our feet.

Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,—
    "Darlings, are you here?"
Till they answer, "We are nearly,
    Nearly ready, dear."

"Where is Winter, with his snowing?
    Tell us, Spring," they say.
Then she answers, "He is going,
    Going on his way.

"Poor old Winter does not love you;
    But his time is past;
Soon my birds shall sing above you;—
    Set you free at last."

~~

Mary Mapes Dodge (1831-1905)

from Rhymes and Jingles, 1875

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Mary Mapes Dodge biography

The Months / Sara Coleridge

The Months

January brings the snow,
makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,
stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daises at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hand with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasents,
Then to gather nuts is pleasent.

Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

~~
Sara Coleridge (1802-1852)
from Pretty Lessons in Verse for Good Children, 1845

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Sara Coleridge biography

October's Party / George Cooper

October's Party

October gave a party;
    The leaves by hundreds came —
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
    And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
    And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
    Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
    The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
    In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
    And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
    New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow,
    At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
    And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
    They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
    In jolly "hands around."

~~
George Cooper (1840-1927)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

George Cooper biography

Spring Wind in London / Katherine Mansfield

Spring Wind in London

I blow across the stagnant world,
I blow across the sea,
For me, the sailor's flag unfurled,
For me, the uprooted tree.
My challenge to the world is hurled;
The world must bow to me.

I drive the clouds across the sky,
I huddle them like sheep;
Merciless shepherd-dog am I
And shepherd-watch I keep.
If in the quiet vales they lie
I blow them up the steep.

Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,
In every living thing;
On the moon's yellow wings I glide,
On the wild rose I swing;
On the sea-horse's back I ride,
And what then do I bring?

And when a little child is ill
I pause, and with my hand
I wave the window curtain's frill
That he may understand
Outside the wind is blowing still;
. . . It is a pleasant land.

O stranger in a foreign place,
See what I bring to you.
This rain — is tears upon your face;
I tell you — tell you true
I came from that forgotten place
Where once the wattle grew.

All the wild sweetness of the flower
Tangled against the wall.
It was that magic, silent hour. . . .
The branches grew so tall
They twined themselves into a bower.
The sun shone . . . and the fall

Of yellow blossom on the grass!
You feel that golden rain?
Both of you could not hold, alas,
(Both of you tried — in vain)
A memory, stranger. So I pass. . . .
It will not come again.

~~ 

Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)
from Poems, 1924

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Katherine Mansfield biography

For You, Mother / Hilda Conkling

For You, Mother

I have a dream for you, Mother,
Like a soft thick fringe to hide your eyes.
I have a surprise for you, Mother,
Shaped like a strange butterfly.
I have found a way of thinking
To make you happy;
I have made a song and a poem
All twisted into one.
If I sing, you listen;
If I think, you know.
I have a secret from everybody in the world full of people
But I cannot always remember how it goes;
It is a song
For you, Mother,
With a curl of cloud and a feather of blue
And a mist
Blowing along the sky.
If I sing it some day, under my voice,
Will it make you happy?

~~
Hilda Conkling (1910-1986)
from Poems by a Little Girl, 1920

[Poem is in the public domain in the United States]

Hilda Conkling biography