By Ada M. Skinner, Frances Gillespy Wickes, Maud Petersham, Miska Petersham
3rd quantity of A kid's personal publication of Verse, a three-volume set deliberate to be used through the 4 fundamental years. This surprisingly wonderful selection of poetry used to be chosen with the kid's pursuits in brain. contains sound rhymes and jingles to attract the ear, descriptive poems to create photos within the imagination, lullabies and lyrics to hot the guts, and story-telling poems to stir the mind's eye. Attractively illustrated by way of Maud and Miska Petersham. compatible for a long time 7 to ten.
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Additional info for A Child's Own Book of Verse, Book Three
To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. —ALFRED TENNYSON On the Desert All around, To the bound Of the vast horizon's round, All sand, sand, sand— All burning, glaring sand— On my camel's hump I ride, As he sways from side to side, With an awkward step of pride, And his scraggy head uplifted, and his eye So long and bland. Naught is near, In the blear And the simmering atmosphere, But the shadow on the sand, The shadow of the camel on the sand; All alone as I ride O'er the desert's ocean wide, It is ever at my side; It haunts me, it pursues me, if I flee or if I stand.
Pleasant Sabbath bells! Chime, sing! rime, ring! over fields and fells! And I galloped and I galloped on my palfrey white as milk, My robe was of the sea-green woof, my serk was of silk; My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my shoe, My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew; My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly blent With the leaves of autumn dropping all around me as I went; And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind me peal and play, Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed to die away; And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of sand, I saw the green gnome sitting, with his cheek upon his hand.
Slay the dragonfly, his steed; Dig his grave within the ring Of the mushrooms in the mead. —G. W. THORNBURY Verse I find earth not gray, but rosy, Heaven not grim, but fair of hue. Do I stoop, I pick a posy, Do I stand and stare—all 's blue. On the Grasshopper and the Cricket The poetry of earth is never dead; When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the lead In summer luxury,—he has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.