A Garden of Girls Yet child-simple, undefiled, Moving light, as all young things— Only free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure- Choosing pleasures (for the rest) Quiet talk she liketh best, And her voice, it murmurs lowly, And her smile, it seems half holy, And if any poet knew her, And if any painter drew her, And if reader read the poem, He would whisper-" You have done a And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, ""Tis my angel, with a name! 99 And a stranger, when he sees her And all voices that address her, As if speaking to a bird. And all fancies yearn to cover And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" We may all be sure he doth. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. A Garden of Girls A Garden of Girls Little Bell Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray: "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he— Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,”— Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks- 66 "Sing me your best song before I go." And the blackbird piped; you never heard Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, And the while the bonny bird did pour In the little childish heart below, grow, Down the dell she tripped; and through the glade A Garden Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And fror out the tree Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear, "Little Bell!" piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern: 66 Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return; Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun! Little Bell looked up and down the glade: 66 Come and share with me!" Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, of Girls A Garden In the little childish heart below, By her snow-white cot at close of day, Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, "What good child is this," the angel said, Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, THOMAS WESTWOOD. |