The Coming Storm
THE tree-tops rustle, the tree-tops wave,
They hustle, they bustle; and, down in a cave,
The winds are murmuring, ready to rave.
The skies are dimming; the birds fly low,
Skimming and swimming, their wings are slow;
They float, they are carried, they scarcely go.
The dead leaves hurry; the waters, too,
Flurry and scurry; as if they knew
A storm was at hand; the smoke is blue.
A DARK-GREEN prickly yew one night
Peeped round on the trees of the forest,
And said, “Their leaves are smooth and bright,
My lot is the worst and poorest:
I wish I had golden leaves,” said the yew;
And lo, when the morning came,
He found his wish had come suddenly true,
For his branches were all aflame.
Now, by came a Jew, with a bag on his back,
Who cried, “I’ll be rich to-day!”
He stripped the boughs, and, filling his sack
With the yellow leaves, walked away!
The yew was as vexed as a tree could be,
And grieved as a yew-tree grieves,
And sighed, “If Heaven would but pity me,
And grant me crystal leaves!”
Then crystal leaves crept over the boughs;
Said the yew, “Now am I not gay?”
But a hailstorm hurricane soon arose
And broke every leaf away!
So he mended his wish yet once again,—
“Of my pride I do now repent;
Give me fresh green leaves, quite smooth and plain,
And I will be content.”
In the morning he woke in smooth green leaf,
Saying, “This is a sensible plan;
The storm will not bring my beauty to grief,
Or the greediness of man.”
But the world has goats as well as men,
And one came snuffing past,
Which ate of the green leaves a million and ten,
Not having broken his fast.
O then the yew-tree groaned aloud,
“What folly was mine, alack!
I was discontented, and I was proud—
O give me my old leaves back!”
So, when daylight broke, he was dark, dark green,
And prickly as before!—
The other trees mocked, “Such a sight to be seen!
To be near him makes one sore!”
The south wind whispered his leaves between,
“Be thankful, and change no more!
“The thing you are is always the thing
That you had better be”—
But the north wind said, with a gallant fling,
“The foolish, weak yew-tree!
“What if he blundered twice or thrice?
There’s a turn to the longest lane;
And everything must have its price—
Poor faulterer, try again!”
LITTLE brother in a cot,
Baby, baby!
Shall he have a pleasant lot?
Maybe, maybe!
Little brother in a nap,
Baby, baby!
Bless his tiny little cap,
Noise far away be!
With a rattle in his hand,
Baby, baby!
Dreaming—who can understand
Dreams like this, what they be?
When he wakes kiss him twice,
Then talk and gay be;
Little cheeks soft and nice,
Baby, baby!
Pretty little pouting boy,
Baby, baby!
Let his life, with sweet and toy,
Pleasure all and play be.
Seven white angels watching here,
Baby, baby!
Pray be kind to baby dear,
Pray be, pray be!
Little brother in a cot,
Baby, baby!
His shall be a pleasant lot—
Must, not may be!