The Making of the Music
“MAKE us a song, then, mother dear!
Sweet to think of, and sweet to sing,”
Said the little daughter and the little son;
Their lips were gay, and their eyes were clear—
“And let the song be an easy one,
Sweet to think of, and sweet to sing.”
“Sweet to think of, and sweet to hear?
How shall I make it, children dear?
The night is falling, the winds are rough;
What will you give me to make it of?”
“No, mother dear, the winds are soft,
And the sky is blue and clear aloft,
And oh! we can give you things enough
To make the beautiful music of.
“WE will give you the morning and afternoon,
We will give you the sun, and a white full moon;
You shall have all our prettiest toys,
And fields and flowers, and girls and boys.
“We will give you a bird, and a ship at sea,
And a golden cloud, and an almond-tree,
A picture gay, a river that runs,
A chime of bells, and hot cross-buns.
“You may have roses and rubies rare,
And silks and satins beyond compare,
A sceptre and crown, a queen, a king,
And beautiful dreams, and everything!
We will give you all that we think or know—
The song will be sweet if you make it so.”
Then the mother smiled as she began
To make the music, and sweet it ran,
And easy enough, for a strain or two;
And the children said, “Mother, the song will do!”
But soon the melody ran less clear;
There came a pause, and a wandering tear,
And a thought that went back many a year;
And the children fancied the music long,
And asked, “What have you put into the song
That we did not tell you, mother dear?”
THE trees and the flowers seem running a race,
But none treads down the other;
And neither thinks it his disgrace
To be later than his brother.
Yet the pear-tree shouts to the lilac-tree,
“Make haste, for the Spring is late!”
And the lilac whispers to the chestnut-tree
(Because he is so great),
“Pray you, great sir, be quick, be quick,
For down below we are blossoming thick!”
Then the chestnut hears, and comes out in bloom,
White, or pink, to the tip-top boughs—
Oh, why not grow higher, there’s plenty of room,
You beautiful tree, with the sky for your house?
Then like music they seem to burst out together,
The little and the big, with a beautiful burst;
They sweeten the wind, they paint the weather,
And no one remembers which was first:
White rose, red rose,
Bud rose, shed rose,
Larkspur, and lily, and the rest,
North, south, east, west,
June, July, August, September!
Ever so late in the year will come
Many a red geranium,
And chrysanthemums up to November!
Then the winter has overtaken them all,
The fogs and the rains begin to fall,
And the flowers, after running their races,
Are weary, and shut up their little faces,
And under the ground they go to sleep.
Is it very far down? Yes, ever so deep.