The Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children. Various

side, A dominie in gray Put gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away.

      Emily Dickinson.

      

       Good-Morning

      The year's at the Spring,

       And day's at the morn;

       Morning's at seven;

       The hill-side's dew-pearled;

       The lark's on the wing;

       The snail's on the thorn;

       God's in his heaven—

       All's right with the world.

      Robert Browning.

       What the Winds Bring

      Which is the Wind that brings the cold?

       The North-Wind, Freddy, and all the snow;

       And the sheep will scamper into the fold

       When the North begins to blow.

       Which is the Wind that brings the heat?

       The South-Wind, Katy; and corn will grow,

       And peaches redden for you to eat,

       When the South begins to blow.

       Which is the Wind that brings the rain?

       The East-Wind, Arty; and farmers know

       The cows come shivering up the lane,

       When the East begins to blow. Which is the Wind that brings the flowers? The West-Wind, Bessy; and soft and low The birdies sing in the summer hours, When the West begins to blow.

      Edmund Clarence Stedman.

       Lady Moon

      Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

       "Over the sea."

       Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?

       "All that love me."

       Are you not tired with rolling, and never

       Resting to sleep?

       Why look so pale and so sad, as forever

       Wishing to weep?

       "Ask me not this, little child, if you love me:

       You are too bold:

       I must obey my dear Father above me,

       And do as I'm told."

       Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

       "Over the sea."

       Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?

       "All that love me."

      Lord Houghton.

      

       O Lady Moon[B]

      O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east:

       Shine, be increased;

       O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the west:

       Wane, be at rest.

      Christina G. Rossetti.

       Windy Nights[C]

      Whenever the moon and stars are set,

       Whenever the wind is high,

       All night long in the dark and wet,

       A man goes riding by,

       Late at night when the fires are out,

       Why does he gallop and gallop about?

       Whenever the trees are crying aloud,

       And ships are tossed at sea,

       By, on the highway, low and loud,

       By at the gallop goes he.

       By at the gallop he goes, and then

       By he comes back at the gallop again.

      Robert Louis Stevenson.

      

       Wild Winds

      Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!

       Blow high,

       Blow low,

       And whirlwinds go,

       To chase the little leaves that fly—

       Fly low and high,

       To hollow and to steep hill-side;

       They shiver in the dreary weather,

       And creep in little heaps together,

       And nestle close and try to hide.

       Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!

       Blow low,

       Blow high,

       And whirlwinds try

       To find a crevice—to find a crack,

       They whirl to the front; they whirl to the back.

       But Tommy and Will and the baby together

       Are snug and safe from the wintry weather.

       All the winds that blow

       Cannot touch a toe—

       Cannot twist or twirl

       One silken curl.

       They may rattle the doors in a noisy pack,

       But the blazing fires will drive them back.

      Mary F. Butts.

      

       Now the Noisy Winds Are Still[D]

      Now the noisy winds are still;

       April's coming up the hill!

       All the spring is in her train,

       Led by shining ranks of rain;

       Pit, pat, patter, clatter,

       Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!—

       First the blue, and then the shower;

       Bursting bud, and smiling flower;

       Brooks set free with tinkling ring;

       Birds too full of song to sing;

       Crisp old leaves astir with pride,

       Where the timid violets hide—

       All things ready with a will—

       April's coming up the hill!

      Mary Mapes Dodge.

       The Wind

      The wind has a language, I would I could learn;

       Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern;

       Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song,