POEM OF THE DAY

The Flying Squirrel

“The Flying Squirrel” is an honest account

 of a live creature that won his way into scores 

of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate 

ways. It is enough that John Burroughs has 

commended the poem.

Of all the woodland creatures,

The quaintest little sprite

Is the dainty flying squirrel

In vest of shining white,

In coat of silver gray,

And vest of shining white.

His furry Quaker jacket

Is trimmed with stripe of black;

A furry plume to match it

Is curling o’er his back;

New curved with every motion,

His plume curls o’er his back.

No little new-born baby

Has pinker feet than he;

Each tiny toe is cushioned

With velvet cushions three;

Three wee, pink, velvet cushions

Almost too small to see.

Who said, “The foot of baby

Might tempt an angel’s kiss”?

I know a score of school-boys

Who put their lips to this,—

This wee foot of the squirrel,

And left a loving kiss.

The tiny thief has hidden

My candy and my plum;

Ah, there he comes unbidden

To gently nip my thumb,—

Down in his home (my pocket)

He gently nips my thumb.

How strange the food he covets,

The restless, restless wight;—

Fred’s old stuffed armadillo

He found a tempting bite,

Fred’s old stuffed armadillo,

With ears a perfect fright.

The Lady Ruth’s great bureau,

Each foot a dragon’s paw!

The midget ate the nails from

His famous antique claw.

Oh, what a cruel beastie

To hurt a dragon’s claw!

To autographic copies

Upon my choicest shelf,—

To every dainty volume

The rogue has helped himself.

My books! Oh dear! No matter!

The rogue has helped himself.

And yet, my little squirrel,

Your taste is not so bad;

You’ve swallowed Caird completely

And psychologic Ladd.

Rosmini you’ve digested,

And Kant in rags you’ve clad.

Gnaw on, my elfish rodent!

Lay all the sages low!

My pretty lace and ribbons,

They’re yours for weal or woe!

My pocket-book’s in tatters

Because you like it so.

Mary E. Burt

POEM OF THE DAY

The Bugle Song

“The Bugle Song” (by Alfred Tennyson,

 1809-90), says Heydrick, “has for its 

central theme the undying power of

 human love. The music is notable for 

sweetness and delicacy.”

The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred Tennyson

POEM OF THE DAY

*The Frost*

“Jack Frost,” by Hannah Flagg Gould

 (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred years

 old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day 

as of yore. The poem puts his merry pranks 

to the front and prepares the way for science 

to give him a true analysis.

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night,

And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;

So through the valley and over the height,

In silence I’ll take my way:

I will not go on with that blustering train,

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,

Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I’ll be as busy as they.”

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed

In diamond beads—and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear

The downward point of many a spear

That hung on its margin far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,

And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;

Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept,

By the light of the moon were seen

Most beautiful things—there were flowers and trees;

There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;

There were cities with temples and towers, and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair;

He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there

That all had forgotten for him to prepare—

“Now just to set them a-thinking,

I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he,

“This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three,

And the glass of water they’ve left for me

Shall 'tchich!’ to tell them I’m drinking.”

 *Hannah Flagg Gould*

POEM OF THE DAY

O Captain! My Captain!

“O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman (1819-92),

 is placed here out of compliment to a little boy aged

 ten who wanted to recite it once a week for a year. 

This song and Edwin Markham’s poem on Lincoln

 are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman

POEM OF THE DAY

The Eve of Waterloo

“The Eve of Waterloo,” by Lord Byron 

(1788-1824). Here is another old reading-book 

gem that will always be dear to every 

boy’s heart if he only reads it a few times.

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium’s capital had gathered then

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell:

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; ’twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o’er the stony street.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!

But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon’s opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress

And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne’er might be repeated: who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering with white lips, “The foe! They come! They come!”

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave—alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,

The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day,

Battle’s magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which, when rent,

The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,

Rider, and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent!

Lord Byron

POEM OF THE DAY

He Prayeth Best

These two stanzas, the very heart 

of that great poem, “The Ancient Mariner,” 

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), 

sum up the lesson of this masterpiece

—“Insensibility is a crime.”

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best

All things, both great and small:

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

Samuel T. Coleridge

GREETINGS!

POEM OF THE DAY

How the Leaves Came Down

“How the Leaves Came Down,” by 

Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to 

children because it helps to reconcile

 them to going to bed. “I go to bed by 

day” is one of the crosses of childhood.

“I’ll tell you how the leaves came down,”

The great Tree to his children said:

“You’re getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,

Yes, very sleepy, little Red.

It is quite time to go to bed.”

“Ah!” begged each silly, pouting leaf,

“Let us a little longer stay;

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!

’Tis such a very pleasant day,

We do not want to go away.”

So, for just one more merry day

To the great Tree the leaflets clung,

Frolicked and danced, and had their way,

Upon the autumn breezes swung,

Whispering all their sports among—

“Perhaps the great Tree will forget,

And let us stay until the spring,

If we all beg, and coax, and fret.”

But the great Tree did no such thing;

He smiled to hear their whispering.

“Come, children, all to bed,” he cried;

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,

He shook his head, and far and wide,

Fluttering and rustling everywhere,

Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,

Golden and red, a huddled swarm,

Waiting till one from far away,

White bedclothes heaped upon her arm,

Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.

“Good-night, dear little leaves,” he said.

And from below each sleepy child

Replied, “Good-night,” and murmured,

“It is so nice to go to bed!”

Susan Coolidge

POEM OF THE DAY

The Voice of Spring

“The Voice of Spring,” by Felicia Hemans 

(1749-1835), becomes attractive as years go on. 

The line in this poem that captivated my 

youthful fancy was:

“The larch has hung all his tassels forth,”

The delight with which trees hang out 

their new little tassels every year is one 

of the charms of “the pine family.” John 

Burroughs sent us down a tiny hemlock, 

that grew in our window-box at school for 

five years, and every spring it was a new joy 

on account of the fine, tender tassels. 

Mrs. Hemans had a vivid imagination 

backed up by an abundant information.

I come, I come! ye have called me long;

I come o’er the mountains, with light and song.

Ye may trace my step o’er the waking earth

By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,

By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,

By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers

By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,

And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes

Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains;

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked o’er the hills of the stormy North,

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;

The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free,

And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,

And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,

From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time,

In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes,

When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;

They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain brows,

They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,

They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,

And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Felicia Hemans

POEM OF THE DAY

*Playing Robinson Crusoe*

Pussy can sit by the fire and sing,

Pussy can climb a tree,

Or play with a silly old cork and string

To ’muse herself, not me.

But I like Binkie, my dog, because

He knows how to behave;

So, Binkie’s the same as the First Friend was,

And I am the Man in the Cave.

Pussy will play Man-Friday till

It’s time to wet her paw

And make her walk on the window-sill

(For the footprint Crusoe saw);

Then she fluffles her tail and mews,

And scratches and won’t attend.

But Binkie will play whatever I choose,

And he is my true First Friend.

Pussy will rub my knees with her head,

Pretending she loves me hard;

But the very minute I go to my bed

Pussy runs out in the yard.

And there she stays till the morning light;

So I know it is only pretend;

But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,

And he is my Firstest Friend!

*Rudyard Kipling*

POEM OF THE DAY

A Life on the Ocean Wave.

“A Life on the Ocean Wave,” by Epes 

Sargent (1813-80), gives the swing and 

motion of the water of the great ocean. 

Children remember it almost unconsciously 

after hearing it read several times.

A life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep,

Where the scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep!

Like an eagle caged, I pine

On this dull, unchanging shore:

Oh! give me the flashing brine,

The spray and the tempest’s roar!

Once more on the deck I stand

Of my own swift-gliding craft:

Set sail! farewell to the land!

The gale follows fair abaft.

We shoot through the sparkling foam

Like an ocean-bird set free;—

Like the ocean-bird, our home

We’ll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,

The clouds have begun to frown;

But with a stout vessel and crew,

We’ll say, Let the storm come down!

And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the winds and the waters rave,

A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wave!

Epes Sargent

POEM OF THE DAY

The Captain’s Daughter

“The Captain’s Daughter,” by James T. Fields 

(1816-81), carries weight with every young 

audience. It is pointed to an end that children 

love—viz., trust in a higher power.

We were crowded in the cabin,

Not a soul would dare to sleep,—

It was midnight on the waters,

And a storm was on the deep.

’Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shattered by the blast,

And to hear the rattling trumpet

Thunder, “Cut away the mast!”

So we shuddered there in silence,—

For the stoutest held his breath,

While the hungry sea was roaring

And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy with his prayers,

“We are lost!” the captain shouted

As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,

As she took his icy hand,

“Isn’t God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?”

Then we kissed the little maiden.

And we spoke in better cheer,

And we anchored safe in harbour

When the morn was shining clear.

James T. Fields

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

Toru Dutt portrait

Date1921

Source:  https://archive.org/details/lifelettersoftor00duttuoft

Author:  Harihar Das

In public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

THE TREE OF LIFE

by Toru Dutt

Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!

Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,

My hand was in my father's, and I felt

His presence near me. Thus we often passed

In silence, hour by hour. What was the need

Of interchanging words when every thought

That in our hearts arose, was known to each,

And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone

A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.

I was awake:—It was an open plain

Illimitable—stretching, stretching—oh, so far!

And o'er it that strange light—a glorious light

Like that the stars shed over fields of snow

In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,

Only intenser in its brilliance calm.

And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,

For I was wide awake—it was no dream,

A tree with spreading branches and with leaves

Of divers kinds—dead silver and live gold,

Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!

Beside the tree an Angel stood; he plucked

A few small sprays, and bound them round my head.

Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves!

No longer throbbed my brows, no more I felt

The fever in my limbs—"And oh," I cried,

"Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves."

One leaf the Angel took and therewith touched

His forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!"

Never, oh never had I seen a face

More beautiful than that Angel's, or more full

Of holy pity and of love divine.

Wondering I looked awhile—then, all at once

Opened my tear-dimmed eyes—When lo! the light

Was gone—the light as of the stars when snow

Lies deep upon the ground. No more, no more,

Was seen the Angel's face. I only found

My father watching patient by my bed,

And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.

POEM OF THE DAY

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” by Eugene Field (1850-95), pleases children, who are all by nature sailors and adventurers.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.

“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”

The old moon asked the three.

“We have come to fish for the herring-fish

That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we,”

Said Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea.

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,—

Never afeard are we!”

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,—

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home:

’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea;

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock on the misty sea

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Eugene Field.