POEM OF THE DAY

Dylan Thomas 

Source: Read, Bill (1964) The Days of Dylan Thomas, McGraw-Hill

Author: Nora Summers (1892–1948)  wikidata:Q21289573

Public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Summary

Dylan Thomas's "Do not go gentle into that good night" is a passionate plea to fight against the inevitability of death. Written in the villanelle form, the poem repeats the lines "Do not go gentle into that good night" and "Rage, rage against the dying of the light" throughout its stanzas, emphasizing its central message. Thomas addresses different types of men – wise, good, wild, and grave – illustrating how each, upon realizing what they haven't achieved or experienced, should resist death with all their might. The poem culminates in a deeply personal address to his dying father, urging him to express his emotions fiercely rather than accepting death passively. It's a powerful testament to the value of life and the human spirit's will to endure.

About the Author: Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas (1914–1953) was a Welsh poet and writer whose distinctive voice and vibrant, musical language made him one of the most celebrated and controversial literary figures of the 20th century. Known for his public readings and flamboyant personality, Thomas's work often explores themes of life, death, nature, and childhood with a rich, imaginative intensity. His poetry, including famous pieces like "Fern Hill" and "A Child's Christmas in Wales," is characterized by its lyrical quality, intricate wordplay, and a profound emotional depth that resonates deeply with readers. Though his life was tragically cut short, his powerful contribution to modern poetry continues to be admired and studied.

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POEM OF THE DAY

Public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

The Sandpiper

“The Sandpiper,” by Celia Thaxter (1836-94),

 is placed here because a goodly percentage

 of the children who read it want to learn it.

Across the lonely beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I,

And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it,

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

As up and down the beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud, black and swift, across the sky;

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds

Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach

I see the close-reefed vessels fly,

As fast we flit along the beach,

One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;

He starts not at my fitful song,

Nor flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong,

He scans me with a fearless eye;

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,

The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,

When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth

The tempest rushes through the sky;

For are we not God’s children both,

Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

Celia Thaxter

POEM OF THE DAY

Engraving of WILLIAM BLAKE 

Author: Schiavonetti, Phillips

Public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

*A Dream* 

Once a dream did wave a shade

O’er my angel-guarded bed,

That an emmet lost its way

When on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn,

Dark, benighted, travel-worn,

Over many a tangled spray,

All heart-broke, I heard her say:

“Oh, my children! do they cry?

Do they hear their father sigh?

Now they look abroad to see.

Now return and weep for me.”

Pitying, I dropped a tear;

But I saw a glow-worm near,

Who replied, “What wailing wight

Calls the watchman of the night?

“I am set to light the ground

While the beetle goes his round.

Follow now the beetle’s hum—

Little wanderer, hie thee home!”

 *William Blake*

POEM OF THE DAY

Public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

*A Boy’s Song* 

“A Boy’s Song,” by James Hogg (1770-1835),

 is a sparkling poem, very attractive to children.

Where the pools are bright and deep,

Where the gray trout lies asleep,

Up the river and o’er the lea,

That’s the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,

Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,

Where the nestlings chirp and flee,

That’s the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,

Where the hay lies thick and greenest,

There to trace the homeward bee,

That’s the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,

Where the shadow falls the deepest,

Where the clustering nuts fall free.

That’s the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away,

Little sweet maidens from the play,

Or love to banter and fight so well,

That’s the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play,

Through the meadow, among the hay;

Up the water and o’er the lea,

That’s the way for Billy and me.

 *James Hogg*

POEM OF THE DAY

Thomas Campbell, 1777 - 1844. Poet and critic 

Artist :  Henry Room (1802–1850)  

Collection : National Galleries Scotland   

Public domain 

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The Rainbow

Triumphal arch, that fills the sky

When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight,

A midway station given,

For happy spirits to alight,

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Thomas Campbell

POEM OF THE DAY

William Lisle Bowles (1762-185O), English poet

Source:  http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/william_lisle_bowles

Public domain 

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*The Butterfly and the Bee* 

“The Butterfly and the Bee,” by William 

Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), is recommended

 by some school-girls. It carries a lesson 

in favour of the worker.

Methought I heard a butterfly

Say to a labouring bee:

“Thou hast no colours of the sky

On painted wings like me.”

“Poor child of vanity! those dyes,

And colours bright and rare,”

With mild reproof, the bee replies,

“Are all beneath my care.

“Content I toil from morn to eve,

And scorning idleness,

To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave

The vanity of dress.”

 *William Lisle Bowles*

POEM OF THE DAY

Charles Brown, Portrait of John Keats, 1819

Public domain 

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Fairy Song

Shed no tear! O shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! O, weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root’s white core.

Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes!

For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies—

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

’Mong the blossoms white and red—

Look up, look up. I flutter now

On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me! ’tis this silvery bell

Ever cures the good man’s ill.

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear!

The flowers will bloom another year.

Adieu, adieu—I fly, adieu,

I vanish in the heaven’s blue—

Adieu, adieu!

John Keats

POEM OF THE DAY

Portrait of Christina Rossetti

Source: Bridgeman Art Library

Public domain 

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"The Thread of Life"

​By Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)

This poem reflects on the solitary nature of the 

soul and its journey, contrasting the outer world 

with the inner self.

​The irresponsive silence of the sky,

The irremediable lapse of time,—

​Ever and ever more the end sublime

Terraform that waits all things that die.

​We look upon the mountains, and they lie

A toss of clouds, with which the sunbeams climb;

​We look upon the ocean's crest of rime,

And hear its vast and melancholy sigh.

​But we ourselves, alone, are not resigned:

A thread of life, which, when it seems to sever,

​Still holds the soul in chains, though bound to sever.

A memory, a dream, a hope, a fear,

​A doubt, a longing, and a prayer: all here.

The lonely heart, that is too proud to find.

POEM OF THE DAY

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Date: 18th century

Source:  http://russellmcneil.blogspot.com/2007_08_01_archive.html

Author:  Unknown 

Art is in the public domain

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If I Had But Two Little Wings

“If I Had But Two Little Wings,” by Samuel 

Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), is recommended

 by a number of teachers and school-girls.

If I had but two little wings

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I’d fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things

And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:

I’m always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one’s own.

And then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.

Samuel T. Coleridge

POEM OF THE DAY

Celia Thaxter in Her Garden

Smithsonian American Art Museum  

Public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

The Sandpiper

“The Sandpiper,” by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), 

is placed here because a goodly percentage

 of the children who read it want to learn it.

Across the lonely beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I,

And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it,

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

As up and down the beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud, black and swift, across the sky;

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds

Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach

I see the close-reefed vessels fly,

As fast we flit along the beach,

One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;

He starts not at my fitful song,

Nor flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong,

He scans me with a fearless eye;

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,

The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,

When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth

The tempest rushes through the sky;

For are we not God’s children both,

Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

Celia Thaxter

POEM OF THE DAY

Albumen print of American publisher James Thomas Fields (1817-1881). Cropped version of File:James T Fields albumen.jpg.

Date25 June 2009, 02:15 (UTC)

Source: James_T_Fields_albumen.jpg

Author: James_T_Fields_albumen.jpg: Warren's Photography Studio, Boston

derivative work: Midnightdreary (talk)

Public domain 

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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

Felicia Hemans (1793 – 1835) by William Edward West

Source:  https://americangallery.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/felicia-hemans.jpg

AuthorWilliam Edward West

Public domain 

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*Casabianca* 

 _“Casabianca,” by Felicia Hemans

 (1793-1835), is the portrait of a faithful

 heart, an example of unreasoning obedience.

 It is right that a child should obey even to

 the death the commands of a loving parent._ 

The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle’s wreck

Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on—he would not go

Without his father’s word;

That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, “Say, father, say

If yet my task is done?”

He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone!”

And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair;

And looked from that lone post of death

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud

“My father! must I stay?”

While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child

Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound—

The boy—oh! where was he?

—Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strew the sea;

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair.

That well had borne their part—

But the noblest thing that perished there

Was that young, faithful heart.

 *Felicia Hemans*

POEM OF THE DAY

William Cullen Bryant

Collection:  Brooklyn Museum  

Current location:  American Art collection

Signature top left:  Wyatt Eaton 1878

In public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

Robert of Lincoln

“Robert of Lincoln,” by William Cullen Bryant

 (1794-1878), is one of the finest bird poems 

ever written. It finds a place here because I 

have seen it used effectively as a memory 

gem in the Cook County Normal School 

(Colonel Parker’s school), year after year, 

and because my own pupils invariably like to 

commit it to memory. With the child of six to

 the student of twenty years it stands a source 

of delight.

Merrily swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Snug and safe is this nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;

White are his shoulders, and white his crest,

Hear him call in his merry note,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Look what a nice, new coat is mine;

Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Brood, kind creature, you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note;

Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he,

Pouring boasts from his little throat,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Never was I afraid of man,

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight:

There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Nice good wife that never goes out,

Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,

Six wide mouths are open for food;

Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,

Gathering seeds for the hungry brood:

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care,

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Nobody knows but my mate and I,

Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;

Fun and frolic no more he knows;

Robert of Lincoln’s a hum-drum drone;

Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

When you can pipe that merry old strain,

Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee

William Cullen Bryant.

POEM OF THE DAY

Source:  Carte de Visite - Foto 5,9 x 8,2 cm.

Author: nach einem Gemälde von P.Krämer, herausgegeben von Friedrich Bruckmann Villag 

München London

In the public domain 

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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

“The Daffodil” is here out of compliment 

to a splendid school and a splendid teacher 

at Poughkeepsie. I found the pupils learning 

the poem, the teacher having placed a bunch 

of daffodils in a vase before them. It was a

 charming lesson. (1770-96.)

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils:

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay;

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:—

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company;

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

POEM OF THE DAY

Artist: William Blake (1757–1827) 

After George Romney (1734–1802)

Engraved by Blake after George Romney for William Hayley The Life and Posthumous Writings of William Cowper 1803-1804 Essick Collection

This work is in the public domain

By Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute,

From the center all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity’s reach,

I must finish my journey alone,

Never hear the sweet music of speech,—

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain

My form with indifference see;

They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love,

Divinely bestow’d upon man,

Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,

Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more!

My friends—do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight,

The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wingèd arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there;

But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the seafowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair,

Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.

There’s mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought!

Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

William Cowper

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

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