The Ivy Green

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim ;
And the mold'ring dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he!
How closely he twineth, how tightly he clings,
To his friend, the huge oak tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations scattered been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS

The Good Daughter

 The Good Daughter

MY merry little daughter
Was climbing out of bed -
"Don't you think I'm a good girl,''
My little daughter said;
"For all day long this lovely day
And all day long to-morrow,
I haven't done a single thing
To give my mother sorrow!"

An Early Childhood Prayer

An Early Childhood Prayer 

Now I lay me down to sleep:
I pray the Lord my soul to keep/
Was my childhood's early prayer
Taught by my mother's love and care.
Many years since then have fled;
Mother slumbers with the dead;
Yet methinks I see her now,
With lovelit eye and holy brow,
As, kneeling by her side to pray.
She gently taught me how to say,
"Now I lay me down to sleep :
I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Oh! could the faith of childhood's days.
Oh! could its little hymns of praise.
Oh! could its simple, joyous trust
Be re-created from the dust
That lies around a wasted life.
The fruit of many a, bitter strife!
Oh, then at night in prayer I'd bend,
And call my God, my Father, Friend,
And pray with childlike faith once more
The prayer my mother taught of yore,
"Now I lay me down to sleep:
I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Eugene Henry Pullen

Bright little fairy tales...

 Bright little fairy tales...

There was a place in childhood that I
remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright
fairy tales did tell;
And gentle words and fond embrace were
given with joy to me
When I was in that happy place, upon my
mother's knee.

When fairy tales were ended, "Good night,"
she softly said.
And kissed, and laid me down to sleep within
my tiny bed;
And holy words she taught me there - me-
thinks I yet can see
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my
mother's knee.

In the sickness of my childhood, the perils
of my prime,
The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of
every time;
When doubt and danger weighed me down,
then pleading all for me.
It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent
my mother's knee.

Samuel Lover

Soft and Low

 Soft and Low

Mother, crooning soft and low,
Let not all thy fancies go,
Like swift birds, to the blue skies
Of thy darling's happy eyes.

Count thy baby's curls for beads,
As a sweet saint intercedes;
But on some fair ringlet's gold
Let a tender prayer be told

For the mother, all alone,
Who for singing maketh moan,
Who doth ever vainly seek
Dimpled arms and velvet cheek.

Mary Frances Butts

Singing Mother To Sleep

 Singing Mother to Sleep

Back and forth in a rocker,
Lost in revery deep.
The mother rocked while trying
To sing the baby to sleep.

The baby began a-crowing.
For silent he couldn't keep -
And after awhile the baby
Had crowed his mother to sleep.

Richard Kendall Munkittrick

The Voice of My Mother

The Voice of My Mother

The voices of the Loved and Lost are
stirring at my heart,
And memory's misered treasures leap to
life, with sudden start -

Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou
hast looked and smiled. Mother,
And I am sitting at thy side, at heart a very
child. Mother!

I'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother,
much as in those hours,
When all my wealth was in thy love, and in
the birds and flowers.

And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes
sweet tears wet,
I know there wells a spring of love through
all my being yet.

Gerald Massey