Bringing Home the Cows
When potatoes were in blossom,
When the new hay filled the mows,
Sweet the paths we trod together,
Bringing home the cows.
What a purple kissed the pasture,
Kissed and blessed the alder-boughs,
As we wandered slow at sundown,
Bringing home the cows!
How the far-off hills were gilded
With the light that dream allows.
As we built our hopes beyond them,
Bringing home the cows!
How our eyes were bright with visions,
What a meaning wreathed our brows,
As we watched the cranes, and lingered,
Bringing home the cows!
Past the years, and through the distance,
Throbs the memory of our vows.
Oh, that we again were children,
Bringing home the cows!
by Charles George Douglas Roberts
When potatoes were in blossom,
When the new hay filled the mows,
Sweet the paths we trod together,
Bringing home the cows.
What a purple kissed the pasture,
Kissed and blessed the alder-boughs,
As we wandered slow at sundown,
Bringing home the cows!
How the far-off hills were gilded
With the light that dream allows.
As we built our hopes beyond them,
Bringing home the cows!
How our eyes were bright with visions,
What a meaning wreathed our brows,
As we watched the cranes, and lingered,
Bringing home the cows!
Past the years, and through the distance,
Throbs the memory of our vows.
Oh, that we again were children,
Bringing home the cows!
by Charles George Douglas Roberts
The Song of the Bee
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
This is the song of the bee.
His legs are of yellow;
A jolly, good fellow,
And yet a great worker is he.
In days that are sunny
He’s getting his honey;
In days that are cloudy
He’s making his wax:
On pinks and on lilies,
And gay daffodillies,
And columbine blossoms,
He levies a tax!
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
The sweet-smelling clover,
He, humming, hangs over;
The scent of the roses
Makes fragrant his wings:
He never gets lazy;
From thistle and daisy,
And weeds of the meadow,
Some treasure he brings.
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
From morning’s first light
Till the coming of night,
He’s singing and toiling
The summer day through.
Oh! we may get weary,
And think work is dreary;
’Tis harder by far
To have nothing to do.
by Marian Douglas
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
This is the song of the bee.
His legs are of yellow;
A jolly, good fellow,
And yet a great worker is he.
In days that are sunny
He’s getting his honey;
In days that are cloudy
He’s making his wax:
On pinks and on lilies,
And gay daffodillies,
And columbine blossoms,
He levies a tax!
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
The sweet-smelling clover,
He, humming, hangs over;
The scent of the roses
Makes fragrant his wings:
He never gets lazy;
From thistle and daisy,
And weeds of the meadow,
Some treasure he brings.
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
From morning’s first light
Till the coming of night,
He’s singing and toiling
The summer day through.
Oh! we may get weary,
And think work is dreary;
’Tis harder by far
To have nothing to do.
by Marian Douglas
A Barred Owl
The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”
Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.
by Richard Wilbur
Richard Purdy Wilbur was born on 1 March 1921 in New York City, New York, United States of America. He became a poet and a translator of written works. Richard Purdy Wilbur passed on at 96 years of age on 14 October 2017 in Belmont, Massachusetts, United States of America.
The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”
Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.
by Richard Wilbur
Richard Purdy Wilbur was born on 1 March 1921 in New York City, New York, United States of America. He became a poet and a translator of written works. Richard Purdy Wilbur passed on at 96 years of age on 14 October 2017 in Belmont, Massachusetts, United States of America.
I’m a Little Turtle
I’m a little turtle,
I crawl so slow,
And carry my house
Wherever I go.
When I get tired
I pull in my head,
My legs and my tail,
And go to bed!
by Author Unknown: sung to the same tune as that of, “I’m a Little Tea Pot”
I’m a little turtle,
I crawl so slow,
And carry my house
Wherever I go.
When I get tired
I pull in my head,
My legs and my tail,
And go to bed!
by Author Unknown: sung to the same tune as that of, “I’m a Little Tea Pot”
Caterpillars
What do Caterpillars do?
Nothing much but chew and chew.
What do caterpillars know?
Nothing much but how to grow.
They just eat what by and by
Will help them be a butterfly,
But that is more than I can do
However much I chew and chew.
By Author Unknown
What do Caterpillars do?
Nothing much but chew and chew.
What do caterpillars know?
Nothing much but how to grow.
They just eat what by and by
Will help them be a butterfly,
But that is more than I can do
However much I chew and chew.
By Author Unknown
Inch Worm
Inch worm, inch worm*
Measuring the marigolds.
Seems to me you’d stop and see
How beautiful they are.
by Frank Loesser
*inch worm is now more commonly spelled as inchworm.
Inch worm, inch worm*
Measuring the marigolds.
Seems to me you’d stop and see
How beautiful they are.
by Frank Loesser
*inch worm is now more commonly spelled as inchworm.
The Mole
The burrowing mole lives under the ground
Day in and day out, all the changing year round;
Like a train in a tunnel, in darkness he goes.
And makes his own track with his feet and his nose.
He lives upon worms as content as can be
For breakfast and supper, for dinner and tea.
Yes, just as they are, as a matter of course.
He gobbles them up, without cooking or sauce.
If you lived where he does, in a very short time
I fear you’d be covered completely with grime;
But though he works hard all day long for his meat
And has but one coat, he is perfectly neat.
It’s not very often he visits the light.
Except when he’s angry and anxious to fight;
Then he and his enemy leave their dark holes.
And in warfare there’s nothing more savage than moles.
Their virtues are great, but their tempers are bad,
Biting and scratching, they scuffle like mad.
And over and over they roll in the ditch,
Until it’s a puzzle to see which is which.
But if they discover you watching the fray,
They leave off at once to get out of the way,
And burrow so quickly, scarce making a sound,
That before you count ten they’re gone into the ground.
by Edith King
Edith Louise Mary King was born in 1871 in Pietermaritzburg, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. She became a poet, an artist, and an art teacher. Edith Louise Mary King passed on in 1962.
The burrowing mole lives under the ground
Day in and day out, all the changing year round;
Like a train in a tunnel, in darkness he goes.
And makes his own track with his feet and his nose.
He lives upon worms as content as can be
For breakfast and supper, for dinner and tea.
Yes, just as they are, as a matter of course.
He gobbles them up, without cooking or sauce.
If you lived where he does, in a very short time
I fear you’d be covered completely with grime;
But though he works hard all day long for his meat
And has but one coat, he is perfectly neat.
It’s not very often he visits the light.
Except when he’s angry and anxious to fight;
Then he and his enemy leave their dark holes.
And in warfare there’s nothing more savage than moles.
Their virtues are great, but their tempers are bad,
Biting and scratching, they scuffle like mad.
And over and over they roll in the ditch,
Until it’s a puzzle to see which is which.
But if they discover you watching the fray,
They leave off at once to get out of the way,
And burrow so quickly, scarce making a sound,
That before you count ten they’re gone into the ground.
by Edith King
Edith Louise Mary King was born in 1871 in Pietermaritzburg, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. She became a poet, an artist, and an art teacher. Edith Louise Mary King passed on in 1962.
The Cow
The friendly cow, all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple tart.
She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;
And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.
by Robert Louis Stevenson: “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885), ‘The Cow,’ stanza 1
Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He became an essayist, a novelist, a travel writer, a poet, and a lyricist. He is known as the author of the adventure novels “Treasure Island” (1883) and “Kidnapped” (1886), the science fiction novel, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (1886), and the poetry collection, “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885), all of which remain popular even now with readers of all ages. Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson passed on at 44 years of age on 3 December 1894 in Vailima, Samoan Islands.
The friendly cow, all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple tart.
She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;
And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.
by Robert Louis Stevenson: “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885), ‘The Cow,’ stanza 1
Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He became an essayist, a novelist, a travel writer, a poet, and a lyricist. He is known as the author of the adventure novels “Treasure Island” (1883) and “Kidnapped” (1886), the science fiction novel, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (1886), and the poetry collection, “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885), all of which remain popular even now with readers of all ages. Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson passed on at 44 years of age on 3 December 1894 in Vailima, Samoan Islands.
Spiders
Spiderlings hatch from eggs.
Each one has eight tiny legs.
A spider has more eyes than you.
Most have eight, and you have two.
A spider has two body parts.
Across its web it quickly darts.
From a spider’s spinnerets
Sticky spider silk jets.
Spiders feel the frantic tugs,
Of their favorite food - it’s bugs!
by Janet Bruno
Spiderlings hatch from eggs.
Each one has eight tiny legs.
A spider has more eyes than you.
Most have eight, and you have two.
A spider has two body parts.
Across its web it quickly darts.
From a spider’s spinnerets
Sticky spider silk jets.
Spiders feel the frantic tugs,
Of their favorite food - it’s bugs!
by Janet Bruno
The Butterfly
The butterfly, an idle thing,
Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
As do the bee and bird;
Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
Lay up the grain for times of want,
A wise and cautious hoard.
My youth is but a summer’s day:
Then like the bee and ant I’ll lay
A store of learning by;
And though from flower to flower I rove,
My stock of wisdom I’ll improve,
Nor be a butterfly.
by Adelaide O’Keefe
The butterfly, an idle thing,
Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
As do the bee and bird;
Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
Lay up the grain for times of want,
A wise and cautious hoard.
My youth is but a summer’s day:
Then like the bee and ant I’ll lay
A store of learning by;
And though from flower to flower I rove,
My stock of wisdom I’ll improve,
Nor be a butterfly.
by Adelaide O’Keefe
