Poems (Henderson)/Byron Aged Seven
BYRON, AGED SEVEN.
When the shadowy curtains of eve,
Are drawn, and the lamps are lit,
And the evening hearth-fires are bright,
Through the opening door there flits,
A shadow that's fair and bright,
And two little arms entwine,
My neck, and the rosy mouth,
Is held up to kiss, and the lips,
Are warm with the glory of youth.
Are drawn, and the lamps are lit,
And the evening hearth-fires are bright,
Through the opening door there flits,
A shadow that's fair and bright,
And two little arms entwine,
My neck, and the rosy mouth,
Is held up to kiss, and the lips,
Are warm with the glory of youth.
And the great gray eyes are ashine,
And they beam with a far-off look,
Little cares Byron for kite or ball,
For toy or picture book.
He asks of the sky, and the stars,
And if the Father dwells,
In the heaven always, or comes,
To stay in our homes as well.
And they beam with a far-off look,
Little cares Byron for kite or ball,
For toy or picture book.
He asks of the sky, and the stars,
And if the Father dwells,
In the heaven always, or comes,
To stay in our homes as well.
He chases the birds and the bees,
And the bright winged butterfly too,
And the humming-bird he snares in the cup,
Of the lily freighted with dew.
He knows where the field-mouse burrows,
Where glide the speckled trout,
And when the first blue violets,
From the meadow grass peep out.
And the bright winged butterfly too,
And the humming-bird he snares in the cup,
Of the lily freighted with dew.
He knows where the field-mouse burrows,
Where glide the speckled trout,
And when the first blue violets,
From the meadow grass peep out.
He goes out in his shining ginghams,
And comes in stained with dirt,
For marvellous treasures are hid,
For him in the furrowed rows,
Of the fields where the stately corn,
Throws out its tassels, and drinks,
The dew of the summer morns.
And comes in stained with dirt,
For marvellous treasures are hid,
For him in the furrowed rows,
Of the fields where the stately corn,
Throws out its tassels, and drinks,
The dew of the summer morns.
And when the royal harvesting,
Of the autumn time is here,
From the orchard's dancing shadows,
His merry laugh rings clear.
Down rains the golden fruitage,
In the sunshine's quivering flash,
From leafy boughs, or piled full high,
In heaps among the grass.
Of the autumn time is here,
From the orchard's dancing shadows,
His merry laugh rings clear.
Down rains the golden fruitage,
In the sunshine's quivering flash,
From leafy boughs, or piled full high,
In heaps among the grass.
When the patient oxen toil,
Up the hill with tiresome freight,
Of golden ears, he swings his cap,
And cheers, perched on his risky seat,
When the yellow pumpkins ripen,
He claims the biggest as his prize,
Tugging up the rough-hewn doorsteps,
"This is mine for saucer-pies."
Up the hill with tiresome freight,
Of golden ears, he swings his cap,
And cheers, perched on his risky seat,
When the yellow pumpkins ripen,
He claims the biggest as his prize,
Tugging up the rough-hewn doorsteps,
"This is mine for saucer-pies."
His little heart holds no deceit,
No touch of intrigue or of art,
He likes, and dislikes, nothing loth,
To cut your friendship short,
If any favorite whim you cross,
Mama is his stronghold ever,
His umpire and his joy,
And no treasure doth she prize,
Like her mischief making boy.
No touch of intrigue or of art,
He likes, and dislikes, nothing loth,
To cut your friendship short,
If any favorite whim you cross,
Mama is his stronghold ever,
His umpire and his joy,
And no treasure doth she prize,
Like her mischief making boy.
