Songs of Womanhood. Alma-Tadema Laurence

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      Lark-bird, lark-bird soaring high,

      Are you never weary?

      When you reach the empty sky,

      Are the clouds not dreary?

      Don't you sometimes long to be

      A silent gold-fish in the sea?

      Gold-fish, gold-fish diving deep,

      Are you never sad, say?

      When you feel the cold waves creep

      Are you really glad, say?

      Don't you sometimes long to sing

      And be a lark-bird on the wing?

      O little lambs! the month is cold,

      The sky is very gray;

      You shiver in the misty grass

      And bleat at all the winds that pass;

      Wait! when I'm big – some day —

      I'll build a roof to every fold.

      But now that I am small, I'll pray

      At mother's knee for you;

      Perhaps the angels with their wings

      Will come and warm you, little things;

      I'm sure that, if God knew,

      He'd let the lambs be born in May.

      When father takes his spade to dig,

      Then Robin comes along;

      He sits upon a little twig

      And sings a little song.

      Or, if the trees are rather far,

      He does not stay alone,

      But comes up close to where we are

      And bobs upon a stone.

      Little Master Mouse,

      You'd better leave this house;

      Crumbs are scarce upon the floor,

      And pussy sleeps behind the door.

      Mousie soft and grey,

      I wish you'd run away!

      Cook will catch you in a trap,

      And mice mayn't sit in mother's lap…

      Bat, Bat, that flies at night

      When angels' breath has blown the light,

      When all the bees are hived in bed

      And swallow sleeps with hidden head:

      Songless bird! until this hour,

      Among the bells in the ivied tower

      Have you hung dreaming in your house?

      Are you a living wingèd mouse? —

      Bat, Bat, I often doubt;

      And when I see you flit about,

      I wonder if the dead birds roam

      In circles round their nestlings' home…

      O Swallow! if I had your wings

      I would not stay below;

      I'd leave off catching flies and things

      And up to Heaven I'd go.

      I'd sail above the tallest tree

      That waves its arms on high;

      Beyond the furthest cloud we see,

      And deeper than the sky.

      Perhaps, when live birds find the way,

      They're all sent down again,

      And that is why you dive to-day

      For insects in the rain.

      Little ladies, white and green,

      With your spears about you,

      Will you tell us where you've been

      Since we lived without you?

      You are sweet, and fresh, and clean,

      With your pearly faces;

      In the dark earth where you've been

      There are wondrous places:

      Yet you come again, serene,

      When the leaves are hidden;

      Bringing joy from where you've been

      You return unbidden —

      Little ladies, white and green,

      Are you glad to cheer us?

      Hunger not for where you've been,

      Stay till Spring be near us!

      The flowers in the garden

      Are very cold at night;

      When I look out of window

      Their beds are hard and white.

      The primrose and the scilla,

      The merry crocus too —

      O Jane! if we were flowers,

      What should we children do?

      We'd have to sleep all naked

      Beneath the windy trees;

      Yet we should die, I know it,

      With even a chemise…

      Red cheeks, red cheeks,

      Will you play with me?

      No boy, pale boy,

      I want to climb that tree.

      Red cheeks, red cheeks,

      You will tumble down —

      No boy, pale boy,

      I'll eat the apples brown.

      Red cheeks, red cheeks,

      Barns are best for rain —

      No boy, pale boy,

      I'll soon be down again.

      The trees are dusty in the Park,

      The grass is hard and brown;

      I'm glad I've got a Noah's ark,

      But I'm sorry I'm in town.

      A lot of little girls and boys

      Are not so rich as me;

      But O! I'd give them all my toys

      For shells beside the sea…

      The flowers are happy in the garden,

      For the bees are always there;

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