And the golden catkins swing

In the warm airs of the Spring;

Sing, little children, sing!

Sing, children, sing!

The lilies white you bring

In the joyous Easter morning for hope are blossoming;

And as the earth her shroud of snow from off her

breast doth fling,

So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal

spring.

So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,

So may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again.

Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace,

Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future's face!

Sing, sing in happy chorus, with joyful voices tell

That death is life, and God is good, and all things

shall be well;

That bitter days shall cease

In warmth and light and peace,

That Winter yields to Spring,

Sing, little children, sing!

William Dean howells.

1837.

THANKSGIVING.

Lord, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought:

Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still :
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.

For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer :
For pain, death, sorrow sent
Unto our chastisement :
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

MY WINDOW-IVY.

Over my window the ivy climbs,
Its roots are in homely jars ;
But all the day it looks at the sun,
And at night looks out at the stars.

The dust of the room may dim its green,
But I call to the breezy air :

Come in, come in, good friend of mine! And make my window fair."

So the ivy thrives from morn to morn,
Its leaves all turned to the light;

And it gladdens my soul with its tender green,
And teaches me day and night.

What though my lot is in lowly place,
And my spirit behind the bars;
All the long day I may look at the sun,
And at night look out at the stars.

What though the dust of earth would dim,
There's a glorious outer air

That will sweep through my soul if I let it in,
And make it fresh and fair.

Dear God! let me grow from day to day,
Clinging and sunny and bright!

Though planted in shade, Thy window is near,
And my leaves may turn to the light.

THERE'S A WEDDING IN THE ORCHARD.

There's a wedding in the orchard, dear,
I know it by the flowers:

They 're wreathed on every bough and branch,
Or falling down in showers.

The air is in a mist, I think,

And scarce knows which to beWhether all fragrance, clinging close, Or bird-song, wild and free.

And countless wedding-jewels shine,
And golden gifts of grace:

I never saw such wealth of sun
In any shady place.

It seemed I heard the fluttering robes
Of maidens clad in white,

The clasping of a thousand hands
In tenderest delight;

While whispers ran among the boughs

Of promises and praise;

And playful, loving messages

Sped through the leaf-lit ways.

Then were there swayings to and fro;
The weeds a-tiptoe rose;

And sang the breeze a sudden song
That sank to sudden close.

And just beyond the wreathèd aisles
That end against the blue,
The raiment of the wedding-choir
And priest came shining through.

And though I saw no wedding-guest.
Nor groom, nor gentle bride,
I know that holy things were asked,
And holy love replied.

Soon will the lengthening shadows move

Unwillingly away,

Like friends who linger with adieux

Yet are not bid to stay.

I follow where the blue-bird leads,
And hear its soft "Good-night,"
Still thinking of the wedding scene
And aisles of flowery light.

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster. 1838.

OUR OWN.

If I had known, in the morning,
How wearily all the day

The words unkind would trouble my mind

That I said when you went away,

I had been more careful, darling,

Nor given you needless pain;

But-we vex our own with look and tone We might never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it well might be that never for me The pain of the heart should cease! How many go forth at morning