And slow soft speech beneath the rain-washed trees,

 Ah, that such things should never come again!

  

 Oh listening trees, where are the words we spoke?

 Where are our sighs, wind whom those sighs caressed?

 Oh! what a fate is ours, too swift, too sad,

 If such an hour goes by with all the rest!

 E. Nesbit.

  

What o’clock is it, children dear?

What

 Ask of the dandelions here!

 Blow, blow, blow, and away they go—

 But they do not tell us the time you know!

 Say, what month is it, children dear?

 We think it is August because we hear

 The swing of the sickle, restless and slow,

 And that’s a sign of the month, you know.

 Where are you going, children dear?

 Where the lane winds deep and the stream runs clear—

 Prev. P 9/16 next