THE YOUNG EXILE
LITTLE Boy
From Savoy,
With the slouch-sandalled feet,
With the pipe in your hand,
To play on, as you stand
In the long, stony, stupid, stumbling street;
I heard a noise just now,
And I got up from my desk,
Saying, “What can be the row?”
For the dogs went bow-wow,
And I-cannot-tell-you-how
Went your music; and the whole thing was grotesque.
Then I saw you, picturesque,
In the weather,
With a feather
In your rough wide-awake,
And a bowl,
Poor young soul!
In your hand for the coppers you might take;
And the handsome face you had,
Little lad,
Olive skin of the South,
Large eyes and well-set mouth,
I admired very much, yes, I did;
And I wished you back again
To your dear native plain
On the loose with a marmot or a kid;
With your father, and a bag full of money,
In a cottage all your own
Pretty much got up of stone,
And with flocks
In the rocks
At your call, and the maids,
Blue-kirtled, in the shades,
And a score of beehives very full of honey!
THE COMING STORM
THE tree-tops rustle, the tree-tops wave,
They hustle, they bustle; and, down in a cave,
The winds are murmuring, ready to rave.
The skies are dimming; the birds fly low,
Skimming and swimming, their wings are slow;
They float, they are carried, they scarcely go.
The dead leaves hurry; the waters, too,
Flurry and scurry; as if they knew
A storm was at hand; the smoke is blue.