Ballads for little folk . The light o the roses fled —He had heard a coming step that crushed The daisies neath its , happiness ! thou art held by less Than the spiders tiniest thread! A moment, and the old harsh call Had broken his silver tune,And with his sickle ail as bright And bent as the early moon,He cut his way through the thick set hay In the burning heat o the June. As one who by a river stands, Weary and worn and sad,And sees the flowers the other side — So was it with the was Christmas light in his dream at night, But a dream was all he had. Work, work in the light
Ballads for little folk . The light o the roses fled —He had heard a coming step that crushed The daisies neath its , happiness ! thou art held by less Than the spiders tiniest thread! A moment, and the old harsh call Had broken his silver tune,And with his sickle ail as bright And bent as the early moon,He cut his way through the thick set hay In the burning heat o the June. As one who by a river stands, Weary and worn and sad,And sees the flowers the other side — So was it with the was Christmas light in his dream at night, But a dream was all he had. Work, work in the light o th rosy morns, Work, work, in the dusky eves ;For now they must plough, and now they must plant, And now they must bind the far away was the holiday All under the Christmas leaves. For still it brought the same old cry,If he would rest or play, A Christmas Story. Some other week, or month, or year, But not now — not to-day!Nor feast, nor flower, for th passing hour, But all for the far away. PART Now Christmas came, and GregoryWith the dawn was broad awake ; But there was the crumple cow to milk,And there was the cheese to make ; And so it was noon ere he went to the townTo buy the Christmas cake. Youll leave your warm, new coat at home,And keep it fresh and brightTo wear, the careful old man said, When you come back to-night. Ay, answered the lad, for his heart was glad,And he whistled out o their sight. The frugal couple sat by the fireAnd talked the hours away, A Christmas Story. Turning over the years like leaves To the friends of their wedding day — Saying who was wed, and who was dead,And who was growing gray. And so at last the day went by, As, somehow, all days will ;And when the evening winds began To blow up wild and shrill,They looked to see if their Gregory Were coming across the hill. They saw the snow-cloud on the sky,With its rough and ragged edge, And thought of the river running high,And thought of the broken bridge ; But they did n
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksubjectchildre, bookyear1874
