Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sitting alone by the window,
Watching the moonlit street,
Bending my head to
To the well-known sound of your feet,

In grandmamma's kitchen, things got in a riot—The cream in a pot on the shelf,
Where everything always seemed peaceful and quiet,
Got whipped, for I heard it myself
And grandmamma said—such a queer thing to say,

This little toe is tired,
This little toe needs rocking,
This little toe is sleepy you know,
But this little toe keeps talking,

Little by little the year grows old,
The red leaves drop from the maple boughs;
The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold,
Down from the distant arctic seas

An infant wailing in nameless fear;
A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,
Or the hum of an insect flying near,
Or the screech-owl's cry, in the outer gloom

I'm sick of "musn'ts," said Dorothy D
Sick of musn'ts, as I can be
From early dawn till the close of dayI hear a musn't, and never a may
It's "you musn't lie there like a sleepy head,"And "you musn't sit up ...

In France I saw a hill—a gentle
Rising above old tombs to greet the
From soft spring skies
Beyond these skies dwells hope,

Lightly they hold him and lightly they sway him—Soft as a pillow are somebody's arms
Down he goes slowly, ever so
Over the rim of the cradle they lay him—Baby's first journey is free from alarms
Baby is growing while Mama sings by-lo,

This little toe is hungry—This little toe is too,
This toe lies abed like a sleepy head,
And this toe cries "Boo-hoo
"This toe big and tall is the smartest of

Sit still,
I say, and dispense with heroics
I hurt your wrists
Well, you have hurt me

Methought a great wind swept across the earth,
And all the toilers perished
Then I
Pale terror blanch the rosy face of mirth,

Flowers of France in the Spring,
Your growth is a beautiful thing;
But give us your fragrance and bloom,
Yea, give us your lives in truth,