Showing posts with label Poetry22. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry22. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 11, 2024

LITTLE GUSTAVA


Little Gustava sits in the sun,
Safe in the porch, and the little drops run
From the icicles under the eaves so fast.
For the bright spring sun shines warm at last,
And glad is little Gustava.

She wears a quaint little scarlet cap.
And a little green bowl she holds in her lap.
Filled with bread and milk to the brim,
And a wreath of marigolds round the rim:
" Ha, ha ! " laughs little Gustava.

Up comes her little gray, coaxing cat,
With her little pink nose, and she mews,
 "What's that ? "
Gustava feeds her, — she begs for more ;
And a little brown hen walks in at the door;
"Good-day!" cries little Gustava.

She scatters crumbs for the little brown hen.
There comes a rush and a flutter, and then
Down fly her little white doves so sweet.
With their snowy wings and their crimson feet:
" Welcome ! " cries little Gustava.


So dainty and eager they pick up the crumbs;
But who is this through the doorway comes ?
Little Scotch terrier, little "dog Rags,
Looks in her face, and his funny tail wags:
"Ha, ha!" laughs little Gustava.

"You want some breakfast, too? " and down
She sets her bowl on the brick floor brown;
And little dog Rags drinks up her milk.
While she strokes his shaggy locks, like silk:
"Dear Rags!" says little Gustava.

Waiting without stood sparrow and crow,
Cooling their feet in the melting snow :
"Won't you come in, good folk? " she cried.
But they were too bashful, and stayed outside,
Though " Pray come in ! " cried Gustava.

So the last she threw them, and knelt on the mat
With doves and biddy and dog and cat.
And her mother came to the open house-door:
" Dear little daughter, I bring you some more.
My merry little Gustava ! "

Kitty and terrier, biddy and doves,
All things harmless Gustava loves.
The shy, kind creatures 'tis joy to feed,
And oh, her breakfast is sweet indeed
To happy little Gustava!


Celia Thaxter
American writer/poet
1835 - 1894

Sunday, December 04, 2022

The Cultivation of Christmas Trees


There are several attitudes towards Christmas,

Some of which we may disregard:
The social, the torpid, the patently commercial,
The rowdy (the pubs being open till midnight),
And the childish — which is not that of the child
For whom the candle is a star, and the gilded angel
Spreading its wings at the summit of the tree
Is not only a decoration, but an angel.



The child wonders at the Christmas Tree:
Let him continue in the spirit of wonder
At the Feast as an event not accepted as a pretext;
So that the glittering rapture, the amazement
Of the first-remembered Christmas Tree,
So that the surprises, delight in new possessions
(Each one with its peculiar and exciting smell),
The expectation of the goose or turkey
And the expected awe on its appearance,

So that the reverence and the gaiety
May not be forgotten in later experience,
In the bored habituation, the fatigue, the tedium,
The awareness of death, the consciousness of failure,
Or in the piety of the convert
Which may be tainted with a self-conceit
Displeasing to God and disrespectful to children
(And here I remember also with gratitude
St. Lucy, her carol, and her crown of fire):

So that before the end, the eightieth Christmas
(By “eightieth” meaning whichever is last)
The accumulated memories of annual emotion
May be concentrated into a great joy
Which shall be also a great fear, as on the occasion
When fear came upon every soul:
Because the beginning shall remind us of the end
And the first coming of the second coming.

T.S. Eliot
1888 - 1965