Ambleside Online Year 1 Poetry Anthology March

Expanded and Re-organized

Compiled and arranged by Leslie Noelani Laurio, April, 2005
All of these poems are believed to be in the public domain. If this is in error and you own the copyright to any of these poems, please let me know and I will remove it from this page.

01 Get up and Bar the Door, Traditional English
02 When Early March Seems Middle May, by James Whitcombe Riley, 1849-1916
03 Silver Filigree, by Elinor Wylie 1885-1928
04 I Dug Amongst the Snow, by Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894
05 The Rooks, by Jane Euphemia Browne, 1811-1898
06 The Pobble Who Has No Toes, by Edward Lear, 1812-1888
07 Silver, by Walter de la Mare, 1873-1956
08 The Star, by Jane Taylor, 1783-1824
09 The Owl and The Pussycat, by Edward Lear, 1812-1888
10 Written in March, by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850
11 Loveliest of Trees, by A. E. Housman, 1859-1936
12 The Faery Forest, by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933
13 The Pasture, by Robert Frost, 1874-1963
14 The Spicebush in March, by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933
15 The Sandman, by Margaret Thomson Janvier, 1845-1913
16 Fog, by Carl Sandburg, 1878-1967
17 The Lily, by William Blake, 1757-1827
18 All But Blind, by Walter de la Mare, 1873-1956
19 Wishes, by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933
20 To March, by Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

01 Get up and Bar the Door, Traditional English

It fell about the Martinmas time,
And a gay time it was then,
When our goodwife got puddings to make,
And she's boil'd them in the pan.

The wind so cold blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
'Get out and bar the door.'

'My hand is in my hussyfskap,
Goodman, as ye may see;
An' it shouldn't be barr'd this hundred year,
It won't be barr'd for me.'

They made a pact between them two,
They made it firm and sure,
That the first word who'er should speak,
Should rise and bar the door.

Then by there came two gentlemen,
At twelve o'clock at night,
And they could neither see house nor hall,
Nor coal nor candle-light.

'Now whether is this a rich man's house,
Or whether is it a poor?'
But ne'er a word would ane o' them speak,
For barring of the door.

And first they ate the white puddings,
And then they ate the black.
Tho' muckle thought the goodwife to herself
Yet ne'er a word she spake.

Then said the one unto the other,
'Here, man, take ye my knife;
Do ye take off the old man's beard,
And I'll kiss the goodwife.'--

'But there's no water in the house,
And what shall we do than?'
'What ails ye at the pudding-brew,
That boils into the pan?'

O up then started our goodman,
An angry man was he:
'Will ye kiss my wife before my eyes,
And scald me with pudding-brew?'

Then up and started our goodwife,
Gave three skips on the floor:
'Goodman, you've spoken the foremost word!
Get up and bar the door.'

02 When Early March Seems Middle May, by James Whitcombe Riley, 1849-1916

When country roads begin to thaw
In mottled spots of damp and dust,
And fences by the margin draw
    Along the frosty crust
Their graphic silhouettes, I say,
The Spring is coming round this way.

When morning-time is bright with sun
And keen with wind, and both confuse
The dancing, glancing eyes of one
    With tears that ooze and ooze
And nose-tips weep as well as they,
The Spring is coming round this way.

When suddenly some shadow-bird
Goes wavering beneath the gaze,
And through the hedge the moan is heard
    Of kine that fain would graze
In grasses new, I smile and say,
The Spring is coming round this way.
When knotted horse-tails are untied,
And teamsters whistle here and there,
And clumsy mitts are laid aside,
    And choppers' hands are bare,
And chips are thick where children play,
The Spring is coming round this way.

When through the twigs the farmer tramps,
And troughs are chunked beneath the trees,
And fragrant hints of s'gar-camps
    Astray in every breeze,
And early March seems middle-May,
The Spring is coming round this way.

When coughs are changed to laughs, and when
Our frowns melt into smiles of glee,
And all our blood thaws out again
    In streams of ecstasy,
And poets wreak their roundelay,
The Spring is coming round this way.

03 Silver Filigree, by Elinor Wylie 1885--1928
     from Nets to Catch the Wind, 1921

The icicles wreathing
  On trees in festoon
Swing, swayed to our breathing:
  They're made of the moon.

She's a pale, waxen taper;
  And these seem to drip
Transparent as paper
  From the flame of her tip.

Molten, smoking a little,
  Into crystal they pass;
Falling, freezing, to brittle
  And delicate glass.

Each a sharp-pointed flower,
  Each a brief stalactite
Which hangs for an hour
  In the blue cave of night. 

04 I dug and dug amongst the snow, by Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894

I dug and dug amongst the snow,
And thought the flowers would never grow;
I dug and dug amongst the sand,
And still no green thing came to hand.

Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow
To thaw the flowers and melt the snow;
But all the winds from every land
Will rear no blossom from the sand.

05 The Rooks, by Jane Euphemia Browne, 1811-1898

The rooks are building on the trees;
They build there every spring:
"Caw, caw," is all they say,
For none of them can sing.

They're up before the break of day,
And up till late at night;
For they must labour busily
As long as it is light.

And many a crooked stick they bring,
And many a slender twig,
And many a tuft of moss, until
Their nests are round and big.

"Caw, caw!" Oh, what a noise
They make in rainy weather!
Good children always speak by turns,
But rooks all talk together.

06 The Pobble Who Has No Toes, by Edward Lear, 1812-1888

The Pobble who has no toes
  Had once as many as we;
When they said, 'Some day you may lose them all';--
  He replied,--'Fish fiddle de-dee!'
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink,
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said, 'The world in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!

The Pobble who has no toes,
  Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose,
  In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said, 'No harm
'Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
'And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
'Are safe--provided he minds his nose.'

The Pobble swam fast and well
  And when boats or ships came near him
He tinkedly-binkledy-winkled a bell
  So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side,--
'He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's
'Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!'

But before he touched the shore,
  The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green Porpoise carried away
  His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet
Formerly garnished with toes so neat
His face at once became forlorn
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew
  From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
  In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away--
Nobody knew; and nobody knows
How the Pebble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes
  Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up,
  To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;--
And she said,--'It's a fact the whole world knows,
'That Pebbles are happier without their toes.'

07 Silver, by Walter de la Mare, 1873-1956
       from Peacock Pie, 1913

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon:
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

08 The Star, by Jane Taylor, 1783-1824

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.

'Tis your bright and tiny spark,
Lights the traveller in the dark :
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

09 The Owl and The Pussycat, by Edward Lear, 1812-1888

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

10 Written in March, by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

11 Loveliest of Trees, by A. E. Housman, 1859-1936

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

12 The Faery Forest, by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933

The faery forest glimmered
Beneath an ivory moon,
The silver grasses shimmered
Against a faery tune.

Beneath the silken silence
The crystal branches slept,
And dreaming through the dew-fall
The cold white blossoms wept.

13 The Pasture, by Robert Frost, 1874-1963
       from North of Boston, 1915

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long.--You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long.--You come too.

14 The Spicebush in March, by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933

Spicebush, yellow spicebush, tell me
Where you found so much clear gold?
Every branch and every twig
Has as much as it can hold,
Flaunting before tattered winter
Your new dress the wind whips round--
Color, color! You were first,
You dredged and drew it from the ground!

15 The Sandman, by Margaret Thomson Janvier, 1845-1913

The rosy clouds float overhead,
The sun is going down;
And now the sandman's gentle tread
Comes stealing through the town.
"White sand, white sand," he softly cries,
And as he shakes his hand,
Straightway there lies on babies' eyes
His gift of shining sand.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away--
Yes, in another land--
He gathers up at break of day
His stone of shining sand.
No tempests beat that shore remote,
No ships may sail that way;
His little boat alone may float
Within that lovely bay.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close
Above the happy eyes;
And every child right well he knows,--
Oh, he is very wise!
But if, as he goes through the land,
A naughty baby cries,
His other hand takes dull gray sand
To close the wakeful eyes.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song
Sound through the twilight sweet,
Be sure you do not keep him long
A-waiting in the street.
Lie softly down, dear little head,
Rest quiet, busy hands,
Till, by your bed his good-night said,
He strews the shining sands.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

16 Fog, by Carl Sandburg, 1878-1967
       from Chicago Poems, 1918

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

17 The Lily, by William Blake, 1757-1827

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

18 All But Blind, by Walter de la Mare, 1873-1956

All but blind
In his cambered hole
Gropes for worms
The four-clawed Mole.

All but blind
In the evening sky
The hooded Bat
Twirls softly by.

All but blind
In the burning day
The Barn-Owl blunders
On her way.

And blind as are
These three to me,
So blind to someone
I must be.

19 Wishes, by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933

I wish for such a lot of things
That never will come true--
And yet I want them all so much
I think they might, don't you?

I want a little kitty-cat
That's soft and tame and sweet,
And every day I watch and hope
I'll find one in the street.

But nursie says, "Come, walk along,
"Don't stand and stare like that"--
I'm only looking hard and hard
To try to find my cat.

And then I want a blue balloon
That tries to fly away,
I thought if I wished hard enough
That it would come some day.

One time when I was in the park
I knew that it would be
Beside the big old clock at home
A-waiting there for me--

And soon as we got home again,
I hurried through the hall,
And looked beside the big old clock--
It wasn't there at all.

I think I'll never wish again--
But then, what shall I do?
The wishes are a lot of fun
Although they don't come true.

20 To March, by Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat
You must have walked
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the birds';
The maples never knew
That you were coming,  I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.

Who knocks? That April!
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.