If I knew the box that was large enough
To hold all the frowns I meet,
I would like to gather them every one
From the nursery, school or street,
Then, folding and holding, I'd pack them in
And turning the monster key,
I'd hire a giant to drop the box
To the depths of the deep, deep sea.

Anonymous

DANNY MURPHY

He was as old as old can be,
His little eyes could scarcely see,
His mouth was sunken in between
His nose and chin, and he was lean
And twisted up and withered quite
So that he couldn't walk aright

His pipe was always going out,
And then he's have to search about
In all his pockets, and he's mow
O, deary me! and, musha now!
And then he'd light his pipe, and then
He'd let it go clean out again.

He couldn't dance or jump or run,
Or even have a bit of fun
Like me and Susan, when we shoult
And jump and throw ourselves about:
But when he laughed, anf then you could see
He was as young as young could be!

James Stephens

LITTLE BY LITTLE

'Little by Little' an acorn said,
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
'I am improving every day,
Hidden deep in the earth away.'

Little by little each day it grew,
Little by little it sipped the dew;
Downward it sent a thread-like root,
Up in the air sprang a tiny shoot.

Day after day, and year after year,
Little by little the leaves appear;
And the slender branches spread far and wide,
Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride.

'Little by little,' said a thoughtful boy,
'Each precious moment I will employ,
And always this rule in my mind shall dwell:
Whatever I do, I'll do it well.

'Little by little, I'll learn to know
The treasured wisdom of long ago;
And sometime, perhaps, the world will be
Happier and better because of me.'

Anonymous

THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY

There's music in my heart all day,
I hear it late and early,
It comes from fields are far away,
The wind that shakes the barley.

Above the uplands drenched with dew,
The sky hangs soft and pearly,
An emerald world is listening to
The wind that shakes the barley.

Above the bluest mountain crest
The lark is singing rarely,
It rocks the singer into rest,
The wind that shakes the barley.

Oh, still through summers and through springs
It calls me late and early.
Come home, come home, come home, it sings,
The wind that shakes the barley.

Katherine Tynan