Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, OF A CHILD WHO WOULD NOT LEARN THE CRIS-CROSS ROW, by EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

OF A CHILD WHO WOULD NOT LEARN THE CRIS-CROSS ROW, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Little child of mine, come hit her to my knee
Last Line: Then the morning touched mine eyelids, and I woke.
Subject(s): Bible; Children; Fathers; Regret; Religious Education; Childhood; Sunday Schools; Yeshivas; Parochial Schools


FATHER

LITTLE child of mine, come hither to my knee:
Bring thine absey-book, and lightly learn of me.

CHILD

Nay, my father, nay, my father, I refuse,
For the early sun is diamonding the dews;
And I learn a better lesson as I look
On the fair world than from any absey-book.

FATHER

Dear, the lessons that my little one may win
From the world, and all the loveliness therein,
Shall be million-fold more worthful if he know
How to use the key that's in the cris-cross row.

CHILD

Father, take away the book, and let me lie
Where the high trees rear their glory gainst the sky,
And the birds sing loud upon the boughs that sway
Underneath their little darling feet alway.
There's a bird in me, O father mine, that calls
To its comrade-birds outside the school-room walls
And my heart is fain to hear the birds' reply
Bidding come away and sing in company.

FATHER

Yea, my bonny one, the bonny bird in thee
Shall outspread his wings indeed and carol free;
Only for the love thy father bears thee, get
First by heart the daily lesson he will set.
But the child's heart beat impatiently and fast,
And he flung away the absey-book at last;
And he fled to hear the fair birds carolling,
And he recked not of the cris-cross row a thing.

Oh, the long days grew from hours, the months from days,
And the long years grew from months, in Time's old ways;
And the birds and winds alike had ceased to bring
To the child's heart sweet incitement, comforting:
For his soul had grown beyond the soul of bird,
And well he knew that he had sorely erred.
Then he wept and cried a loud and bitter cry,
For his soul was vexed in him exceedingly.
There the book of life before him open lay,
And with awful tears he gazed and turned away,
For he could not read the text so fair and true:
Little strokes and curves and dots were all he knew.
And he thought how, in the old time, mad and blind,
He had cribbed his soul, and cabined and confined.
I think his heart with shame and anguish broke—
Then the morning touched mine eyelids, and I woke.





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