Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside-- Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown-- Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down! [Illustration] A THOUGHT It is very nice to think The world is full of meat and drink With little children saying grace In every Christian kind of place. ARMIES IN THE FIRE The lamps now glitter down the street; Faintly sound the falling feet And the blue even slowly falls About the garden trees and walls. Now in the falling of the gloom The red fire paints the empty room; And warmly on the roof it looks, And flickers on the backs of books. Armies march by tower and spire Of cities blazing, in the fire;-- Till as I gaze with staring eyes, The armies fade, the lustre dies. Then once again the glow returns; Again the phantom city burns; And down the red-hot valley, lo! The phantom armies marching go! Blinking embers, tell me true Where are those armies marching to, And what the burning city is That crumbles in your furnaces! [Illustration] MY KINGDOM Down by a shining water well I found a very little dell, No higher than my head. The heather and the gorse about In summer bloom were coming out, Some yellow and some red. I called the little pool a sea; The little hills were big to me; For I am very small. I made a boat, I made a town, I searched the caverns up and down, And named them one and all. And all about was mine, I said, The little sparrows overhead, The little minnows, too. This was the world and I was king; For me the bees came by to sing, For me the swallows flew. I played there were no deeper seas, Nor any wider plains than these, Nor other kings than me. At last I heard my mother call Out from the house at evenfall, To call me home to tea. And I must rise and leave my dell, And leave my dimpled water well, And leave my heather blooms. Alas! and as my home I neared, How very big my nurse appeared, How great and cool the rooms! [Illustration] [Illustration] SHADOW MARCH All round the house is the jet-black night; It stares through the window-pane; It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light, And it moves with the moving flame. Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum, With the breath of Bogie in my hair, And all round the candle the crooked shadows come, And go marching along up the stair. The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp, The shadow of the child that goes to bed-- All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, With the black night overhead. [Illustration]