I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! O you that are so strong and cold! O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! WINDY NIGHTS Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about? Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he; By at the gallop he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again. THE WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN A child should always say what's true And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table; At least as far as he is able. MY BED IS A BOAT My bed is like a little boat; Nurse helps me in when I embark; She girds me in my sailor's coat And starts me in the dark. At night, I go on board and say Good night to all my friends on shore; I shut my eyes and sail away, And see and hear no more. And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice of wedding cake, Perhaps a toy or two. All night across the dark we steer; But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room, beside the pier, I find my vessel fast. THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE When I was sick and lay abed, I had two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me lay To keep me happy all the day. And sometimes for an hour or so I watched my leaden soldiers go, With different uniforms and drills, Among the bedclothes, through the hills; And sometimes sent my ships in fleets All up and down among the sheets; Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about. I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow hill, And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane. THE LAND OF STORYBOOKS At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear Land of Storybooks. LUCY LARCOM IF I WERE A SUNBEAM