But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter where that little child Made sweet summer when he smiled: Though ’tis summer on the sea Where with maiden Nis went he,-- Summer, summer evermore,-- It is winter on the shore, Winter, winter evermore. Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep; _His_ fair face lifts from the sea, _His_ dear voice calls out to me,-- These my dreams of summer be. Krinken was a little child, By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Crying, “Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!” But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter, cold and dark and wild; Krinken was a little child,-- It was summer when he smiled; Down he went into the sea, And the winter bides with me. Just a little child was he. THE NAUGHTY DOLL My dolly is a dreadful care,-- Her name is Miss Amandy; I dress her up and curl her hair, And feed her taffy candy. Yet heedless of the pleading voice Of her devoted mother, She will not wed her mother’s choice, But says she’ll wed another. I’d have her wed the china vase,-- There is no Dresden rarer; You might go searching every place And never find a fairer. He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- Of that there’s no denying; Yet when I speak of him, forsooth, Amandy falls to crying! She loves the drum--that’s very plain-- And scorns the vase so clever; And weeping, vows she will remain A spinster doll forever! The protestations of the drum I am convinced are hollow; When once distressing times should come, How soon would ruin follow! Yet all in vain the Dresden boy From yonder mantel woos her; A mania for that vulgar toy, The noisy drum, imbues her! In vain I wheel her to and fro, And reason with her mildly,-- Her waxen tears in torrents flow, Her sawdust heart beats wildly. I’m sure that when I’m big and tall, And wear long trailing dresses, I sha’n’t encourage beaux at all Till mama acquiesces; Our choice will be a suitor then As pretty as this vase is,-- Oh, how we’ll hate the noisy men With whiskers on their faces! NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT The mill goes toiling slowly around With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak. While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings: “Sleep, little tulip, sleep!”