The Lion

The Lion does not move at all,
    Winter or Summer, Spring or Fall,
He does not even stretch or yawn,
    But lies in silence on the lawn.

He must be lazy it is plain,
    For there is moss upon his mane,
And what is more, a pair of Daws
    Have built a nest between his paws.

Oh, Lazy Lion, big and brown,
    This is no time for lying down!
The Sun is shining, can't you see?
    Oh, please wake up and play with me.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

The Platypus.

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Happy Thought

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Guglielmo Marconi

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

George Bernard Shaw

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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The Epic Of The Lion.

("Un lion avait pris un enfant.")

[XIII.]


A Lion in his jaws caught up a child -
Not harming it - and to the woodland, wild
With secret streams and lairs, bore off his prey -
The beast, as one might cull a bud in May.
It was a rosy boy, a king's own pride,
A ten-year lad, with bright eyes shining wide,
And save this son his majesty beside
Had but one girl, two years of age, and so
The monarch suffered, being old, much woe;
His heir the monster's prey, while the whole land
In dread both of the beast and king did stand;
Sore terrified were all.

    By came a knight
That road, who halted, asking, "What's the fright?"
They told him, and he spurred straight for the site!
The beast was seen to smile ere joined they fight,
The...

Victor-Marie Hugo

The Lion

The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.

Hilaire Belloc

The Golden Cat

Great is the Golden Cat who treads
    The Blue Roof Garden o'er our heads,
The never tired smiling One
    That Human People call the Sun.

He stretches forth his paw at dawn
    And though the blinds are closely drawn
His claws peep through like Rays of Light,
    To catch the fluttering Bird of Night.

He smiles into the Hayloft dim
    And the brown Hay smiles back at him,
And when he strokes the Earth's green fur
    He makes the Fields and Meadows purr.

His face is one big Golden smile,
    It measures round, at least a mile--
How dull our World would be, and flat,
    Without the Golden Pussy Cat.

Oliver Herford

Evening (From A Happy Boy)

Evening sun in beauty is shining,
Lazy puss on the step's reclining.
    "Two small mice,
    Cream that was so nice,
    Four fine bits of fish,
    Stolen from a dish,
And I'm so good and full,
And I'm so lazy and dull!"
    Says the pussy.

Mother-hen her wings now is sinking,
Rooster stands on one leg a-thinking:
    "That gray goose,
    High he flies and loose;
    But just watch, you must admit,
    Naught he has of rooster-wit.
Chickens in! To the coop away!
Gladly dismiss we the sun for today!"
    Says the rooster.

"Dear me, it is good to be living,
When life no labor is giving!"
    Says the song-bird.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Noon

Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass,
Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse;
The little stream, too indolent to pass,
Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs,
That build amid the glare a shadowy house,
And with a Paradisal freshness brims
Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade;
The antic water-fly above it skims,
And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade,
Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade.

The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies,
Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves,
Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies,
Languid with noon, forget their painted loves,
Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves.
Only at times a little breeze will stir,
And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream,
Or run its fingers through the willows' h...

Richard Le Gallienne

A Summer Afternoon

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,
    With labored respiration, moves the wheat
From distant reaches, till the golden seas
    Break in crisp whispers at my feet.

My book, neglected of an idle mind,
    Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;
Or lightly opened by a critic wind,
    Affrightedly reviews itself again.

Off through the haze that dances in the shine
    The warm sun showers in the open glade,
The forest lies, a silhouette design
    Dimmed through and through with shade.

A dreamy day; and tranquilly I lie
    At anchor from all storms of mental strain;
With absent vision, gazing at the sky,
    "Like one that hears it rain."

The Katydid, so boisterous last night,
    Clinging, inverted, in uneasy poise,
Beneath...

James Whitcomb Riley