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About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).


Lucy's Birthday

  Seventeen rosebuds in a ring,
  Thick with sister flowers beset,
  In a fragrant coronet,
  Lucy's servants this day bring.
  Be it the birthday wreath she wears
  Fresh and fair, and symbolling
  The young number of her years,
  The sweet blushes of her spring.

  Types of youth and love and hope!
  Friendly hearts your mistress greet,
  Be you ever fair and sweet,
  And grow lovelier as you ope!
  Gentle nursling, fenced about
  With fond care, and guarded so,
  Scarce you've heard of storms without,
  Frosts that bite or winds that blow!

  Kindly has your life begun,
  And we pray that heaven may send
  To our floweret a warm sun,
  A calm summer, a sweet end.
  And where'er shall be her home,
  May she decorate the place;
  Still expanding into bloom,
  And developing in grace.

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

by this poet

  But yesterday a naked sod
    The dandies sneered from Rotten Row,
    And cantered o'er it to and fro:
              And see 'tis done!
  As though 'twere by a wizard's rod
    A blazing arch of lucid glass
    Leaps like a fountain from the grass
              To meet the sun!

  A quiet green but few days
      Come to the greenwood tree,
      Come where the dark woods be,
      Dearest, O come with me!
  Let us rove—O my love—O my love!

      Come—'tis the moonlight hour,
      Dew is on leaf and flower,
      Come to the linden bower,—
  Let us rove—O my love—O my love!

Christmas is here;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,
Shelter'd about
The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night birds are we;
Here we carouse,