Text transcribed from F. J. Sypher’s ‘Poems from Annuals’
DRY FEET
You do not like the streamlet,
That runs so clear and bright;
I scarcely think it water,
It looks so much like light.
Some white, and others purple,
The pebbles glitter through;
I can’t pick up those pebbles,
If I must carry you.
There are such lovely wild-flowers
Amid the tangled grass;
The little deep-blue bird’s eye
Looks at me as I pass.
But they must stay ungathered,
Though the very air is sweet,
Because my sad spoilt Fanchette
Dislikes to wet her feet,
Half laughing, half complaining
On went the dark-eyed girl,
While the soft warm airs of summer
Played amid each bright brown curl.
The dog was carried over,
Her own feet wet and bare,
But of that the little rustic
Took neither cold nor care.
’Twas a sweet and natural lesson
For woman, ay, or man,
Of every slight disaster
To make the best you can.
