As long as I live
I shall always be
My Self-and no other,
Like a tree.
Like a willow or elder,
And aspen, a thorn,
Or a cypress forlorn.
Like a flower,
For its hour
A primrose, a pink,
Or a violet-
Sunned by the sun,
And with dewdrops wet.
Always just me.
By Walter de la Mare
I look just like my mother.
I'm the image of Aunt Bee.
My nose is like my father's,
But I want to look like me.
By Dorothy Aldis
The Land of Story Books
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 the 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 Story Books.
By Robert Louis Stevenson