Children poems
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The Lost Land
© Eavan Boland
and memory itself
has become an emigrant,
wandering in a place
where love dissembles itself as landscape:
Poems - Written On The Deaths Of Three Lovely Children
© Jean Ingelow
Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter-woodland hollows thickly strewing,
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win,
While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing
All without and all within!
The Months
© Linda Pastan
Contorted by wind,
mere armatures for ice or snow,
the trees resolve
to endure for now,
Like Brothers We Meet
© George Moses Horton
Dedicated to the Federal and Late Confederate Soldiers
Like heart-loving brothers we meet,
Ancestor
© James Russell Lowell
It was a time when they were afraid of him.
My father, a bare man, a gypsy, a horse
Rich And Poor
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Neath the radiance faint of the starlit sky
The gleaming snow-drifts lay wide and high;
Oer hill and dell stretched a mantle white,
The branches glittered with crystal bright;
But the winter winds keen icy breath
Was merciless, numbing and chill as death.
The Fiddler
© Robert Fuller Murray
There's a fiddler in the street,
And the children all are dancing:
Two dozen lightsome feet
Springing and prancing.
Sexsmith the Dentist
© Edgar Lee Masters
Do you think that odes and sermons,
And the ringing of church bells,
Ormuzd And Ahriman. Part II
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
Fear not, for ye shall live if ye receive
The life divine, obedient to the law
Of truth and good. So shall there be no frown
Upon his face who wills the good of all.
The Bridge of Change
© John Logan
The bridge barely curved that connects the terrible with the tender.
—Rilke
The Switzer's Wife
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Nor look nor tone revealeth aught
Save woman's quietness of thought;
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might. ~ M.J.J.
Medea in Athens
© Augusta Davies Webster
Dimly I recall
some prophecy a god breathed by my mouth.
It could not err. What was it? For I think;-
it told his death¹.
The Cottager
© John Clare
True as the church clock hand the hour pursues
He plods about his toils and reads the news,
Christmas Tree
© Daniel Nester
This seablue fir that rode the mountain storm
Is swaddled here in splints of tin to die.
Sofas around in chubby velvet swarm;
Onlooking cabinets glitter with flat eye;
Here lacquer in the branches runs like rain
And resin of treasure starts from every vein.
Boy and Egg
© Naomi Shihab Nye
Every few minutes, he wants
to march the trail of flattened rye grass
