Children poems
/ page 160 of 244 /
We Are Children
© William Cosmo Monkhouse
CHILDREN indeed are wechildren that wait
Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high
The Old Age Of Queen Maeve
© William Butler Yeats
A certain poet in outlandish clothes
Gathered a crowd in some Byzantine lane,
Puzzled
© Carolyn Wells
There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,
Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.
He'd written treatises and themes till, "For a change," he said,
"I think I'll write a children's book before I go to bed."
Nothing and Something
© Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
It is nothing to me, the young man cried:
In his eye was a flash of scorn and pride;
I heed not the dreadful things ye tell:
I can rule myself I know full well.
Manhattan Streets I Saunter'd, Pondering
© Walt Whitman
Manhatten's streets I saunter'd, pondering,
On time, space, reality-on such as these, and abreast with them,
prudence.
On Returning To England
© Alfred Austin
There! once again I stand on home,
Though round me still there swirls the foam,
Written Soon After The Preceding Poem
© Charles Lamb
Thou should'st have longer liv'd, and to the grave
Have peacefully gone down in full old age!
The City Tree
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
I stand within the stony, arid town,
I gaze for ever on the narrow street;
I hear for ever passing up and down,
The ceaseless tramp of feet.
Genesis BK VIII
© Caedmon
(ll. 389-400) "But now we suffer throes of hell, fire and
darkness, bottomless and grim. God hath thrust us out into the
Auri Sacra Fames
© George Essex Evans
Gone are the mists of old in the light of the larger day!
Gone is the foolish hope, the trust in a Power above!
Science has swept the heavens and brushed religion away!
What need we hope or fear? Warfare is clothed like Love!
Priestcraft is but a tradesouls can be bought and sold!
Why should we seek for a godnow that our god is Gold?
The Dead Beggar
© Charlotte Turner Smith
AN ELEGY.
Addressed to a Lady, who was affected at seeing the
Funeral of a nameless Pauper, buried at the ex-
pense of the Parish, in the Church-Yard at Bright-
Dickens
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
METHINKS the air
Throbs with the tolling of harmonious bells,
Rung by the bands of spirits; everywhere
We feel the presence of a soft despair
And thrill to voices of divine farewells.
An Ode, Written October, 1819, Before The Spaniards Had Recovered Their Liberty
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Arise, arise, arise!
There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread;
Be your wounds like eyes
To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead.
The Banks Of Wye - Book IV
© Robert Bloomfield
Here ivy'd fragments, lowering, throw
Broad shadows on the poor below,
Who, while they rest, and when they die,
Sleep on the rock-built shores of WYE.
Fences by Pat Mora: American Life in Poetry #192 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Class, status, privilege; despite all our talk about equality, they're with us wherever we go. In this poem, Pat Mora, who grew up in a Spanish speaking home in El Paso, Texas, contrasts the lives of rich tourists with the less fortunate people who serve them. The titles of poems are often among the most important elements, and this one is loaded with implication.
Fences
Mouths full of laughter,
the turistas come to the tall hotel
with suitcases full of dollars.
The Mother of Zebedee's Children
© George MacDonald
She knelt, she bore a bold request,
Though shy to speak it out:
Ambition, even in mother's breast,
Before him stood in doubt.
