Children poems

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The Carol of Three

© Clive Sansom

Three kings came a-riding

Through tempest and through cold;

The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: CXI

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

TO THE BEDOUIN ARABS
Children of Shem! Firstborn of Noah's race,
But still forever children; at the door
Of Eden found, unconscious of disgrace,

Discovered by Shirley Buettner: American Life in Poetry #19 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

At the beginning of the famous novel, "Remembrance of Things Past," the mere taste of a biscuit started Marcel Proust on a seven-volume remembrance. Here a bulldozer turns up an old doorknob, and look what happens in Shirley Buettner's imagination. Discovered

While clearing the west
quarter for more cropland,
the Cat quarried
a porcelain doorknob

To Edmund Clerihew Bentley

© Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Dedication to 'The Man who was Thursday'

Don Juan: Canto The Eighth

© George Gordon Byron

Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,

The Orphans' New Year's Gift

© Arthur Rimbaud

The room is full of shadow; you can hear, indistinctly, the sad soft whispering of two children.

Their foreheads lean forward, still heavy with dreams, beneath the long white bed-curtain

The Apollyonists - Canto 1

© Phineas Fletcher

I

Of men, nay beasts; worse, monsters; worst of all,

The Queen Of Prussia's Tomb

© Felicia Dorothea Hemans

In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and broken-hearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed. ~ Milman.

Immorality

© Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer

Have you heard, my friend, the slander that the Negro has to face?
Immorality, the grossest, has been charged up to his race.
Listen, listen to my story, as I now proceed to tell
Of conditions in the Southland, where the mass of Negroes dwell.

A Triumph Of Order

© John Hay

A Squad of regular infantry
In the Commune's closing days,
Had captured a crowd of rebels
By the wall of Pere-la-Chaise.

The True Sportsman

© William Henry Ogilvie

The real ones, the right ones, the straight ones and the true,

The pukka, peerless sportsmen-their numbers are but few;

What The Chimney Sang

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her teardrops back she forced,
"I hate the wind in the chimney."

Our Sweet Singer

ONE memory trembles on our lips;
It throbs in every breast;
In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,
The shadow stands confessed.

Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Sicilian's Tale; The Monk of Casal-Maggiore

Once on a time, some centuries ago,

In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars

How Long?

© Emma Lazarus

How long, and yet how long,
Our leaders will we hail from over seas,
Master and kings from feudal monarchies,
And mock their ancient song
With echoes weak of foreign melodies?