Children poems

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244

The House below the Hill

© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan

You ask me of the farthest star, Whither your thought can climb at will,Forever-questioning child of mine

Just a drowned woman, with death-draggled hair And wan eyes, all a-stare;The weary limbs composed in ghastly rest, The hands together prest,Tight holding something that the flood has spared, Nor even the rough workhouse folk have dared To separate from her wholly, but untiedGently the knotted hands and laid it by her side

Burning River

© Ortiz Simon Joseph

I will tell my son over and over again,"Do not let the rivers burn

On our Thirty-ninth Wedding-day, 6th of May, 1810

© Odell Jonathan

Twice nineteen years, dear Nancy, on this dayComplete their circle, since the smiling MayBeheld us at the altar kneel and joinIn holy rites and vows, which made thee mine

The Cry of the Dreamer

© O'Reilly John Boyle

I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men;Heart-weary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again

Voice of the Twentieth Century

© Robert Norwood

Voice of our Century, whose heart is broken,Weeping for those who will not come again--Lord Christ! hast thou been crucified in vain?--Challenge the right of every Tyrant's token:The fist of mail; the sceptre; ancient, oakenCoffers of gold for which thy sons are slain;The pride of place, which from the days of CainHath for the empty right of Power spoken!

Be like a trumpet blown from clouds of doomAgainst whatever seeks to bind on earth;Bring from the blood of battle, from the wombOf women weeping for their dead, the birthOf better days with banishment of wrong,Love in all hearts, on every lip--a song

A Song of Workers

© Robert Norwood

Hail to the hodmen,The builders of houses!Hail to the navviesLaying pipes for pure water!Hail to the minersPrisoned in pits,Cleaving the coal,Dauntless of death from the gases!

The Homely Ghost

© Nicholls Marjory

I shall come backVery quietly, very softly,A little brown shadow.

The Story of Sigurd the Volsung

© William Morris

But therewith the sun rose upward and lightened all the earth,And the light flashed up to the heavens from the rims of the glorious girth;But they twain arose together, and with both her palms outspread,And bathed in the light returning, she cried aloud and said:"All hail, O Day and thy Sons, and thy kin of the coloured things!Hail, following Night, and thy Daughter that leadeth thy wavering wings!Look down With unangry eyes on us today alive,And give us the hearts victorious, and the gain for which we strive!All hail, ye Lords of God-home, and ye Queens of the House of Gold!Hail, thou dear Earth that bearest, and thou Wealth of field and fold!Give us, your noble children, the glory of wisdom and speech,And the hearts and the hands of healing, and the mouths and hands that teach!"

Then they turned and were knit together; and oft and o'er againThey craved, and kissed rejoicing, and their hearts were full and fain

Song of the Sewing-Machine

© Morris George Pope

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman! Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;And, unlike the drudges human, Never weary night or day;Never shedding tears of sorrow, Never mourning friends untrue,Never caring for the morrow, Never begging work to do

Lost Content

© Moritz Albert Frank

You couples lyingwhere moon-scythes and day-scythes reaped you,browning fruit falls and sleepsin tangled nests, the wild grass,falls from your apple tree that still grows here:cry for your dead hero, his weak sword, his flight,that you were slaughtered and your bed poured whiteness,the issue of murdered marriage dawns

The Little Walls Before China

© Moritz Albert Frank

A courtier speaks to Ch'in Shih-huang-ti, ca. 210 B.C.

Home Again Home Again

© Moritz Albert Frank

Your parents had reached a long slow time,as animals do, the great center of their lives,when they gleam in their fells as though eternally,unchanging

Business

© Moritz Albert Frank

Stiff, thick: the white hair of the broad-faced father,who leads his shambling son alongcracked sidewalks, by dusty glass half hidinggoods never sold

The Virgin

© Harold Monro

Arms that have never held me; lips of himWho should have been for me; hair most beloved,I would have smoothed so gently; steadfast eyes,Half-closed, yet gazing at me through the dusk;And hands

Paradise Regain'd: Book IV (1671)

© John Milton

PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad successThe Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope,So oft, and the perswasive RhetoricThat sleek't his tongue, and won so much on Eve,So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve,This far his over-match, who self deceiv'dAnd rash, before-hand had no better weigh'dThe strength he was to cope with, or his own:But as a man who had been matchless heldIn cunning, over-reach't where least he thought,To salve his credit, and for very spightStill will be tempting him who foyls him still,And never cease, though to his shame the more;Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time,About the wine-press where sweet moust is powr'd,Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;Or surging waves against a solid rock,Though all to shivers dash't, the assault renew,Vain battry, and in froth or bubbles end;So Satan, whom repulse upon repulseMet ever; and to shameful silence brought,Yet gives not o're though desperate of success,And his vain importunity pursues