Children poems
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Thou Shalt Not Kill
© Kenneth Rexroth
Harry who didnt care at all?
Hart who went back to the sea?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Painting by Vuillard
© Thom Gunn
Two dumpy women with buns were drinking coffee
In a narrow kitchenat least I think a kitchen
Piers Plowman The Prologue (B-Text)
© William Langland
In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonn{.e},
I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep wer{.e};
In habite as an hermite unholy of werk{.e}s
Wente I wyde in this world wondr{.e}s to her{.e};
Bote in a May{.e}s morwnynge on Malverne hull{.e}s
Me bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thought{.e}.
Through The Looking Glass: Epilogue
© Lewis Carroll
A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July -
Leichhardt
© Henry Kendall
LORDLY harp, by lordly master wakened from majestic sleep,
Yet shall speak and yet shall sing the words which make the fathers weep!
Through Baltimore
© James Bayard Taylor
'Twas Friday morn, the train drew near
The city and the shore!
Far through the sunshine, soft and clear,
We saw the dear old flags appear,
And in our hearts arose a cheer
For Baltimore.
An Elementary School Classroom in a Slum
© Stephen Spender
Far far from gusty waves these children's faces.
Like rootless weeds, the hair torn around their pallor.
St. Ame
© Augusta Davies Webster
A SUNNY glade below the bridge;
Clear shadows branching through a stream;
Disillusioned
© Corinna
People holding hands, daring to love,
children playing, no one left out,
believing in a God, high above,
no reasons given to cry out loud.
From Mythology
© Zbigniew Herbert
First there was a god of night and tempest, a black idol without eyes, before whom they leaped, naked and smeared with blood. Later on, in the times of the republic, there were many gods with wives, children, creaking beds, and harmlessly exploding thunderbolts. At the end only superstitious neurotics carried in their pockets little statues of salt, representing the god of irony. There was no greater god at that time.
Then came the barbarians. They too valued highly the little god of irony. They would crush it under their heels and add it to their dishes.
My Pen Has Ink Enough
© Vernon Scannell
My pen has ink enough, I'm going to start
A piece of verse, but suddenly my heart
And something in my head jerks in reverse.
Where My Sight Goes
© Yvor Winters
Who knows
Where my sight goes,
What your sight shows--
Where the peachtree blows?
Children in a Field by Angela Shaw: American Life in Poetry #27 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-
© Ted Kooser
In this lovely poem by Angela Shaw, who lives in Pennsylvania, we hear a voice of wise counsel: Let the young go, let them do as they will, and admire their grace and beauty as they pass from us into the future.
Children in a Field
A Story Of Doom: Book IV.
© Jean Ingelow
Now while these evil ones took counsel strange,
The son of Lamech journeyed home; and, lo!
About These Poems
© Boris Pasternak
On winter pavements I will pound
Them down with glistening glass and sun,
Will let the ceiling hear their sound,
Damp corners-read them, one by one.
The Tower Beyond Tragedy
© Robinson Jeffers
I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
Alfs Ninth Bit
© Ezra Pound
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
The midnight activities of Whats-his Name,
Scarcely a general now known to fame
Can tell you of that famous day and year.
Lines -- for Berkshire Jubilee, Aug. 23, 1844
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
Come back to your mother, ye children, for shame,
Who have wandered like truants for riches or fame!
With a smile on her face, and a sprig in her cap,
She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap.
