Children poems
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Picture of Twilight
© Caroline Norton
Oh, Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
The Ballad Of William Sycamore [1790-1871]
© Stephen Vincent Benet
My father, he was a mountaineer,
His fist was a knotty hammer;
He was quick on his feet as a running deer,
And he spoke with a Yankee stammer.
Selling The Old Home
© Edgar Albert Guest
The little house has grown too small, or rather we have grown
Too big to dwell within the walls where all our joys were known.
And so, obedient to the wish of her we love so well,
I have agreed for sordid gold the little home to sell.
Now strangers come to see the place, and secretly I sigh,
And deep within my breast I hope that they'll refuse to buy.
An Imperfect Revolution
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
They crowded weeping from the teacher's house,
Crying aloud their fear at what he taught,
Children of Light
© Robert Lowell
Our fathers wrung their bread from stocks and stones
And fenced their gardens with the Redmen's bones;
A First Review
© Robert Graves
Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys
Are here discreetly blent;
Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,
My Country Sentiment.
The Two Lovers Of Heaven: Chrysanthus And Daria - Act I
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Chrysanthus is seen seated near a writing table on which are several
books: he is reading a small volume with deep attention.
The Turtle And Sparrow. An Elegiac Tale
© Matthew Prior
Stretch'd on the bier Columbo lies,
Pale are his cheeks, and closed his eyes;
Those eyes, where beauty smiling lay,
Those eyes, where Love was used to play;
Ah! cruel Fate, alas how soon
That beauty and those joys are flown!
Prejudice
© Jane Taylor
It is not worth our while, but if it were,
We all could undertake to laugh at her ;
Since vulgar prejudice, the lowest kind,
Of course, has full possession of her mind ;
Here, therefore, let us leave her, and inquire
Wherein it differs as it rises higher.
The Ancient Beasts
© Arthur Rimbaud
The ancient beasts bred even on the run,
their glans encrusted with blood and excrement.
Our forefathers displayed their members proudly
by the fold of the sheath and the grain of the scrotum.
Fancies At Leisure - I
© William Michael Rossetti
Is it a little thing to lie down here
Beside the water, looking into it,
And see there grass and fallen leaves interknit,
And small fish sometimes passing thro' some bit
Of tangled grass where there's an outlet clear?
Contrary Sary
© Edgar Albert Guest
Theres no sense arguin' with 'em," says Ebenezer Gates,
You can't convince the women that they ain't fit fer votes;
There's Sary got the notion that she's as good as man,
An' I can't show her diff'runt, an' no man livin' can.
She's most bnreasonubbel. 'Now, I suppose,' says she,
'If I got drunk each evenin' ye'd think lots more o' me?'
A Book of Dreams: Part I
© George MacDonald
I lay and dreamed. The master came
In his old woven dress;
I stood in joy, and yet in shame,
Oppressed with earthliness.
Red Night
© Robert Laurence Binyon
There, there is all unsealed:
Terror and hope, ecstasy and despair
Their apparition yield,
While still through kindled street and shadowy square
The faces pass, the uncounted faces crowd,--
Rages, lamentings, joys, in masks of flesh concealed.
The Four Seasons : Spring
© James Thomson
Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
The German-American
© Katharine Lee Bates
HONOR to him whose very blood remembers
The old, enchanted dream-song of the Rhine,
Although his house of life. is fair with shine
Of fires new-kindled on the buried embers;
The Second Booke Of Qvodlibets
© Robert Hayman
Epigrams are much like to Oxymell,
Hony and Vineger compounded well:
Hony, and sweet in their inuention,
Vineger in their reprehension.
As sowre, sweet Oxymell, doth purge though fleagme:
These are to purge Vice, take them as they meane.
Queen Mab: Part VI.
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
All touch, all eye, all ear,
The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech.
Sick I Am And Sorrowful
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Heard again the storm clouds roll hanging over Lugnaquilla,
Built dream castles from the sands of Killiney's golden shore.
If I saw the wild geese fly over the dark lakes of Kerry
Or could hear the secret winds, I could kneel and pray.
But 'tis sick I am and grieving, how can I be well again
Here, where fear and sorrow aremy heart so far away?
