A Child-World

The Child-World - long and long since lost to view -
            A Fairy Paradise! -
    How always fair it was and fresh and new -
        How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyes
            With treasures of surprise!

    Enchantments tangible: The under-brink
            Of dawns that launched the sight
    Up seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink,
        With all the green earth in it and blue height
            Of heavens infinite:

    The liquid, dripping songs of orchard-birds -
            The wee bass of the bees, -
    With lucent deeps of silence afterwards;
        The gay, clandestine whisperings of the breeze
            And glad leaves of the trees.

            *            *            *            *            *

    O Child-World: After this world - just as when
            I found you first sufficed
    My soulmost need - if I found you again,
        With all my childish dream so realised,
            I should not be surprised.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

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James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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A Forest Child

There is a place I search for still,
Sequestered as the world of dreams,
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Cool, careless waters, wandering down,
Like Innocence who runs to town,
Leaving the wildwood and its dreams,
And prattling like the forest streams.

But still in dreams I meet again
The child who bound me, heart and hand,
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The World-Child

At times I am the mother of the world;
And mine seem all its sorrows, and its fears.
That rose, which in each mother-heart is curled,
    The rose of pity, opens with my tears,
And, waking in the night, I lie and hark
    To the lone sobbing, and the wild alarms,
Of my World-child, a wailing in the dark:
    The child I fain would shelter in my arms.
I call to it (as from another room
    A mother calls, what time she cannot go):
'Sleep well, dear world; Love hides behind this gloom.
    There is no need for wakefulness or woe,
The long, long night is almost past and gone,
The day is near.'    And yet the world weeps on.

Again I follow it, throughout the day.
    With anxious eyes I see it trip and fall,
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The Dream Child

There is a place (I know it well)
Where beech trees crowd into a gloom,
And where a twinkling woodland well
Flings from a rock a rippling plume,
And, like a Faun beneath a spell,
The silence breathes of beam and bloom.

And here it was I met with her,
The child I never hoped to see,
Who long had been heart's-comforter,
And soul's-companion unto me,
Telling me oft of myths that were,
And of far faerylands to-be.

She stood there smiling by the pool,
The cascade made below the rocks;
Innocent, naked, beautiful,
The frail gerardia in her locks,
A flower, elfin-sweet and cool,
Freckled as faery four-o -clocks.

Her eyes were rain-bright; and her hair
An amber gleam like that which tips
The golden leaves when Fall comes fair;

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A Dream Of Long Ago

Lying listless in the mosses
Underneath a tree that tosses
Flakes of sunshine, and embosses
    Its green shadow with the snow -
Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber
Born of fancies without number -
Tangled fancies that encumber
    Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing;
And the water-lilies swinging
Bells of Parian, and ringing
    Peals of perfume faint and fine,
While old forms and fairy faces
Leap from out their hiding-places
In the past, with glad embraces
    Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers
O'er the little fisher's stringers,
While he baits his hook and lingers
    Till the shadows gather dim;
And afar off comes a calling
Like the sounds of water falling,
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A Child's Treasures.

Thou art home at last, my darling one,
    Flushed and tired with thy play,
From morning dawn until setting sun
    Hast thou been at sport away;
And thy steps are weary - hot thy brow,
    Yet thine eyes with joy are bright, -
Ah! I read the riddle, show me now
    The treasures thou graspest tight.

A pretty pebble, a tiny shell,
    A feather by wild bird cast,
Gay flowers gathered in forest dell,
    Already withering fast,
Four speckled eggs in a soft brown nest,
    Thy last and thy greatest prize,
Such the things that fill with joy thy breast,
    With laughing light thine eyes.

Ah! my child, what right have I to smile
    And whisper, too dearly bought,
By wand'ring many a weary mile -
    Dust, heat, and toilsome thought?

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Almon Keefer

Ah, Almon Keefer! what a boy you were,
With your back-tilted hat and careless hair,
And open, honest, fresh, fair face and eyes
With their all-varying looks of pleased surprise
And joyous interest in flower and tree,
And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee.

The fields and woods he knew; the tireless tramp
With gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp -
No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had won
Such brilliant mastery of rod and gun.
Even in his earliest childhood had he shown
These traits that marked him as his father's own.
Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowed
Allegiance, let him come in any crowd
Of rabbit-hunting town-boys, even though
His own dog "Sleuth" rebuked their acting so
With jealous snarls and growlings.

    But the best

James Whitcomb Riley