A Discouraging Model

Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,
With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,
Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,
And a knot of red roses sown in under there
Where the shadows are lost in her hair.

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the master of old used to paint
Round the lips of their favorite saint!

And that lace at her throat - and fluttering hands
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands,
The flakes of their touches - first fluttering at
The bow - then the roses - the hair and then that
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.

Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this,
Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,
Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair
Nor the gold of her smile - O what artist could dare
To expect a result half so fair?

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

The Quest

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Where The Children Used To Play

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Laughter Holding Both His Sides

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Singing

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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A Discouraging Model.

    Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,
    With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,
    Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,
    And a knot of red roses sown in under there
        Where the shadows are lost in her hair.

    Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground
    Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;
    And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint
    And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint
        Round the lips of their favorite saint!

    And that lace at her throat - and the fluttering hands
    Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands,
    The flakes of their touches - first fluttering at
    The bow - then the roses - the hair - and then that
        Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat....

James Whitcomb Riley

A Bride

"O I am weary!" she sighed, as her billowy
Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold
That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy,
Graceful and fair as a goddess of old:
Over her jewels she flung herself drearily,
Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast,
Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily
Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest.
And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror
To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her!

"Weary?" Of what? Could we fathom the mystery?
Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears
And wash with their dews one white face from her history,
Set like a gem in the red rust of years?
Nothing will rest her - unless he who died of her
Strayed from his grave, and in place of the groom,
Tipping her face, kneeling the...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Little Lady

O The Little Lady's dainty
    As the picture in a book,
And her hands are creamy-whiter
    Than the water-lilies look;
Her laugh's the undrown'd music
    Of the maddest meadow-brook. -
Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady!

Her eyes are blue and dewy
    As the glimmering Summer-dawn, -
Her face is like the eglantine
    Before the dew is gone;
And were that honied mouth of hers
    A bee's to feast upon,
He'd be a bee bewildered, Little Lady!

Her brow makes light look sallow;
    And the sunshine, I declare,
Is but a yellow jealousy
    Awakened by her hair -
For O the dazzling glint of it
    Nor sight nor soul can bear, -
So Love goes groping for The Little Lady.


And yet she's neither Nymph nor Fay,

James Whitcomb Riley

A Pretty Woman

I.
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!

II.
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

III.
You like us for a glance, you know
For a words sake
Or a swords sake,
Alls the same, whateer the chance, you know.

IV.
And in turn we make you ours, we say
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.

V.
Alls our own, to make the most of, Sweet
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

VI.
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed ...

Robert Browning

In The South.

There is a princess in the South
    About whose beauty rumors hum
Like honey-bees about the mouth
    Of roses dewdrops falter from;
    And O her hair is like the fine
    Clear amber of a jostled wine
    In tropic revels; and her eyes
    Are blue as rifts of Paradise.

Such beauty as may none before
    Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips
Of fingers such as knights of yore
    Had died to lift against their lips:
    Such eyes as might the eyes of gold
    Of all the stars of night behold
    With glittering envy, and so glare
    In dazzling splendor of despair.

So, were I but a minstrel, deft
    At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
    Of rondels such as rapture sings, -
    I'd loop my l...

James Whitcomb Riley

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine

As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.

'Tis a fragrant retrospection - for the loving thoughts that start
Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine -
When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweetheart of mine.

Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings,
The voices o...

James Whitcomb Riley