A Poet's Wooing

    I woo'd a woman once,
But she was sharper than an eastern wind.
                        - TENNYSON.

"What may I do to make you glad,
To make you glad and free,
    Till your light smiles glance
    And your bright eyes dance
Like sunbeams on the sea?
    Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay
    Of a bright May morn and a marriage day?"
And she sighed in a listless way she had, -
"Do not read - it will make me sad!"

"What shall I do to make you glad -
To make you glad and gay,
    Till your eyes gleam bright
    As the stars at night
When as light as the light of day
    Sing some song as I twang the strings
    Of my sweet guitar through its wanderings?"
And she sighed in the weary way she had, -
"Do not sing - it will make me sad!"

"What can I do to make you glad -
As glad as glad can be,
    Till your clear eyes seem
    Like the rays that gleam
And glint through a dew-decked tree? -
    Will it please you, dear, that I now begin
    A grand old air on my violin?"
And she spoke again in the following way, -
    "Yes, oh yes, it would please me, sir;
I would be so glad you'd play
    Some grand old march - in character, -
And then as you march away
I will no longer thus be sad,
But oh, so glad - so glad - so glad!"

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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Find The Favorite

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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A Ditty Of No Tone.

Piped to the Spirit of John Keats.

    I.

    Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise
        A fitting melody - an air sublime, -
    A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze -
        The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme:
    A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed
        With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers
            Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of -
    Such thoughts as might be hymned
        To thee from this midsummer land of ours
            Through shower and sunshine blent for very love.


    II.

    Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough
        Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill
    Of best-remembered birds hath something new
        In cadence for the hea...

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My Jolly Friend's Secret

Ah, friend of mine, how goes it
    Since you've taken you a mate? -
Your smile, though, plainly shows it
    Is a very happy state!
Dan Cupid's necromancy!
    You must sit you down and dine,
And lubricate your fancy
    With a glass or two of wine.

And as you have "deserted,"
    As my other chums have done,
While I laugh alone diverted,
    As you drop off one by one - -
And I've remained unwedded,
    Till - you see - look here - that I'm,
In a manner, "snatched bald-headed"
    By the sportive hand of Time!

I'm an "old 'un!" yes, but wrinkles
    Are not so plenty, quite,
As to cover up the twinkles
    Of the boy - ain't I right?
Yet there are ghosts of kisses
    Under this mustache of mine
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Autumn.

    As a harvester, at dusk,
    Faring down some woody trail
    Leading homeward through the musk
    Of may-apple and pawpaw,
    Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, -
    So comes Autumn, swart and hale,
    Drooped of frame and slow of stride.
    But withal an air of pride
    Looming up in stature far
    Higher than his shoulders are;
    Weary both in arm and limb,
    Yet the wholesome heart of him
    Sheer at rest and satisfied.

    Greet him as with glee of drums
    And glad cymbals, as he comes!
    Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.
    He the Emperor - the King -
    Royal lord of everything
    Sagging Plenty's granary floors
    And out-bulging all her doors;
    He the god of corn and wine,
    Honey, milk, and fruit...

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To Young E. Allison - Bookman

The bookman he's a humming-bird -
    His feasts are honey-fine, -
    (With hi! hilloo!
    And clover-dew
    And roses lush and rare!)
Hiss roses are the phrase and word
    Of olden tomes divine;
    (With hi! and ho!
    And pinks ablow
    And posies everywhere!)
The Bookman he's a humming-bird, -
    He steals from song to song -
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme,
    And takes his heart along
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse
    And ballads, throng on throng.
    (With ho! and hey!
    And brook and brae,
    And brinks of shade and shine!)

A humming-bird the Bookman is -
    Though cumbrous, gray and grim, -
    (With hi! hilloo!
    And honey-dew
    And odors musty-rare!)
He bends him o'er...

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Orlie Wilde

A goddess, with a siren's grace, -
A sun-haired girl on a craggy place
Above a bay where fish-boats lay
Drifting about like birds of prey.

Wrought was she of a painter's dream, -
Wise only as are artists wise,
My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem,
With deep sad eyes of oversize,
And face of melancholy guise.

I pressed him that he tell to me
This masterpiece's history.
He turned - REturned - and thus beguiled
Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde: -

"We artists live ideally:
We breed our firmest facts of air;
We make our own reality -
We dream a thing and it is so.
The fairest scenes we ever see
Are mirages of memory;
The sweetest thoughts we ever know
We plagiarize from Long Ago:
And as the girl on canvas there
Is marv...

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A Southern Singer.

    Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls."

    Herein are blown from out the South
    Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth -
    As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
    The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

    Such sumptuous languor lures the sense -
    Such luxury of indolence -
    The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur,
    With water-lilies watching her.

    You waken, thrilling at the trill
    Of some wild bird that seems to spill
    The silence full of winey drips
    Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

    Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough
    The chipmunk stripes himself from view,
    You pause to lop a creamy spray
    Of elder-blossoms by the way.

    Or where the morning dew is yet
    Gra...

James Whitcomb Riley