A Rough Sketch

I caught, for a second, across the crowd -
Just for a second, and barely that -
A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed,
Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat -
With small gray eyes, of a look as keen
As the long, sharp nose that grew between.

And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own,
Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear,
On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown
Hither and thither and everywhere -
With its keen little sinister eyes of gray,
And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!

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

At Sea

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Wife-Blessed.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Old Swimmin'-Hole

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

That Other Maud Muller

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Water-Color.

    Low hidden in among the forest trees
        An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep
    In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these
        A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep
            Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat -
            A little wicker flask tossed into that.

    A sense of utter carelessness and grace
        Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene, -
    As if the June, all hoydenish of face,
        Had romped herself to sleep there on the green,
            And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream
            Were just romantic parcels of her dream.

James Whitcomb Riley

Dusk

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day
Into the dusky forest-lands of gray
And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high,
The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry
Sad as the wail of some poor castaway
Who sees a vessel drifting far astray
Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.
The children, riotous from school, grow bold
And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust
Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold
Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust
In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold
Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

James Whitcomb Riley

A Glimpse of Pan

I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here.
And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat.
And walked in a wood, while the noon was near,
Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere
Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet
From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer
Of the grasses, green and sweet.

And I peered through a vista of leaning tree,
Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept
To the face of a river, that answered these
With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze,
Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept
And kissed them, with quavering ecstasies,
And wistfully laughed and wept

And there, like a dream in swoon, I swear
I saw Pan lying, his limbs in the dew
And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare

James Whitcomb Riley

Suspense.

    A woman's figure, on a ground of night
        Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare
        Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there
    As in vague hope some alien lance of light
    Might pierce their woe.    The tears that blind her sight -
        The salt and bitter blood of her despair -
        Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair
    And grip toward God with anguish infinite.
        And O the carven mouth, with all its great
    Intensity of longing frozen fast
        In such a smile as well may designate
    The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last,
        Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate
    Throbs Love's eternal lie - "Lo, I can wait!"

James Whitcomb Riley

September Dark

1
The air falls chill;
The whippoorwill
Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill:
The dusk grows dense,
The silence tense;
And lo, the katydids commence.

2
Through shadowy rifts
Of woodland lifts
The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
While left and right
The fireflies' light
Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

3
O Cloudland gray
And level lay
Thy mists across the face of Day!
At foot and head,
Above the dead
O Dews, weep on uncomforted!

James Whitcomb Riley

Art and Love

He faced his canvas (as a seer whose ken
Pierces the crust of this existence through)
And smiled beyond on that his genius knew
Ere mated with his being. Conscious then
Of his high theme alone, he smiled again
Straight back upon himself in many a hue
And tint, and light and shade, which slowly grew
Enfeatured of a fair girl's face, as when
First time she smiles for love's sake with no fear.
So wrought he, witless that behind him leant
A woman, with old features, dim and sear,
And glamoured eyes that felt the brimming tear,
And with a voice, like some sad instrument,
That sighing said, "I'm dead there; love me here!"

James Whitcomb Riley