A Secret

        A little baby went to sleep
            One night in his white bed,
        And the moon came by to take a peep
            At the little baby head.

        A wind, as wandering winds will do,
            Brought to the baby there
        Sweet smells from some quaint flower that grew
            Out on some hill somewhere.

        And wind and flower and pale moonbeam
            About the baby's bed
        Stirred and woke the funniest dream
            In the little sleepy head.

        He thought he was all sorts of things
            From a lion to a cat;
        Sometimes he thought he flew on wings,
            Or fell and fell, so that

        When morning broke he was right glad
            But much surprised to see
        Himself a soft, pink little lad
            Just like he used to be.

        I would not give this story fame
            If there were room to doubt it,
        But when he learned to talk, he came
            And told me all about it.

John Charles McNeill

John Charles McNeill was a prominent American poet known for his works that vividly depicted the landscapes and spirit of North Carolina. Born on July 26, 1874, in Wagram, North Carolina, he won acclaim with his book 'Songs Merry and Sad,' which won the Patterson Cup in 1905. His poetry primarily reflects rural life and Southern traditions. Sadly, McNeill's promising career was cut short when he died on October 17, 1907, at the young age of 33.

John Charles McNeill

97": The Fast Mail

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Before Bedtime

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Away Down Home

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

September

John Charles McNeill, 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.

John

    He's a boy,
And that's the long and (chiefly) the short of it,
And the point of it and the wonderful sport of it;
    A two-year-old with a taste for a toy,
    And two chubby fists to clutch it and grasp it,
    And two fat arms to embrace it and clasp it;
    And a short stout couple of sturdy legs
    As hard and as smooth as ostrich eggs;
    And a jolly round head, so fairly round
    You could easily roll it,
    Or take it and bowl it
    With never a bump along the ground.

And, as to his cheeks, they're also fat -
I've seen them in ancient prints like that,
    Where a wind-boy high
    In a cloudy sky
    Is puffing away for all he's worth,
    Uprooting the trees
    With a reckless breeze,
    And strewing them over the pati...

R. C. Lehmann

The Wakeful Sleeper

    When things are holding wonted pace
    In wonted paths, without a trace
    Or hint of neighbouring wonder,
    Sometimes, from other realms, a tone,
    A scent, a vision, swift, alone,
    Breaks common life asunder.

    Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door,
    It makes you ponder something more--
    Unseen with seen things linking:
    To neighbours met one festive night,
    Was given a quaint and lovely sight,
    That set some of them thinking.

    They stand, in music's fetters bound
    By a clear brook of warbled sound,
    A canzonet of Haydn,
    When the door slowly comes ajar--
    A little further--just as far
    As shows a tiny maiden.

    Softly she enters, her pink toes
    Daintily peeping, as she goes,...

George MacDonald

A Fairy Lullaby

There are two stars in yonder steeps
That watch the baby while he sleeps.
But while the baby is awake
And singing gayly all day long,
The little stars their slumbers take
Lulled by the music of his song.
So sleep, dear tired baby, sleep
While little stars their vigils keep.

Beside his loving mother-sheep
A little lambkin is asleep;
What does he know of midnight gloom---
He sleeps, and in his quiet dreams
He thinks he plucks the clover bloom
And drinks at cooling, purling streams.
And those same stars the baby knows
Sing softly to the lamb's repose.

Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child--
The stars are dim--the night is wild;
But o'er the cot and o'er the lea
A sleepless eye forever beams--
A shepherd watches over thee
In ...

Eugene Field

Little Boy Sleepy

Little boy sleepy won't go to bed,
Though the Sand Man came an hour ago,
And sand all under his eyelids spread:
Though his eyes are heavy and heavy his head,
And his little tired feet seem made of lead,
And he nods and yawns as he drags them slow.

Little Boy Sleepy won't go to bed.
Little Boy Sleepy just has to play,
Though his toys are tired as he, I know:
His little toy-horse in its little toy-dray
Just seems to beg to be put away;
It has worked so hard all day, all day,
Hauling the toy-blocks to and fro.

Little Boy Sleepy just has to play.
Little Boy Sleepy won't be undressed;
"Just one more minute to play, my oh!"
His little lead soldier looks sodistressed,
And his paper rooster hangs down his crest,
And the little wool-dog just begs ...

Madison Julius Cawein

Portrait Of A Baby

He lay within a warm, soft world
Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled,
Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red,
Wave upon wave that broke and whirled
To vanish in the grey-green gloom,
Perspectiveless and shadowy.
A bulging world that had no walls,
A flowing world, most like the sea,
Compassing all infinity
Within a shapeless, ebbing room,
An endless tide that swells and falls...
He slept and woke and slept again.
As a veil drops Time dropped away;
Space grew a toy for children's play,
Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense --
He lay in naked impotence;
Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls
Heavily up brown, light-baked walls,
To fall in wreck, her task undone,
Yet somehow striving toward the sun.
So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter,

Stephen Vincent Benét

Toyland

I.

There's a story no one knows,
But myself, about a rose
And a fairy and a star
Where the Toyland people are.
Once when I had gone to bed,
Mother said it was a dream,
From a rose above my head,
Growing by the window-beam,
Out there popped a fairy's head.

II.

And he nodded at me: smiled:
Said, "You're fond of stories, eh?
Well, I know a star each child
Ought to know. It's far away
Foryour kind, but not for me.
I will take you to that star,
Where you'll hear new stories; see?
Close your eyes. It is n't far
That is, 't is n't far for me."

III.

And he'd hardly spoken when
From the rose there came a moth;
And before you'd counted ten
We were on it, and were both
Flying to that star that mad...

Madison Julius Cawein