A Voice From the Farm

It is my dream to have you here with me,
Out of the heated city's dust and din -
Here where the colts have room to gambol in,
And kine to graze, in clover to the knee.
I want to see your wan face happily
Lit with the wholesome smiles that have not been
In use since the old games you used to win
When we pitched horseshoes: And I want to be
At utter loaf with you in this dim land
Of grove and meadow, while the crickets make
Our own talk tedious, and the bat wields
His bulky flight, as we cease converse and
In a dusk like velvet smoothly take
Our way toward home across the dewy fields.

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

We Are Not Always Glad When We Smile

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Hoss

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Wash Lowry's Reminiscence

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Where The Children Used To Play

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
    And filled it is with plenty and to spare, -
But we are lonely here in life's decline,
    Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
        We look across the gold
        Of the harvests, as of old -
    The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay
        But most we turn our gaze,
        As with eyes of other days,
    To the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure
And rich hoard of worldly treasure
    We often turn our weary eyes away,
And hand in hand we wander
Down the old path winding yonder
    To the orchard where the children used to play

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
    The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er:
The grove's a...

James Whitcomb Riley

Where the Children used to Play

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
And filled it is with plenty and to spare,
But we are lonely here in life's decline,
Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
We look across the gold
Of the harvests, as of old -
The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay;
But most we turn our gaze,
As with eyes of other days,
To the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure
And rich hoard of worldly treasure
We often turn our weary eyes away,
And hand in hand we wander
Down the old path winding yonder
To the orchard where the children used to play.

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver;
The grove's a paradise of singing birds -
The woodland brook leaps ...

James Whitcomb Riley

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

An Old Friend

Hey, Old Midsummer! are you here again,
    With all your harvest-store of olden joys, -
Vast overhanging meadow-lands of rain,
And drowsy dawns, and noons when golden grain
    Nods in the sun, and lazy truant boys
Drift ever listlessly adown the day,
Too full of joy to rest, and dreams to play.

The same old Summer, with the same old smile
    Beaming upon us in the same old way
We knew in childhood!    Though a weary while
Since that far time, yet memories reconcile
    The heart with odorous breaths of clover hay;
And again I hear the doves, and the sun streams through
The old barn door just as it used to do.

And so it seems like welcoming a friend -
    An old, OLD friend, upon his coming home
From some far country - coming home to spend
L...

James Whitcomb Riley

Herr Weiser

Herr Weiser! Three-score-years-and-ten,
A hale white rose of his country-men,
Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam,
And blossomy as his German home -
As blossomy and as pure and sweet
As the cool green glen of his calm retreat,
Far withdrawn from the noisy town
Where trade goes clamoring up and down,
Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife,
May not trouble his tranquil life!

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust!
Quite of the city's heat and dust,
Jostling down by the winding road,
Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode.
Tether the horse, as we onward fare
Under the pear-trees trailing there,
And thumping the wood bridge at night
With lumps of ripeness and lush delight,
Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn,
Is powdered and p...

James Whitcomb Riley

Our Boyhood Haunts

Ho! I'm going back to where
We were youngsters. - Meet me there,
Dear old barefoot chum, and we
Will be as we used to be, -
Lawless rangers up and down
The old creek beyond the town -
Little sunburnt gods at play,
Just as in that far-away: -
Water nymphs, all unafraid,
Shall smile at us from the brink
Of the old millrace and wade
Tow'rd us as we kneeling drink
At the spring our boyhood knew,
Pure and clear as morning-dew:

And, as we are rising there,
Doubly dow'rd to hear and see,
We shall thus be made aware
Of an eerie piping, heard
High above the happy bird
In the hazel: And then we,
Just across the creek, shall see
(Hah! the goaty rascal!) Pan
Hoof it o'er the sloping green,
Mad with his own melody,
Aye, and (bl...

James Whitcomb Riley