Amusements

I wish that my room had a floor;
I don't so much care for a door;
    But this crawling around
    Without touching the ground
Is getting to be quite a bore.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXII. Jingles.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Beards

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DXXVI. Natural History.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Beauty

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXI. Paradoxes.

    Here am I, little jumping Joan;
    When nobody's with me,
    I'm always alone.

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Nursery Rhyme. XXXIV. Literal

    Great A, little a,
        Bouncing B!
    The cat's in the cupboard,
        And she can't see.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. XXXI. Literal

    A, B, C, tumble down D,
    The cat's in the cupboard and can't see me.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXXI. Games.

    Here stands a post,
    Who put it there?
    A better man than you;
    Touch it if you dare!

Unknown

Processes Of Thought

    I

    I find my mind as it were a deep water.

    Sometimes I play with a thought and hammer and bend it,
    Till tired and displeased with that I toss it away,
    Or absently let it slip to the yawning water:
    And down it sinks, forgotten for many a day.

    But a time comes when tide or tempest washes it
    High on the beach, and I find that shape of mine,
    Or I haul it out from the depths on some casual rope,
    Or, passing over that spot in quiet shine,

    I see, where my boat's shadow makes deep the water,
    A patch of colour, far down, from the bottom apart,
    A wavering sign like the gleam from an ancient anchor,
    Brown fixing and fleeting flakes; and I feel my heart

    Wake to a strange excitement; so that I s...

John Collings Squire, Sir

The Old Stone House

Nothing on the grey roof, nothing on the brown,
Only a little greening where the rain drips down;
Nobody at the window, nobody at the door,
Only a little hollow which a foot once wore;
But still I tread on tiptoe, still tiptoe on I go,
Past nettles, porch, and weedy well, for oh, I know
A friendless face is peering, and a still clear eye
Peeps closely through the casement
    as my step goes by.

Walter De La Mare