Anticipation

When I grow up I mean to be
A Lion large and fierce to see.
I'll mew so loud that Cook in fright
Will give me all the cream in sight.
And anyone who dares to say
"Poor Puss" to me will rue the day.
Then having swallowed him I'll creep
Into the Guest Room Bed to sleep.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

Saint Paul

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

F. W. Hohenzollern

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To The Publisher

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To The Maid With Fancy Free

Oliver Herford, 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 Kitten's Fancy

The Kitten mews outside the Door,
    The Cat-bird in the Tree,
The Sea-mew mews upon the Shore,
    The Catfish in the Sea.

The Emu with his feathers queer
    Is mewing in the Zoo.
Why is it that I never hear
    A Pussy-willow mew?

Oliver Herford

The Epic Of The Lion.

("Un lion avait pris un enfant.")

[XIII.]


A Lion in his jaws caught up a child -
Not harming it - and to the woodland, wild
With secret streams and lairs, bore off his prey -
The beast, as one might cull a bud in May.
It was a rosy boy, a king's own pride,
A ten-year lad, with bright eyes shining wide,
And save this son his majesty beside
Had but one girl, two years of age, and so
The monarch suffered, being old, much woe;
His heir the monster's prey, while the whole land
In dread both of the beast and king did stand;
Sore terrified were all.

    By came a knight
That road, who halted, asking, "What's the fright?"
They told him, and he spurred straight for the site!
The beast was seen to smile ere joined they fight,
The...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Facilis Ascensus

Up into the Cherry Tree,
    Who should climb but little me,
With both my Paws I hold on tight,
    And look upon a pleasant sight.

There are the Gardens far away,
    Where little Foreign Kittens play,
And those queer specks of black and brown
    Are naughty cats that live in Town.

And there among the tulips red,
    Where I may never lay my head,
I see the Cruel Gardener hoe
    The baby weeds that may not grow.

Now I climb down--"Oh dear,"--I mew,
    "Which end goes first--what shall I do?
Oh, good Kind Gardener, big and brown,
    Please come and help this Kitten down."

Oliver Herford

Foreign Kittens

Kittens large and Kittens small,
Prowling on the Back Yard Wall,
Though your fur be rough and few,
I should like to play with you.
Though you roam the dangerous street,
And have curious things to eat,
Though you sleep in barn or loft,
With no cushions warm and soft,
Though you have to stay out-doors
When it's cold or when it pours,
Though your fur is all askew--
How I'd like to play with you!

Oliver Herford

The Ant.

MY child, ob-serve the use-ful Ant,
How hard she works each day.
She works as hard as ad-a-mant
(That's very hard, they say).
She has no time to gal-li-vant;
She has no time to play.
Let Fido chase his tail all day;
Let Kitty play at tag:
She has no time to throw a-way,
She has no tail to wag.
She scurries round from morn till night;
She ne-ver, ne-ver sleeps;
She seiz-es ev-ery-thing in sight,
And drags it home with all her might,
And all she takes she keeps.

Oliver Herford

The Outing

My Bed is like a little Bark,
    The hatch is battened down,
And in the basket cabin dark
    I sail away from Town.

Now, when they lift the lid, a scene
    Of wonder meets my eyes,
Tall waving Feather-Dusters green,
    That seem to touch the skies.

And over all the Ground is spread
    A Rug of Emerald sweet,
Most deep enough to hide my head
    And tickly to my feet.

And here's the Cow, calm-eyed stands she,
    The Genie of the Jug,
Beneath the Feather-Duster Tree,
    And eats the Emerald Rug.

Oliver Herford