Baby Mine.

Baby mine, over the trees;
Baby mine, over the flowers;
Baby mine, over the sunshine;
Baby mine, over the showers.

Baby mine, over the land;
Baby mine, over the water.
Oh, when had a mother before
Such a sweet such a sweet, little daughter!

Kate Greenaway

Kate Greenaway was a renowned English Victorian artist and writer known for her children's book illustrations. Her work, characterized by quaint, nostalgic depictions of children and rural life, achieved remarkable popularity in the late 19th century. Greenaway's unique style, often inspired by Regency-era fashion, has had a lasting influence on children's literature and illustration.

Kate Greenaway

On The Wall Top.

Kate Greenaway, Simple Poetry

My Little Girlie.

Kate Greenaway, Simple Poetry

Under Rose Arches.

Kate Greenaway, Simple Poetry

In An Apple Tree.

Kate Greenaway, 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.

To Baby.

Oh, what shall my blue eyes go see?
Shall it be pretty Quack-Quack to-day?
Or the Peacock upon the Yew Tree?
Or the dear little white Lambs at play?
Say Baby.
For Baby is such a young Petsy,
And Baby is such a sweet Dear.
And Baby is growing quite old now
She's just getting on for a year.

Kate Greenaway

Minnie

    "And Jesu called a little child unto him."
                MATT. xviii. 2.


Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are    cold!
Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould!
Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair,
And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair.

Cold and dark are the night dews around thy grassy bed,
Instead of warm and loving arms beneath thy sunny    head;
Oh, my blossom, my darling, the long nights through, awake,
I stretch my empty arms for thee,--my heart--my heart will break.

The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill,
The soft October sun is bright, but the little hands are still;
And the little feet that chased them as frolicksome and light,
Have lain beneath the...

Kate Seymour Maclean

The Emigrant Mother

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I

"Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a ...

William Wordsworth

My Little Girlie.

Little girlie tell to me
What your wistful blue eyes see?
Why you like to stand so high,
Looking at the far off sky.

Does a tiny Fairy flit
In the pretty blue of it?
Or is it that you hope so soon
To see the rising yellow Moon?

Or is it as I think I've heard
You're looking for a little Bird
To come and sit upon a spray,
And sing the summer night away?

Kate Greenaway

Ring-A-Ring.

Ring-a-ring of little boys.
Ring-a-ring of girls;
All around all around,
Twists and twirls.

You are merry children;
"Yes, we are."
Where do you come from?
"Not very far.

"We live in the mountain,
We live in the tree;
And I live in the river-bed,
And you won't catch me!"

Kate Greenaway

Little Girls And Little Lambs.

In the May-time flowers grow;
Little girls in meadows go;
Little lambs frisk with delight,
And in the green grass sleep at night.
Little birds sing all the day,
Oh, in such a happy way!
All the day the sun is bright,
Little stars shine all the night.
The Cowslip says to the Primrose,
"How soft the little Spring wind blows!"
The Daisy and the Buttercup
Sing every time that they look up.
For beneath the sweet blue sky
They see a pretty Butterfly;
The Butterfly, when he looks down,
Says, "What a pretty Flower Town!"

Kate Greenaway