Dead Selves

How many of my selves are dead?
    The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo,
The baby in the tiny bed
With rockers on, is blanketed
    And sleeping in the long ago;
And so I ask, with shaking head,
How many of my selves are dead?

A little face with drowsy eyes
    And lisping lips comes mistily
From out the faded past, and tries
The prayers a mother breathed with sighs
    Of anxious care in teaching me;
But face and form and prayers have fled -
How many of my selves are dead?

The little naked feet that slipped
    In truant paths, and led the way
Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped
O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped
    In streams forbidden - where are they?
In vain I listen for their tread -
How many of my selves are dead?

The awkward boy the teacher caught
    Inditing letters filled with love,
Who was compelled, for all he fought,
To read aloud each tender thought
    Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove."
I wonder where he hides his head -
How many of my selves are dead?

The earnest features of a youth
    With manly fringe on lip and chin,
With eager tongue to tell the truth,
To offer love and life, forsooth,
    So brave was he to woo and win;
A prouder man was never wed -
How many of my selves are dead?

The great, strong hands so all-inclined
    To welcome toil, or smooth the care
From mother-brows, or quick to find
A leisure-scrap of any kind,
    To toss the baby in the air,
Or clap at babbling things it said -
How many of my selves are dead?

The pact of brawn and scheming brain -
    Conspiring in the plots of wealth,
Still delving, till the lengthened chain,
Unwindlassed in the mines of gain,
    Recoils with dregs of ruined health
And pain and poverty instead -
How many of my selves are dead?

The faltering step, the faded hair -
    Head, heart and soul, all echoing
With maundering fancies that declare
That life and love were never there,
    Nor ever joy in anything,
Nor wounded heart that ever bled -
How many of my selves are dead?

So many of my selves are dead,
    That, bending here above the brink
Of my last grave, with dizzy head,
I find my spirit comforted,
    For all the idle things I think:
It can but be a peaceful bed,
Since all my other selves are dead.

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

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As though a gipsy maiden with dim look,
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Mr. What's-His-Name.

They called him Mr. What's-his-name:
From where he was, or why he came,
Or when, or what he found to do,
Nobody in the city knew.

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
In a low hovel of his own;
There cooked his meals and made his bed,
Careless of all his neighbors said.

His neighbors, too, said many things
Expressive of grave wonderings,
Since none of them had ever been
Within his doors, or peered therein.

In fact, grown watchful, they became
Assured that Mr. What's-his-name
Was up to something wrong - indeed,
Small doubt of it, we all agreed.

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Three Dead Friends.

Always suddenly they are gone -
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Suddenly we are gazing on,
    Not a smiling face, but the marble-pure
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    The lips close-locked as the eyelids are -
Gone - swift as the flash of the molten ore
    A meteor pours through a midnight sky,
    Leaving it blind of a single star.

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A Dream Of Long Ago

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Ripples of the river singing;
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In the past, with glad embraces
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