Dedication: Riley Child-Rhymes

With Hale Affection And Abiding Faith These Rhymes And Pictures Are Inscribed To The Children Everywhere




He owns the bird-songs of the hills -
The laughter of the April rills;
And his are all the diamonds set
In Morning's dewy coronet, -
And his the Dusk's first minted stars
That twinkle through the pasture-bars
And litter all the skies at night
With glittering scraps of silver light; -
The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim,
In beaten gold, belongs to him.

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

The Beautiful City

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Watches Of The Night.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Long Ago.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Rambo-Tree

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Inscribed: Riley Love-Lyrics

To the Elect of Love, - or side-by-side
In raptest ecstasy, or sundered wide
By seas that bear no message to or fro
Between the loved and lost of long ago.




So were I but a minstrel, deft
At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
Of rondels such as rapture sings, -
    I'd loop my lyre across my breast,
    Nor stay me till my knee found rest
    In midnight banks of bud and flower
    Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.

And there, drenched with the teary dews,
I'd woo her with such wondrous art
As well might stanch the songs that ooze
Out of the mockbird's breaking heart;
    So light, so tender, and so sweet
    Should be the words I would repeat,
    Her casement, on my gradual sight,
...

James Whitcomb Riley

Longfellow

The winds have talked with him confidingly;
The trees have whispered to him; and the night
Hath held him gently as a mother might,
And taught him all sad tones of melody:
The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,
In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,
Hath told him all her sorrow and delight -
Her legends fair - her darkest mystery.
His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;
Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings
Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.
Nor shall he cease to sing - in every lay
Of Nature's voice he sings - and will alway.

James Whitcomb Riley

Longfellow.

    The winds have talked with him confidingly;
        The trees have whispered to him; and the night
        Hath held him gently as a mother might,
    And taught him all sad tones of melody:
    The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,
        In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,
        Hath told him all her sorrow and delight -
    Her legends fair - her darkest mystery.
        His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;
    Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings
        Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
    Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. -
        Nor shall he cease to sing - in every lay
        Of Nature's voice he sings - and will alway.

James Whitcomb Riley

(From a Westerner's Point of View.)

No matter what you call it,
Whether genius, or art,
He sings the simple songs that come
The closest to your heart.
Fur trim an' skillful phrases,
I do not keer a jot;
'Tain't the words alone, but feelin's,
That tech the tender spot.
An' that's jest why I love him,--
Why, he's got sech human feelin',
An' in ev'ry song he gives us,
You kin see it creepin', stealin',
Through the core the tears go tricklin',
But the edge is bright an' smiley;
I never saw a poet
Like that poet Whitcomb Riley.

His heart keeps beatin' time with our'n
In measures fast or slow;
He tells us jest the same ol' things
Our souls have learned to know.
He paints our joys an' sorrers
In a way so stric'ly true,
T...

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Dedication To Hewitt Hanson Howland With Halest Christmas Greetings And Fraternal

    Little Boy! Halloo! - halloo!
        Can't you hear me calling you? -
    Little Boy that used to be,
        Come in here and play with me.

James Whitcomb Riley

The Hoosier Folk-Child.

    The Hoosier Folk-Child - all unsung -
    Unlettered all of mind and tongue;
    Unmastered, unmolested - made
    Most wholly frank and unafraid:
    Untaught of any school - unvexed
    Of law or creed - all unperplexed -
    Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled,
    An all imperfect-perfect child -
    A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you
    And I do tardy honor to,
    And so, profane the sanctities
    Of our most sacred memories.
    Who, growing thus from boy to man,
    That dares not be American?
    Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz -
    Go whistle! as the Folk-Child does.

    The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not
    Much wider than the stable-lot
    Between the house and highway fence
    That bounds the home his fathe...

James Whitcomb Riley