Four-Feet

I have done mostly what most men do,
And pushed it out of my mind;
But I can't forget, if I wanted to,
Four-Feet trotting behind.

Day after day, the whole day through,
Wherever my road inclined,
Four-feet said, "I am coming with you!"
And trotted along behind.

Now I must go by some other round,,
Which I shall never find,
Somewhere that does not carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

Rudyard

Rudyard Kipling was an English journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist. He was born in British India, which inspired much of his work. His notable works include the novels 'The Jungle Book,' 'Kim,' and the poem 'If—.' Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, making him the youngest recipient of the award.

Rudyard

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English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Footsteps In The Street

Oh, will the footsteps never be done?
            The insolent feet
            Thronging the street,
Forsaken now of the only one.

The only one out of all the throng,
            Whose footfall I knew,
            And could tell it so true,
That I leapt to see as she passed along,

As she passed along with her beautiful face,
            Which knew full well
            Though it did not tell,
That I was there in the window-space.

Now my sense is never so clear.
            It cheats my heart,
            Making me start
A thousand times, when she is not near.

When she is not near, but so far away,
            I could not come
            To the place of her home,
Though I travelled and sought for a month and a day.
...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Wonderful Feat.

I never walk along the street
    Because I haven't any feet;
Nor is this strange when I repeat
    That I am but a garden beet.

Edwin C. Ranck

A Country Pathway.

    I come upon it suddenly, alone -
        A little pathway winding in the weeds
    That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,
        I wander as it leads.

    Full wistfully along the slender way,
        Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,
    I take the path that leads me as it may -
        Its every choice is mine.

    A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,
        Is startled by my step as on I fare -
    A garter-snake across the dusty trail
        Glances and - is not there.

    Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos
        And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,
    Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose
        When autumn winds arise.

    The trail dips - dwindles - broadens then, and lifts

James Whitcomb Riley

The Beginner

Lo! What is this that I make, sudden, supreme, unrehearsed,
This that my clutch in the crowd pressed at a venture has raised?
Forward and onward I sprang when I thought (as I ought) I reversed,
And a cab like martagon opes and I sit in the wreckage dazed.

And someone is taking my name, and the driver is rending the air
With cries for my blood and my gold, and a snickering news-boy brings
My cap, wheel-pashed from the kerb. I must run her home for repair,
Where she leers with her bonnet awry, flat on the nether springs!

Rudyard

The Failing Track

Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
    Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!
With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;
    The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.

Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;
    By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes;
The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky
    Over some lowly landmark sings and floats.

Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;
    There all the ships tear each its track of gray;
Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:
    In each a magic finger points the way.

No finger finely touched, no eye of lark
    Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail?
Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,
    Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder...

George MacDonald

The Fires

Men make them fires on the hearth
Each under his roof-tree,
And the Four Winds that rule the earth
They blow the smoke to me.

Across the high hills and the sea
And all the changeful skies,
The Four Winds blow the smoke to me
Till the tears are in my eyes.

Until the tears are in my eyes
And my heart is well nigh broke
For thinking on old memories
That gather in the smoke.

With every shift of every wind
The homesick memories come,
From every quarter of mankind
Where I have made me a home.

Four times a fire against the cold
And a roof against the rain,
Sorrow fourfold and joy fourfold
The Four Winds bring again!

How can I answer which is best
Of all the fires that burn?
I have been too often host or gues...

Rudyard