Friend Of A Wayward Hour

Friend of a wayward hour, you came
Like some good ghost, and went the same;
And I within the haunted place
Sit smiling on your vanished face,
    And talking with - your name.

But thrice the pressure of your hand -
First hail - congratulations - and
Your last "God bless you!" as the train
That brought you snatched you back again
    Into the unknown land.

"God bless me?" Why, your very prayer
Was answered ere you asked it there,
I know - for when you came to lend
Me your kind hand, and call me friend,
    God blessed me unaware.

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

This Man Jones.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

When We First Played "Show"

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Discouraging Model.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

To The Judge

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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My Old Friend

You've a manner all so mellow,
    My old friend,
That it cheers and warms a fellow,
    My old friend,
Just to meet and greet you, and
Feel the pressure of a hand
That one may understand,
    My old friend.

Though dimmed in youthful splendor,
    My old friend,
Your smiles are still as tender,
    My old friend,
And your eyes as true a blue
As your childhood ever knew,
And your laugh as merry, too,
    My old friend.

For though your hair is faded,
    My old friend,
And your step a trifle jaded,
    My old friend,
Old Time, with all his lures
In the trophies he secures,
Leaves young that heart of yours,
    My old friend.

And so it is you cheer me,
    My old friend,
For to know you still are...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Letter To A Friend

The past is like a story
I have listened to in dreams
That vanished in the glory
Of the Morning's early gleams;
And - at my shadow glancing -
I feel a loss of strength,
As the Day of Life advancing
Leaves it shorn of half its length.

But it's all in vain to worry
At the rapid race of Time -
And he flies in such a flurry
When I trip him with a rhyme,
I'll bother him no longer
Than to thank you for the thought
That "my fame is growing stronger
As you really think it ought."

And though I fall below it,
I might know as much of mirth
To live and die a poet
Of unacknowledged worth;
For Fame is but a vagrant -
Though a loyal one and brave,
And his laurels ne'er so fragrant
As when scattered o'er the grave.

James Whitcomb Riley

My Friend.

    "He is my friend," I said, -
    "Be patient!"    Overhead
    The skies were drear and dim;
    And lo! the thought of him
    Smited on my heart - and then
    The sun shone out again!

    "He is my friend!"    The words
    Brought summer and the birds;
    And all my winter-time
    Thawed into running rhyme
    And rippled into song,
    Warm, tender, brave, and strong.

    And so it sings to-day. -
    So may it sing alway!
    Though waving grasses grow
    Between, and lilies blow
    Their trills of perfume clear
    As laughter to the ear,
    Let each mute measure end
    With "Still he is thy friend."

James Whitcomb Riley

Out Of The Hitherwhere

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon -
The land that the Lord's love rests upon;
Where one may rely on the friends he meets,
And the smiles that greet him along the streets:
Where the mother that left you years ago
Will lift the hands that were folded so,
And put them about you, with all the love
And tenderness you are dreaming of.

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon -
Where all of the friends of your youth have gone, -
Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you,
Will laugh again as he used to do,
Running to meet you, with such a face
As lights like a moon the wondrous place
Where God is living, and glad to live,
Since He is the Master and may forgive.

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon! -
Stay the hopes we are leaning on -
You, Divin...

James Whitcomb Riley

Reach Your Hand To Me.

    Reach your hand to me, my friend,
        With its heartiest caress -
    Sometime there will come an end
        To its present faithfulness -
    Sometime I may ask in vain
    For the touch of it again,
    When between us land or sea
    Holds it ever back from me.

    Sometime I may need it so,
        Groping somewhere in the night,
    It will seem to me as though
        Just a touch, however light,
    Would make all the darkness day,
    And along some sunny way
    Lead me through an April-shower
    Of my tears to this fair hour.

    O the present is too sweet
        To go on forever thus!
    Round the corner of the street
        Who can say what waits for us? -
    Meeting - greeting, night and day,
    ...

James Whitcomb Riley

To The Quiet Observer

AFTER HIS LONG SILENCE

Dear old friend of us all in need
Who know the worth of a friend indeed,
How rejoiced are we all to learn
    Of your glad return.

We who have missed your voice so long -
Even as March might miss the song
Of the sugar-bird in the maples when
    They're tapped again.

Even as the memory of these
Blended sweets, - the sap of the trees
And the song of the birds, and the old camp too,
    We think of you.

Hail to you, then, with welcomes deep
As grateful hearts may laugh or weep! -
You give us not only the bird that sings,
    But all good things.

James Whitcomb Riley