Her Face And Brow

Ah, help me! but her face and brow
Are lovelier than lilies are
Beneath the light of moon and star
That smile as they are smiling now -
White lilies in a pallid swoon
Of sweetest white beneath the moon -
White lilies, in a flood of bright
Pure lucidness of liquid light
Cascading down some plenilune,
When all the azure overhead
Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed. -
So luminous her face and brow,
The luster of their glory, shed
In memory, even, blinds me now.

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

Say Something To Me

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Longfellow.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Jaybird

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Wash Lowry's Reminiscence

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Her Beautiful Eyes.

    O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew
    On the violet's bloom when the morning is new,
    And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun
    O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run:
    As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies -
    So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.

    And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me,
    When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,
    And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,
    And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet
    And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies -
    So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.

    O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own
    As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne;
 ...

James Whitcomb Riley

Judith.

    O her eyes are amber-fine -
    Dark and deep as wells of wine,
    While her smile is like the noon
    Splendor of a day of June.
    If she sorrow - lo! her face
    It is like a flowery space
    In bright meadows, overlaid
    With light clouds and lulled with shade
    If she laugh - it is the trill
    Of the wayward whippoorwill
    Over upland pastures, heard
    Echoed by the mocking-bird
    In dim thickets dense with bloom
    And blurred cloyings of perfume.
    If she sigh - a zephyr swells
    Over odorous asphodels
    And wan lilies in lush plots
    Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.
    Then, the soft touch of her hand -
    Takes all breath to understand
    What to liken it thereto! -
    Never roseleaf rinsed wit...

James Whitcomb Riley

By Her White Bed.

    By her white bed I muse a little space:
    She fell asleep - not very long ago, -
    And yet the grass was here and not the snow -
    The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and - her face! -
    Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace
    Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow;
    The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low
    Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place
    In thicker twilight for the roses' scent.
    Then night. - She slept - in such tranquility,
    I walk atiptoe still, nor dare to weep,
    Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content -
    That though God stood to wake her for me, she
    Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord!    Let him so sleep."

James Whitcomb Riley

Ylladmar

Her hair was, oh, so dense a blur
Of darkness, midnight envied her;
And stars grew dimmer in the skies
To see the glory of her eyes;
And all the summer rain of light
That showered from the moon at night
Fell o'er her features as the gloom
Of twilight o'er a lily-bloom.

The crimson fruitage of her lips
Was ripe and lush with sweeter wine
Than burgundy or muscadine
Or vintage that the burgher sips
In some old garden on the Rhine:
And I to taste of it could well
Believe my heart a crucible
Of molten love - and I could feel
The drunken soul within me reel
And rock and stagger till it fell.

And do you wonder that I bowed
Before her splendor as a cloud
Of storm the golden-sandaled sun
Had set his conquering foot upon?
And di...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Leave-Taking.

She will not smile;
    She will not stir;
I marvel while
    I look on her.
    The lips are chilly
        And will not speak;
    The ghost of a lily
        In either cheek.

Her hair - ah me!
    Her hair - her hair!
How helplessly
    My hands go there!
    But my caresses
        Meet not hers,
    O golden tresses
        That thread my tears!

I kiss the eyes
    On either lid,
Where her love lies
    Forever hid.
    I cease my weeping
        And smile and say:
    I will be sleeping
        Thus, some day!

James Whitcomb Riley

Dear Hands.

The touches of her hands are like the fall
    Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down
The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp
    Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown
The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
The touches of her hands, and the delight -
    The touches of her hands!
The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew
The touch thereof save lovers like to one
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
    Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs,
Or - in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears...

James Whitcomb Riley