His Mother.

DEAD! my wayward boy - my own -
Not the Law's! but mine - the good
God's free gift to me alone,
Sanctified by motherhood.

"Bad," you say: Well, who is not?
"Brutal" - "with a heart of stone" -
And "red-handed." - Ah! the hot
Blood upon your own!

I come not, with downward eyes,
To plead for him shamedly, -
God did not apologize
When He gave the boy to me.

Simply, I make ready now
For His verdict. - You prepare -
You have killed us both - and how
Will you face us There!

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

Who Santy-Claus Wuz

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Noey Bixler

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Child-World

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Father William

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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His Mother's Way

    Tomps 'ud allus haf to say
        Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way." -
    He lived hard-like - never jined
    Any church of any kind. -
    "It was Mother's way," says he,
    "To be good enough fer me
    And her too, - and certinly
        Lord has heerd her pray!"
    Propped up on his dyin' bed, -
    "Shore as Heaven's overhead,
    I'm a-goin' there," he said
        "It was Mother's way."

James Whitcomb Riley

Being His Mother.

    Being his mother - when he goes away
        I would not hold him overlong, and so
        Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O
    So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay
    To catch the faintest rumor of them!    Nay,
        Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although
        Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow;
    Let his remembered features, as I pray,
    Smile ever on me!    Ah! what stress of love
        Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise:
        Its fullest speech ever to be denied
    Mine own - being his mother!    All thereof
        Thou knowest only, looking from the skies
        As when not Christ alone was crucified.

James Whitcomb Riley

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.

At night were heard strange noises there,
When honest people everywhere
Had long retired; and his light
Was often seen to burn all night.

He left his house but seldom - the...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Mother-Song

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you,
    Sing the old song I may never forget;
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. -
    Mother, O mother,
        Sing low, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely,
    Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret!
Can't you come back to me - for to-night only,
    Mother, my mother,
        And sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! of old I had never
    One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret;
Now - must I cry out all vainly forever, -
    Mother, sweet mother,
        O sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrow

James Whitcomb Riley

Luther Benson

AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY

POOR victim of that vulture curse
That hovers o'er the universe,
With ready talons quick to strike
In every human heart alike,
And cruel beak to stab and tear
In virtue's vitals everywhere, -
You need no sympathy of mine
To aid you, for a strength divine
Encircles you, and lifts you clear
Above this earthly atmosphere.

And yet I can but call you poor,
As, looking through the open door
Of your sad life, I only see
A broad landscape of misery,
And catch through mists of pitying tears
The ruins of your younger years,
I see a father's shielding arm
Thrown round you in a wild alarm -
Struck down, and powerless to free
Or aid you in your agony.

I see a happy home grow dark
And desolate -...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Ballad With A Serious Conclusion

Crowd about me, little children -
    Come and cluster 'round my knee
While I tell a little story
    That happened once with me.

My father he had gone away
    A-sailing on the foam,
Leaving me - the merest infant -
    And my mother dear at home;

For my father was a sailor,
    And he sailed the ocean o'er
For full five years ere yet again
    He reached his native shore.

And I had grown up rugged
    And healthy day by day,
Though I was but a puny babe
    When father went away.

Poor mother she would kiss me
    And look at me and sigh
So strangely, oft I wondered
    And would ask the reason why.

And she would answer sadly,
    Between her sobs and tears, -
"You look so like your father,
    ...

James Whitcomb Riley