In David's "Child's Garden Of Verses"

The dearest child in all the world,
Should have the dearest songs,
And that is why this little book
To David-Boy belongs.

Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born in St. Louis, Missouri and her first poem publication was in 1907. Teasdale's style was characterized by clarity and simplicity, often focusing on themes of love, nature, and death. She won the Columbia University Poetry Society Prize for her 1917 collection Love Songs. Unfortunately, she faced severe health issues and depression towards the end of her life, leading to her suicide in 1933.

Sara Teasdale

To Sappho I

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

The Cloud

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Primavera Mia

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Doctors

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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

A Nursery Darling

A Mother's breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
see how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm, an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King
In Love: for Love is Rest.


A Darling's kiss:
Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, the message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.

Lewis Carroll

Children At Play

I hear a merry noise indeed:
Is it the geese and ducks that take
Their first plunge in a quiet pond
That into scores of ripples break,
Or children make this merry sound?

I see an oak tree, its strong back
Could not be bent an inch though all
Its leaves were stone, or iron even:
A boy, with many a lusty call,
Rides on a bough bareback through Heaven.

I see two children dig a hole
And plant in it a cherry-stone:
"We'll come to-morrow," one child said,
"And then the tree will be full grown,
And all its boughs have cherries red."

Ah, children, what a life to lead:
You love the flowers, but when they're past
No flowers are missed by your bright eyes;
And when cold winter comes at last,
Snowflakes shall be your butterflies.

William Henry Davies

The Wonder-Child

'Our little babe,' each said, 'shall be
Like unto thee' - 'Like unto thee!'
'Her mother's' - 'Nay, his father's' - 'eyes,'
'Dear curls like thine' - but each replies,
'As thine, all thine, and nought of me.'

What sweet solemnity to see
The little life upon thy knee,
And whisper as so soft it lies, -
'Our little babe!'

For, whether it be he or she,
A David or a Dorothy,
'As mother fair,' or 'father wise,'
Both when it's 'good,' and when it cries,
One thing is certain, - it will be
Our little babe.

Richard Le Gallienne

Child's Song. From A Masque.

I have a garden of my own,
    Shining with flowers of every hue;
I loved it dearly while alone,
    But I shall love it more with you:
And there the golden bees shall come,
    In summer-time at break of morn,
And wake us with their busy hum
    Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.

I have a fawn from Aden's land,
    On leafy buds and berries nurst;
And you shall feed him from your hand,
Though he may start with fear at first.
And I will lead you where he lies
    For shelter in the noontide heat;
And you may touch his sleeping eyes,
    And feel his little silvery feet.

Thomas Moore

To A Little Boy.

I.

Dear little one with eyes so blue,
    And silken ringlets of flaxen hair!
Oh, may life have in store for you
    Something better than anguish and care!
            Oh, may thy footsteps guided be
                In paths of peace and pleasantness!
            Oh, may those bright eyes never see
                Much of the cold world's bitterness!


II.

Dear little one with innocent lips,
    Tasting life's cup at the sparkling brim!
Oh, may the dregs that sorrow sips
    Ever be kept aloof from him!
            Oh, may the smile on his dimpled face
                Through the years to come still linger there!
            Oh, may Time's fingers gently place
                The silver strands in his flaxen hair!

George W. Doneghy

Children

Come to me, O ye children!
    For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
    Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
    That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
    And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
    In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
    And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
    If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
    Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
    With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
    Have been hardened into wood,--

That to the world are childre...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow