James B. Maynard

His daily, nightly task is o'er -
He leans above his desk no more.

His pencil and his pen say not
One further word of gracious thought.

All silent is his voice, yet clear
For all a grateful world to hear;

He poured abroad his human love
In opulence unmeasured of -

While, in return, his meek demand, -
The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand

In recognition of the true
World's duty that he lived to do.

So was he kin of yours and mine -
So, even by the hallowed sign

Of silence which he listens to,
He hears our tears as falls the dew.

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

Judith.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Clover

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Our Kind of a Man

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Silence

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Longfellow

The winds have talked with him confidingly;
The trees have whispered to him; and the night
Hath held him gently as a mother might,
And taught him all sad tones of melody:
The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,
In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,
Hath told him all her sorrow and delight -
Her legends fair - her darkest mystery.
His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;
Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings
Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.
Nor shall he cease to sing - in every lay
Of Nature's voice he sings - and will alway.

James Whitcomb Riley

Longfellow.

    The winds have talked with him confidingly;
        The trees have whispered to him; and the night
        Hath held him gently as a mother might,
    And taught him all sad tones of melody:
    The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,
        In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,
        Hath told him all her sorrow and delight -
    Her legends fair - her darkest mystery.
        His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;
    Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings
        Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
    Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. -
        Nor shall he cease to sing - in every lay
        Of Nature's voice he sings - and will alway.

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

John McKeen

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat,
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old book of the Used-...

James Whitcomb Riley

John Mckeen.

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
    His loosened collar, and swarthy throat;
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
    And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
    And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
    And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent
    With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
    And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
    And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-boun...

James Whitcomb Riley

At Noon - And Midnight.

Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own
The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed - yet he awake - alone! alone!
In vain he courted sleep; - one thought would ever in his heart arise, -
The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.

Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still as death;
He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, with bated breath:
Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as she slept -
For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and wept.

James Whitcomb Riley