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

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

When We First Played "Show"

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A New Year's Time at Willards's

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Little Orphant Annie

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Summer Afternoon

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

To Young E. Allison - Bookman

The bookman he's a humming-bird -
    His feasts are honey-fine, -
    (With hi! hilloo!
    And clover-dew
    And roses lush and rare!)
Hiss roses are the phrase and word
    Of olden tomes divine;
    (With hi! and ho!
    And pinks ablow
    And posies everywhere!)
The Bookman he's a humming-bird, -
    He steals from song to song -
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme,
    And takes his heart along
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse
    And ballads, throng on throng.
    (With ho! and hey!
    And brook and brae,
    And brinks of shade and shine!)

A humming-bird the Bookman is -
    Though cumbrous, gray and grim, -
    (With hi! hilloo!
    And honey-dew
    And odors musty-rare!)
He bends him o'er...

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

Autumn.

    As a harvester, at dusk,
    Faring down some woody trail
    Leading homeward through the musk
    Of may-apple and pawpaw,
    Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, -
    So comes Autumn, swart and hale,
    Drooped of frame and slow of stride.
    But withal an air of pride
    Looming up in stature far
    Higher than his shoulders are;
    Weary both in arm and limb,
    Yet the wholesome heart of him
    Sheer at rest and satisfied.

    Greet him as with glee of drums
    And glad cymbals, as he comes!
    Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.
    He the Emperor - the King -
    Royal lord of everything
    Sagging Plenty's granary floors
    And out-bulging all her doors;
    He the god of corn and wine,
    Honey, milk, and fruit...

James Whitcomb Riley

To James Whitcomb Riley, In Affectionate Memory Of Other Days

    Our dearest joys forever flow
    From fountains of the Long Ago,
    That from the heights of pleasures past
    Flood all the present valleys vast,
    And with eternal glees provide
    The future's endless ocean tide.


    To ope each cage where a heartless age
        Hath chained the birds of singing,
    Till Love's own glee that is fond and free
        Shall laugh where they are winging,--
    Such is my wish. 'Tis true, hold I,
    That songs, like birds, in bondage die.

Freeman Edwin Miller

The Harp Of The Minstrel

The harp of the minstrel has never a tone
    As sad as the song in his bosom to-night,
For the magical touch of his fingers alone
    Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright;
But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart
    A sorrow to one in an alien clime,
Let the light of the melody fall on the heart,
    And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.

The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim
    That once were his passionate love and his pride;
And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him
    Have fallen away as the flowers have died.
The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath
    And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago,
Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath
    The grass and the stubble - the frost and the snow.

James Whitcomb Riley