Preconception

I have no children:

But tonight a poem came
in which a small child,
my daughter, appeared at the door
of a half-lit room
where late one night I wrote
at a heavy desk.

And though interruption
was hardly welcome
I took her to myself,
just as the poem,
comforted this daughter
until she found peace.

The poems as the children
come as they will come.

Ben Jonson

Ben Jonson was an English playwright and poet, best known for his satirical plays and lyric poetry. Born on June 11, 1572, Jonson's works, including 'Volpone' and 'The Alchemist,' were critical of social norms and human follies. A contemporary and rival of Shakespeare, he was a significant figure in English Renaissance literature. Jonson also contributed to the development of English poetry through his masques and epigrams. He died on August 6, 1637.

Ben Jonson

The Speeches Of Gratulations

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

Opening Doors

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

On My First Daughter

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

Song: From Cynthia's Revels

Ben Jonson, 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.

On My First Son

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

Oh, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon scaped worlds and fleshs rage,
And if no other misery, yet age!

Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.

Ben Jonson

Occupation: Father

My son finds occupation
in almost nothing, in everything:
my soapy penitential toothpaste,
his mother's loosened hair
orts, containers, useless things;
watches as I pee
as at Victoria Falls,
once pushed his head between my knees
to risk some sort of baptism.

Before his birth I thought
I had room for no more love:
now when he (say) hurts himself
love, consideration, care
(copies from the originals)
as if burst inside me.

Undoggedly I interest myself
in his uninteresting concerns,
grow backward to him,
more than hoping to find
a forward interest for myself.

Ben Jonson

Completion

When I shall meet God's generous dispensers
    Of all the riches in the heavenly store,
Those lesser gods, who act as Recompensers
    For loneliness and loss upon this shore,
Methinks abashed, and somewhat hesitating,
    My soul its wish and longing will declare.
Lest they reply:    'Here are no bounties waiting:
    We gave on earth, your portion and your share.'

Then shall I answer:    'Yea, I do remember
    The many blessings to my life allowed;
My June was always longer than December,
    My sun was always stronger than my cloud,
My joy was ever deeper than my sorrow,
    My gain was ever greater than my loss,
My yesterday seemed less than my to-morrow,
    The crown looked always larger than the cross.

'I have known love, in all its radian...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

On My First Daughter

Here lies to each her parents Ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth:
Yet, all heavens gifts, being heavens due,
It makes the father, less, to rue.
At six months end, she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heavens queen, (whose name she bears)
In comfort of her mothers tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin train:
Where, while that severed doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth.
Which cover lightly, gentle earth.

Ben Jonson

The Child In Our Soul

Toward God in heaven spacious
With artless faith a boy looks free,
As toward his mother gracious,
And top of Christmas-tree.
But early in the storm of youth
There wounds him deep the serpent's tooth;
His childhood's faith is doubted
And flouted.

Soon stands in radiant splendor
With bridal wreath his boyhood's dream;
Her loving eyes and tender
The light of heaven's faith stream.
As by his mother's knee of yore
God's name he stammers yet once more,
The rue of tears now paying
And praying.

When now life's conflict stirring
Leads him along through doubtings wild,
Then upward points unerring
Close by his side his child.
With children he a child is still
And whatsoe'er his heart may chill,
Prayer for his son is warming,

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Sonnet

The baby sings not on its mother's breast;
Nor nightingales who nestle side by side;
Nor I by thine:    but let us only part,
Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still,
As having uttered all, must speak again -
O stunted thoughts!    O chill and fettered rhyme
Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,
Losing its proper home, can find no rest:
    So, like a child who whiles away the time
With dance and carol till the eventide,
Watching its mother homeward through the glen;
Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart,
Tells to his listening mate within the nest
The wonder of his star-entranced heart
Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill -
    Forth all my being bubbles into song;
    And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong.

Charles Kingsley