September Dark.

    I.

    The air falls chill;
    The whip-poor-will
    Pipes lonesomely behind the hill:
    The dusk grows dense,
    The silence tense;
    And lo, the katydids commence.


    II.

    Through shadowy rifts
    Of woodland, lifts
    The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
    While left and right
    The fireflies' light
    Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.


    III.

    O Cloudland, gray
    And level, lay
    Thy mists across the face of Day!
    At foot and head,
    Above the dead,
    O Dews, weep on uncomforted!

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

Little Jack Janitor

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

At Noon - And Midnight.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Winter Fancies

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Her Beautiful Eyes.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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September Dark

1
The air falls chill;
The whippoorwill
Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill:
The dusk grows dense,
The silence tense;
And lo, the katydids commence.

2
Through shadowy rifts
Of woodland lifts
The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
While left and right
The fireflies' light
Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

3
O Cloudland gray
And level lay
Thy mists across the face of Day!
At foot and head,
Above the dead
O Dews, weep on uncomforted!

James Whitcomb Riley

Dead Leaves

    DAWN

As though a gipsy maiden with dim look,
    Sat crooning by the roadside of the year,
    So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here
To read dark fortunes for us from the book
Of fate; thou flingest in the crinkled brook
    The trembling maple's gold, and frosty-clear
    Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere,
And drifting on its current calls the rook
To other lands.    As one who wades, alone,
    Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk
Of distant melody, and finds the tone,
    In some wierd way compelling him to stalk
The paths of childhood over, - so I moan,
    And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk.

    DUSK

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
    Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day

James Whitcomb Riley

In The Dark.

O in the depths of midnight
    What fancies haunt the brain!
When even the sigh of the sleeper
    Sounds like a sob of pain.

A sense of awe and of wonder
    I may never well define, -
For the thoughts that come in the shadows
    Never come in the shine.

The old clock down in the parlor
    Like a sleepless mourner grieves,
And the seconds drip in the silence
    As the rain drips from the eaves.

And I think of the hands that signal
    The hours there in the gloom,
And wonder what angel watchers
    Wait in the darkened room.

And I think of the smiling faces
    That used to watch and wait,
Till the click of the clock was answered
    By the click of the opening gate. -

They are not there now in the evening...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Dream Of Autumn.

    Mellow hazes, lowly trailing
    Over wood and meadow, veiling
    Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing
        Sailor-like to foreign lands;
    And the north-wind overleaping
    Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping
    Wrecks of roses where the weeping
        Willows wring their helpless hands.

    Flared, like Titan torches flinging
        Flakes of flame and embers, springing
    From the vale the trees stand swinging
        In the moaning atmosphere;
    While in dead'ning-lands the lowing
    Of the cattle, sadder growing,
    Fills the sense to overflowing
        With the sorrow of the year.

    Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter
    Sings the brook in rippled meter
    Under boughs that lithely teeter
        Lorn birds, ...

James Whitcomb Riley

August.

    A day of torpor in the sullen heat
        Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream
    The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,
        With drowsy eyes, and dream.

    Long since the winds have died, and in the sky
        There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief;
    The sun glares ever like an evil eye,
        And withers flower and leaf.

    Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote
        The thresher lies deserted, like some old
    Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat
        Upon a sea of gold.

    The yearning cry of some bewildered bird
        Above an empty nest, and truant boys
    Along the river's shady margin heard -
        A harmony of noise -

    A melody of wrangling voices blent
        With liquid...

James Whitcomb Riley

Dusk

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day
Into the dusky forest-lands of gray
And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high,
The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry
Sad as the wail of some poor castaway
Who sees a vessel drifting far astray
Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.
The children, riotous from school, grow bold
And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust
Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold
Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust
In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold
Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

James Whitcomb Riley