Song - The Dolly's Mother

[W.W.]


A little maid, of summers four -
    Did you compute her years, -
And yet how infinitely more
    To me her age appears:

I mark the sweet child's serious air,
    At her unplayful play, -
The tiny doll she mothers there
    And lulls to sleep away,

Grows - 'neath the grave similitude -
    An infant real, to me,
And she a saint of motherhood
    In hale maturity.

So, pausing in my lonely round,
    And all unseen of her,
I stand uncovered - her profound
    And abject worshipper.

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

Chairley Burke

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

He And I

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

August.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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A Mother-Song

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you,
    Sing the old song I may never forget;
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. -
    Mother, O mother,
        Sing low, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely,
    Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret!
Can't you come back to me - for to-night only,
    Mother, my mother,
        And sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! of old I had never
    One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret;
Now - must I cry out all vainly forever, -
    Mother, sweet mother,
        O sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrow

James Whitcomb Riley

The Milkmaid. A New Song To An Old Tune.

Across the grass I see her pass;
She comes with tripping pace,--
A maid I know,--and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;--
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go:
Her eye is brown and clear;
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down,
(To those who see it near!)--
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that those have got,--
The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglant...

Henry Austin Dobson

Lullaby.

The maple strews the embers of its leaves
    O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves;
And the moody cricket falters in his cry - Baby-bye! -
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky - Baby-bye! -
    The lid of night is falling o'er the sky!

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup
Of the frosted calla-lily folded up;
And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh - Baby-bye! -
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie - Baby-bye! -
    O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!

Yet, Baby - O my Baby, for your sake
This heart of mine is ever wide awake,
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye - Baby-bye! -
Till your own are wet above me when I die - Baby-bye! -
    Till your own are wet above me when I die.

James Whitcomb Riley

When Mother Combed My Hair

When Memory, with gentle hand,
Has led me to that foreign land
Of childhood days, I long to be
Again the boy on bended knee,
With head a-bow, and drowsy smile
Hid in a mother's lap the while,
With tender touch and kindly care,
She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares
Had paled it to the hue it wears,
Its tangled threads of amber light
Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white,
That only knew the light caress
Of loving hands, or sudden press
Of kisses that were sifted there
The times when mother combed my hair.

But its last gleams of gold have slipped
Away; and Sorrow's manuscript
Is fashioned of the snowy brow -
So lined and underscored now
That you, to see it, scarce would guess
It e'er had fel...

James Whitcomb Riley

Song - To The Child Julia

[R.H.]


Little Julia, since that we
May not as our elders be,
Let us blithely fill the days
Of our youth with pleasant plays.
First we'll up at earliest dawn,
While as yet the dew is on
The sooth'd grasses and the pied
Blossomings of morningtide;
Next, with rinsed cheeks that shine
As the enamell'd eglantine,
We will break our fast on bread
With both cream and honey spread;
Then, with many a challenge-call,
We will romp from house and hall,
Gypsying with the birds and bees
Of the green-tress'd garden trees.
In a bower of leaf and vine
Thou shalt be a lady fine
Held in duress by the great
Giant I shall personate.
Next, when many mimics more
Like to these we have played o'er,



We'll betake us home-al...

James Whitcomb Riley

Our Little Girl

Her heart knew naught of sorrow,
    Nor the vaguest taint of sin -
'Twas an ever-blooming blossom
    Of the purity within:
And her hands knew only touches
    Of the mother's gentle care,
And the kisses and caresses
    Through the interludes of prayer.

Her baby-feet had journeyed
    Such a little distance here,
They could have found no briers
    In the path to interfere;
The little cross she carried
    Could not weary her, we know,
For it lay as lightly on her
    As a shadow on the snow.

And yet the way before us -
    O how empty now and drear! -
How ev'n the dews of roses
    Seem as dripping tears for her!
And the song-birds all seem crying,
    As the winds cry and the rain,
All sobbingly, - "We want - we wa...

James Whitcomb Riley