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-along
Hand in hand at evensong.

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

To Hear Her Sing.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Artemus Of Michigan.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Indiana

James Whitcomb Riley, 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.

Babyhood.

Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
    Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
    Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.

Turn back the leaves of life; don't read the story, -
    Let's find the pictures, and fancy all the rest: -
We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory
    Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best!

Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping
    O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze,
And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping
    From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees.

Turn to the lane, where we used to "teeter-totter,"
    Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold,
Laughing at the lazy ca...

James Whitcomb Riley

Where the Children used to Play

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
And filled it is with plenty and to spare,
But we are lonely here in life's decline,
Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
We look across the gold
Of the harvests, as of old -
The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay;
But most we turn our gaze,
As with eyes of other days,
To the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure
And rich hoard of worldly treasure
We often turn our weary eyes away,
And hand in hand we wander
Down the old path winding yonder
To the orchard where the children used to play.

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver;
The grove's a paradise of singing birds -
The woodland brook leaps ...

James Whitcomb Riley

Where The Children Used To Play

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
    And filled it is with plenty and to spare, -
But we are lonely here in life's decline,
    Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
        We look across the gold
        Of the harvests, as of old -
    The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay
        But most we turn our gaze,
        As with eyes of other days,
    To the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure
And rich hoard of worldly treasure
    We often turn our weary eyes away,
And hand in hand we wander
Down the old path winding yonder
    To the orchard where the children used to play

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
    The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er:
The grove's a...

James Whitcomb Riley

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

A Song Of Long Ago.

    A song of Long Ago:
    Sing it lightly - sing it low -
    Sing it softly - like the lisping of the lips we used to know
    When our baby-laughter spilled
    From the glad hearts ever filled
    With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

    Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
    And the leaves of locust-trees,
    And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
    All palpitate with glee,
    Till the happy harmony
    Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

    Let the eyes of fancy turn
    Where the tumbled pippins burn
    Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern, -
    There let the old path wind
    In and out and on behind
    The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

    Blend in the...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Blue-Bells On The Lea.

FAIRY KING.


"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
If you will give yourself to me,
Within the fairy ring,
At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
On slender stems they swing.

"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
Upon the wind,
The Blue-bells seem to play--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Lest we should go astray.

"So gay that fairy music,
So jubilant those bells,
How days and wee...

Juliana Horatia Ewing