The Boys

Where are they? - the friends of my childhood enchanted -
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
As when we raced over
    Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?

Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces
Forever adrift down the years that are flown?
Am I never to see them romp back to their places,
Where over the meadow,
    In sunshine and shadow,
The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?

Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover;
The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone,
And the dove's - I have wept at it over and over; -
I want the glad luster
    Of youth, and the cluster
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone!

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

Private Theatricals

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Sleep

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Bryant

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Luther Benson

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Our Boyhood Haunts

Ho! I'm going back to where
We were youngsters. - Meet me there,
Dear old barefoot chum, and we
Will be as we used to be, -
Lawless rangers up and down
The old creek beyond the town -
Little sunburnt gods at play,
Just as in that far-away: -
Water nymphs, all unafraid,
Shall smile at us from the brink
Of the old millrace and wade
Tow'rd us as we kneeling drink
At the spring our boyhood knew,
Pure and clear as morning-dew:

And, as we are rising there,
Doubly dow'rd to hear and see,
We shall thus be made aware
Of an eerie piping, heard
High above the happy bird
In the hazel: And then we,
Just across the creek, shall see
(Hah! the goaty rascal!) Pan
Hoof it o'er the sloping green,
Mad with his own melody,
Aye, and (bl...

James Whitcomb Riley

Time Of Clearer Twitterings

I.

Time of crisp and tawny leaves,
And of tarnished harvest sheaves,
And of dusty grasses - weeds -
Thistles, with their tufted seeds
Voyaging the Autumn breeze
Like as fairy argosies:
Time of quicker flash of wings,
And of clearer twitterings
In the grove, or deeper shade
Of the tangled everglade, -
Where the spotted water-snake
Coils him in the sunniest brake;
And the bittern, as in fright,
Darts, in sudden, slanting flight,
Southward, while the startled crane
Films his eyes in dreams again.

II

Down along the dwindled creek
We go loitering. We speak
Only with old questionings
Of the dear remembered things
Of the days of long ago,
When the stream seemed thus and so
In our boyish eyes: - The bank
G...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Backward Look

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
And lazily leaning back in my chair,
Enjoying myself in a general way -
Allowing my thoughts a holiday
From weariness, toil and care, -
My fancies - doubtless, for ventilation -
Left ajar the gates of my mind, -
And Memory, seeing the situation,
Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne."

Wandering ever with tireless feet
Through scenes of silence, and jubilee
Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet
Were thronging the shadowy side of the street
As far as the eye could see;
Dreaming again, in anticipation,
The same old dreams of our boyhood's days
That never come true, from the vague sensation
Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born!
And there was the selfsame...

James Whitcomb Riley

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

The Lost Path

Alone they walked - their fingers knit together,
And swaying listlessly as might a swing
Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather
Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.

Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket
Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane,
And from the covert of the hazel-thicket
The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.

The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases
Along the road-side in the shadows dim,
Went following the blossoms of their faces
As though their sweets must needs be shared with him.

Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle
Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells
Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle
Fell swooningly away in faint farewells.

And though at last the gloom of night fe...

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