The Brook-Song

        Little brook! Little brook!
        You have such a happy look -
Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
        curve and crook -
    And your ripples, one and one,
    Reach each other's hands and run
        Like laughing little children in the sun!

    Little brook, sing to me:
    Sing about a bumblebee
That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
            mumblingly,
    Because he wet the film
    Of his wings, and had to swim,
        While the water-bugs raced round and
            laughed at him!

    Little brook-sing a song
    Of a leaf that sailed along
Down the golden-braided centre of your current
        swift and strong,
    And a dragon-fly that lit
    On the tilting rim of it,
        And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.

    And sing - how oft in glee
    Came a truant boy like me,
Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting
            melody,
    Till the gurgle and refrain
    Of your music in his brain
        Wrought a happiness as keen to him
        as pain.

        Little brook-laugh and leap!
        Do not let the dreamer weep:
Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in
            softest sleep;
        And then sing soft and low
        Through his dreams of long ago -
        Sing back to him the rest he used to
            know!

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

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James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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A Song Of Singing

Sing! gangling lad, along the brink
    Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep,
Where killdees dip, and cattle drink,
    And glinting little minnows leap!
Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above
    And sets the foot-log quivering!
Sing! bittern, bumble-bee, and dove -
    Sing! Sing! Sing!

Sing as you will, O singers all
    Who sing because you want to sing!
Sing! peacock on the orchard wall,
    Or tree-toad by the trickling spring!
Sing! every bird on every bough -
    Sing! every living, loving thing -
Sing any song, and anyhow,
    But Sing! Sing! Sing!

James Whitcomb Riley

To A Brook

    Sweet brook! I've met thee many a summer's day,
    And ventured fearless in thy shallow flood,
    And rambled oft thy sweet unwearied way,
    'Neath willows cool that on thy margin stood,
    With crowds of partners in my artless play--
    Grasshopper, beetle, bee, and butterfly--
    That frisked about as though in merry mood
    To see their old companion sporting by.
    Sweet brook! life's glories then were mine and thine;
    Shade clothed thy spring that now doth naked lie;
    On thy white glistening sand the sweet woodbine
    Darkened and dipt its flowers. I mark, and sigh,
    And muse o'er troubles since we met the last,
    Like two fond friends whose happiness is past.

John Clare

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

Autumn.

    As a harvester, at dusk,
    Faring down some woody trail
    Leading homeward through the musk
    Of may-apple and pawpaw,
    Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, -
    So comes Autumn, swart and hale,
    Drooped of frame and slow of stride.
    But withal an air of pride
    Looming up in stature far
    Higher than his shoulders are;
    Weary both in arm and limb,
    Yet the wholesome heart of him
    Sheer at rest and satisfied.

    Greet him as with glee of drums
    And glad cymbals, as he comes!
    Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.
    He the Emperor - the King -
    Royal lord of everything
    Sagging Plenty's granary floors
    And out-bulging all her doors;
    He the god of corn and wine,
    Honey, milk, and fruit...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Brook

I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"

I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
As ever it stealeth on its way -
Solemnly now, and not in play:
"Oh, come with me
To the slumbrous sea
That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"

Heigh-ho, but the years go by -<...

Eugene Field

To Hear Her Sing.

    To hear her sing - to hear her sing -
    It is to hear the birds of Spring
    In dewy groves on blooming sprays
    Pour out their blithest roundelays.

    It is to hear the robin trill
    At morning, or the whip-poor-will
    At dusk, when stars are blossoming -
    To hear her sing - to hear her sing!

    To hear her sing - it is to hear
    The laugh of childhood ringing clear
    In woody path or grassy lane
    Our feet may never fare again.

    Faint, far away as Memory dwells,
    It is to hear the village bells
    At twilight, as the truant hears
    Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

    Such joy it is to hear her sing,
    We fall in love with everything -
    The simple things of every day
   ...

James Whitcomb Riley