The Doodle Bug.

Why that's a doodle bug, my child
    Who lives alone, remote and wild.
His domicile's a hole in the ground
    And when at home he's easily found.
The only plan allowed by law
    Is to lure him forth upon a straw,
For the doodle bug is a misanthrope
    And otherwise is sure to elope.

Edwin C. Ranck

Edwin C. Ranck was an American lyricist noted for his work in the early 20th century. He was a prolific writer and his lyrics were often characterized by their humor and wit. One of his standout works is the poem 'The Optimist', which reflects his positive outlook on life. Beyond that, little is known about his personal life or career. He remains a somewhat obscure figure in literary history.

Edwin C. Ranck

Halloween.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

L'Envoi.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

The Sissy Boy.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

To Clara Morris.

Edwin C. Ranck, 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.

Why The Mole Is Blind.

In days gone by, when cows could fly
    And goblins rode on bears;
When fairies danced upon the green
    And giants moped in lairs,
There lived alone upon a shelf
    A tinsie, winsie little elf.

Just when the stars came out at night
    And moonbeams filled the earth with light,
Down from his perch this little elf
    Would jump and wander by himself.
He wore a pair of little wings
    Tied in their place by golden strings.

One day he took a kind of notion
    To take a trip upon the ocean.
He combed his hair and washed his face
    And put his little wings in place,
Then from his shelf he softly stole
    And went to see his friend the mole
Who gave to him a pea-green boat
    And guaranteed that it would float.

A funn...

Edwin C. Ranck

Camping Out.

Dame Spider had spun herself lank and thin
With trying to take her neighbors in;
Grasshopper had traveled so far and so fast
That he found he must give up at last;
And the maiden Ant had bustled about
The village till she was all worn out.

Old Bumble Bee had lived on sweet
Till he couldn't help but overeat;
Miss Worm had measured her puny length
Till she had no longer any strength;
And Mr. Beetle was shocked to find
His eyes were failing and almost blind.

So they all decided that they must seek
Their health in the country for a week.
And they made a mixed but a merry throng,
For those who had children took them along.
They pitched their tent and made their camp,
Shelter from possible cold and damp.

'Twas novel, and each in his own w...

Clara Doty Bates

Genius.

There was once a young man quite erratic
    Who lived all alone in an attic,
He wrote magazine verse
    That made editors curse,
But his friends thought it fine and dramatic.

Edwin C. Ranck

The Ground Squirrel.

By Paul H. Hayne.


I.

Bless us, and save us! What's here?
Pop!
At a bound,
A tiny brown creature, grotesque in his grace,
Is sitting before us, and washing his face
With his little fat paws overlapping;
Where does he hail from? Where?
Why, there,
Underground,
From a nook just as cosey,
And tranquil, and dozy,
As e'er wooed to Sybarite napping
(But none ever caught him a-napping).
Don't you see his burrow so quaint and queer?


II.

Gone! like the flash of a gun!
This oddest of chaps,
Mercurial,
Disappears
Head and ears!
Then, sly as a fox,
Swift as Jack in his box,
Pops up boldly again!
What does he mean by thus frisking about,
Now up and now down, and now in and no...

Clara Doty Bates

The Caterpillar

Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.

Down beneath grow dandelions,
Daisies, old-man's-looking-glasses;
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
I eat and swallow and eat again.

Here come raindrops helter-skelter;
I munch and nibble unregarding:
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
I'll mind my business: I'm a good worm.

When I'm old, tired, melancholy,
I'll build a leaf-green mausoleum
Close by, here on this lovely spray,
And die and dream the ages away.

Some say worms win resurrection,
With white wings beating flitter-flutter,
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?
Either way I'll miss my share.

Under this loo...

Robert von Ranke Graves

The Chipmunk

I.

He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence,
Or on the fallen tree, brown as a leaf
Fall stripes with russet, gambols down the dense
Green twilight of the woods. We see not whence
He comes, nor whither (in a time so brief)
He vanishes swift carrier of some Fay,
Some pixy steed that haunts our child-belief
A goblin glimpse upon some wildwood way.

II.

What harlequin mood of nature qualified
Him so with happiness? and limbed him with
Such young activity as winds, that ride
The ripples, have, dancing on every side?
As sunbeams know, that urge the sap and pith
Through hearts of trees? yet made him to delight,
Gnome-like, in darkness, like a moonlight myth,
Lairing in labyrinths of the under night.

III.

Here, by a rock, ...

Madison Julius Cawein