The Farmer's Treasure

"Dig deeply, my Sons! through this field!
There's a Treasure"--he died: unrevealed
The spot where 'twas laid,
They dug as he bade;
And the Treasure was found in the yield.

Productive Labour Is The Only Source Of Wealth

Walter Crane

Walter Crane was an English artist and book illustrator, considered to be one of the most prolific and influential children's book creators of his generation. Born on August 15, 1845, and passing away on March 14, 1915, he was part of the Arts and Crafts movement and is known for his innovative contributions to children's literature. His work often combined art and poetry, aiming to educate and delight young readers.

Walter Crane

A B C

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Cock, The Ass & The Lion

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

If All The World Were Paper

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Hart & The Vine

Walter Crane, 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.

The Ploughman And His Sons.

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The farmer's patient care and toil
Are oftener wanting than the soil.

A wealthy ploughman drawing near his end,
Call'd in his sons apart from every friend,
And said, 'When of your sire bereft,
The heritage our fathers left
Guard well, nor sell a single field.
A treasure in it is conceal'd:
The place, precisely, I don't know,
But industry will serve to show.
The harvest past, Time's forelock take,
And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
Turn over every inch of sod,
Nor leave unsearch'd a single clod.'
The father died. The sons - and not in vain -
Turn'd o'er the soil, and o'er again;
That year their acres bore
More grain than e'er before.
Though hidden money found they none,
Yet had their father wisely done,

Jean de La Fontaine

The Miser & His Gold

He buried his Gold in a hole.
One saw, and the treasure he stole.
Said another, "What matter?
Don't raise such a clatter,
You can still go & sit by the hole."

Use Alone Gives Value

Walter Crane

To The Husbandman.

Smoothly and lightly the golden seed by the furrow is cover'd;

Yet will a deeper one, friend, cover thy bones at the last.
Joyously plough'd and sow'd! Here food all living is budding,

E'en from the side of the tomb Hope will not vanish away.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Seed-Time And Harvest

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
Beneath a coldly dropping sky,
Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
The husbandman goes forth to sow,
Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast
The ventures of thy seed we cast,
And trust to warmer sun and rain
To swell the germs and fill the grain.
Who calls thy glorious service hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less
A cause of praise and thankfulness?
It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves.
Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!
And ours the grateful service whence
Comes da...

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Treasure-Digger

All my weary days I pass'd

Sick at heart and poor in purse.

Poverty's the greatest curse,

Riches are the highest good!
And to end my woes at last,

Treasure-seeking forth I sped.

"Thou shalt have my soul instead!"

Thus I wrote, and with my blood.

Ring round ring I forthwith drew,

Wondrous flames collected there,

Herbs and bones in order fair,

Till the charm had work'd aright.
Then, to learned precepts true,

Dug to find some treasure old,

In the place my art foretold

Black and stormy was the night.

Coming o'er the distant plain,

With the glimmer of a star,

Soon I saw a light afar,

As the hour of midnight knell'd.
Preparation was in vain.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Burier And His Comrade.

A close-fist had his money hoarded
Beyond the room his till afforded.
His avarice aye growing ranker,
(Whereby his mind of course grew blanker,)
He was perplex'd to choose a banker;
For banker he must have, he thought,
Or all his heap would come to nought.
'I fear,' said he, 'if kept at home,
And other robbers should not come,
It might be equal cause of grief
That I had proved myself the thief.'
The thief! Is to enjoy one's pelf
To rob or steal it from one's self?
My friend, could but my pity reach you,
This lesson I would gladly teach you,
That wealth is weal no longer than
Diffuse and part with it you can:
Without that power, it is a woe.
Would you for age keep back its flow?
Age buried 'neath its joyless snow?
With pains of getting, care...

Jean de La Fontaine