The First Lie

    I'm sure I did not break this cup;
        It just fell down, - I know it did -
    For I was only climbing up,
    Why do they keep the cake-box hid? -
    I wanted such a little bit!
        And then I heard that creaking door,
    I can't tell what it was I hit,
        Nor how that cup got on the floor.

    The shelf it stood on was too high,
        That cup my mother loved the most!
    Oh dear! I never told a lie,
        And mother whispered, "Do not boast,"
    The day I said I never could.
        (But there's that broken cup!) - and then
    I promised that I never would -
        So - I'll not tell a lie -again.

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

The Cry Of The Women

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To The State. I-14 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To Chloe. I-23 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

Your Country And Mine

Helen Leah Reed, 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 Cupboard.

        Mother

What's in that cupboard, Mary?

        Mary

Which cupboard, mother dear?

        Mother

The cupboard of red mahogany
    With handles shining clear.

        Mary

That cupboard, dearest mother,
    With shining crystal handles?
There's nought inside but rags and jags
    And yellow tallow candles.

        Mother

What's in that cupboard, Mary?

        Mary

Which cupboard, mother mine?

        Mother

That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,
    The silver corners shine.

        Mary

There's nothing there inside, mother,
    But wool and thread and flax,
And bits of faded silk and velvet,
    And candles of white wax.
...

Robert von Ranke Graves

Anecdote For Fathers.

Designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children.

By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).

And is it so?    Can Folly stalk
And aim her unrespecting darts
In shades where grave Professors walk
    And Bachelors of Arts?

I have a boy, not six years old,
A sprite of birth and lineage high:
His birth I did myself behold,
    His caste is in his eye.

And oh! his limbs are full of grace,
His boyish beauty past compare:
His mother's joy to wash his face,
    And mine to brush his hair!

One morn we strolled on our short walk,
With four goloshes on our shoes,
And held the customary talk
    That parents love to use.

(And oft I turn it into verse,
And write it down upon a page,
Wh...

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

The Girl That Lost Things

There was a girl that lost things--
    Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed--why, most things,
    As if they had been sand!

She said, "But I must use them,
    And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
    I only let them fall!"

That's how she lost her thimble,
    It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
    But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly,
    Her very doll of all!
That loss was far from jolly,
    But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls
    With a ruby in them set;
But the dearest girl of girls
    Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin;
    Ah, that was sorrow dire!
He hopped along, and--bob in--
    Hopped bob in...

George MacDonald

To My Old Readers - From Readings Over The Teacups - Five Stories And A Sequel

You know "The Teacups," that congenial set
Which round the Teapot you have often met;
The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old, -
Knew as the shepherd of another fold
Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same
As when you called him by a different name.
Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill
Has taught her duly every cup to fill;
"Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm;" "hot as you can pour;"
"No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more."
Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase
At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays,
Trying so hard to make his speech precise
The captious listener finds it overnice.

Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain,
Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain,
Which, while its curious fancies we pursue,
Oft m...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Broken

I.

                        Broken!
    It's only a ring - a plain, old ring,
        Worn down to a thread almost -
    Fling it away - the useless thing!
        What value now can it boast? -
                Fling it away!
            Yet stay! - oh stay
                Ere you cast it away!
        There's a tale of the vanished years
            That ever will cling,
                To that broken ring,
        That hallows and endears -
                        Oh stay!
In vain! - in vain! - What matters it now
    That tenderest memories cling
To that thread of gold so wasted and old -
    Who cares for a broken ring? -
                Fling it away!


II.

                        Broken!
    It's only a vase ...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

The Treasure Box.

    I asked Aunt Persis yester-eve, as twilight fell,
    If she had things of value hidden safe away -
    Treasures that were her very own? And did she love
    To bring them forth, and feast her eyes upon their worth,
    And finger them with all a miser's greed of touch?

    She smiled that slow, warm smile of hers, and drew me down
    Beside her in the inglenook. The rain beat hard
    Against the panes, without the world was doubly gray
    With twilight and with cloud. The room was full of shade
    Till Persis stirred the slumbering grate fire wide awake,
    And made it send its flickering shafts of light into
    Each corner dim - gay shafts that chased the shadows forth
    And took their place, then stole away and let
    The shadow back, and then gave cha...

Jean Blewett