The Old Woman Tossed Up In A Blanket

There was an old woman tossed up in a blanket,
Seventeen times as high as the moon;
Where she was going I could not but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," quoth I;
"O whither, O whither, O whither so high?"
"To sweep the cobwebs from the sky,
And I'll be with you by-and-by!"

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

The Plough Boy In Luck

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Stag In The Ox Stall

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Three Bears.

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

Schlaf, Kindlein, Schlaf.

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.

Nursery Rhyme. CCLXI. Gaffers And Gammers.

    There was an old woman toss'd up in a basket
        Nineteen times as high as the moon;
    Where she was going I couldn't but ask it,
        For in her hand she carried a broom.

    Old woman, old woman, old woman, quoth I,
        O whither, O whither, O whither, so high?
    To brush the cobwebs off the sky!
        Shall I go with thee? Aye, by and by.

Unknown

The Old Woman Of Norwich

There was an old woman and what do you think?
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink;
Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet,
Yet this plaguey old woman could never be quiet.

Walter Crane

The Old Wooden Cradle

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle
    The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside.
No more to its motion o'er sleep's fairy ocean,
    Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.

No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker,
    Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed;
No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging -
    The child of this era is put into bed.

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle,
    It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm;
When bees left the clover, when play-time was over,
    How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm.

How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling,
    How weird were the voices that whispered around,
What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking,
   ...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Old Woman And Her Two Servants.

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A beldam kept two spinning maids,
Who plied so handily their trades,
Those spinning sisters down below
Were bunglers when compared with these.
No care did this old woman know
But giving tasks as she might please.
No sooner did the god of day
His glorious locks enkindle,
Than both the wheels began to play,
And from each whirling spindle
Forth danced the thread right merrily,
And back was coil'd unceasingly.
Soon as the dawn, I say, its tresses show'd,
A graceless cock most punctual crow'd.
The beldam roused, more graceless yet,
In greasy petticoat bedight,
Struck up her farthing light,
And then forthwith the bed beset,
Where deeply, blessedly did snore
Those two maid-servants tired and poor.
One oped an eye, an arm ...

Jean de La Fontaine

Tillie

Old Tillie Turveycombe
Sat to sew,
Just where a patch of fern did grow;
There, as she yawned,
And yawn wide did she,
Floated some seed
Down her gull-e-t;
And look you once,
And look you twice,
Poor old Tillie
Was gone in a trice.
But oh, when the wind
Do a-moaning come,
'Tis poor old Tillie
Sick for home;
And oh, when a voice
In the mist do sigh,
Old Tillie Turveycombe's
Floating by.

Walter De La Mare

Reincarnation

He slept as weary toilers do,
    She gazed up at the moon.
He stirred and said, "Wife, come to bed";
    She answered, "Soon, full soon."
(Oh! that strange mystery of the dead moon's face.)

Her cheek was wan, her wistful mouth
    Was lifted like a cup,
The moonful night dripped liquid light:
    She seemed to quaff it up.
(Oh! that unburied corpse that lies in space.)

Her life had held but drudgery -
    She spelled her Bible thro';
Of books and lore she knew no more
    Than little children do.
(Oh! the weird wonder of that pallid sphere.)

Her youth had been a loveless waste,
    Starred by no holiday.
And she had wed for roof, and bread;
    She gave her work in pay.
(Oh! the moon-memories, vague and strange and dear.)

Ella Wheeler Wilcox