The Outing

My Bed is like a little Bark,
    The hatch is battened down,
And in the basket cabin dark
    I sail away from Town.

Now, when they lift the lid, a scene
    Of wonder meets my eyes,
Tall waving Feather-Dusters green,
    That seem to touch the skies.

And over all the Ground is spread
    A Rug of Emerald sweet,
Most deep enough to hide my head
    And tickly to my feet.

And here's the Cow, calm-eyed stands she,
    The Genie of the Jug,
Beneath the Feather-Duster Tree,
    And eats the Emerald Rug.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

Israel Zangwill

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Shadow Kitten

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To Her Shadow

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Leopard.

Oliver Herford, 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 Gingham Dream Utterance

    As I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels to
    alert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches from
    every bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded with emerald marks.
    A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silver
    bellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.

    I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled from
    rambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue darting in an upturned fish's tail.
    An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eisel
    fish decorates a steeper, coral garden.

    Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocence
    of this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit slivers o...

Paul Cameron Brown

A Ballad Of The Kind Little Creatures

I had no where to go,
    I had no money to spend:
"O come with me," the Beaver said,
    "I live at the world's end."

"Does the world ever end!"
    To the Beaver then said I:
"O yes! the green world ends," he said,
    "Up there in the blue sky."

I walked along with him to home,
    At the edge of a singing stream -
The little faces in the town
    Seemed made out of a dream.

I sat down in the little house,
    And ate with the kind things -
Then suddenly a bird comes out
    Of the bushes, and he sings:

"Have you no home? O take my nest,
    It almost is the sky;"
And then there came along the creek
    A purple dragon-fly.

"Have you no home?" he said;
    "O come along with me,
Get on my wings - t...

Richard Le Gallienne

Harvest

        Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;
        Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold;
            A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere;
            The twitter of killdees keen in the air;
        The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam
            On the last load home.

        There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke
        Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.
            The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her
            Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,
        And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam
            On the last load home.

John Charles McNeill

Wanderlust

    Who administers to my needs?

    Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that
    yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen
    suggestive of some actor's
    smeared and garish make-up?

    Or the cicada's song,
    difficult to describe,
    laundering thick summer heat?

    Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly
    especially active at the close of day and drawn
    to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?

    If none of these
    breathes vigour or tonic
    through my nostrils,
    what of tubs of fresh water?

    Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats
    and children as make-shift sailors,
    then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.
    Bold harbours will be their cues,
    astrola...

Paul Cameron Brown

Song Of The Elf

I.

When the poppies, with their shields,
Sentinel
Forest and the harvest fields,
In the bell
Of a blossom, fair to see,
There I stall the bumble-bee,
My good stud;
There I stable him and hold,
Harness him with hairy gold;
There I ease his burly back
Of the honey and its sack
Gathered from each bud.

II.

Where the glow-worm lights its lamp,
There I lie;
Where, above the grasses damp,
Moths go by;
Now within the fussy brook,
Where the waters wind and crook
Round the rocks,
I go sailing down the gloom
Straddling on a wisp of broom;
Or, beneath the owlet moon,
Trip it to the cricket's tune
Tossing back my locks.

III.

Ere the crowfoot on the lawn
Lifts its head,
Or the glo...

Madison Julius Cawein

A Visit From Abroad (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)

    A speck went blowing up against the sky
        As little as a leaf: then it drew near
    And broadened. "It's a bird," said I,
        And fetched my bow and arrows. It was queer!
    It grew up from a speck into a blot,
    And squattered past a cloud; then it flew down
    All crumply, and waggled such a lot
        I thought the thing would fall., It was a brown
    Old carpet where a man was sitting snug
        Who, when he reached the ground, began to sew
    A big hole in the middle of the rug,
        And kept on peeping everywhere to know
    Who might be coming, then he gave a twist
        And flew away....    I fired at him but missed.

James Stephens