The Rainbow Bridge.

Love and Hope and Youth, together
Travelling once in stormy weather,
Met a deep and gloomy tide,
Flowing swift and dark and wide.
'Twas named the river of Despair,
And many a wreck was floating there!
The urchins paused, with faces grave,
Debating how to cross the wave,
When lo! the curtain of the storm
Was severed, and the rainbow's form
Stood against the parting cloud
Emblem of peace on trouble's shroud!
Hope pointed to the signal flying,
And the three, their shoulders plying,
O'er the stream the light arch threw
A rainbow bridge of loveliest hue!
Now, laughing as they tripped it o'er,
They gayly sought the other shore:
But soon the hills began to frown,
And the bright sun went darkly down.
Though their step was light and fleet,
The rainbow vanished 'neath their feet,
And down they went, the giddy things!
But Hope put forth his ready wings,
And clinging Love and Youth he bore
In triumph to the other shore.
But ne'er I ween should mortals deem
On rainbow bridge to cross a stream,
Unless bright, buoyant Hope is nigh,
And, light with Love and Youth, they fly!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, born on August 19, 1793, and passing away on May 9, 1860, was an American author notable for his numerous children's books. Writing under the pseudonym 'Peter Parley,' he was a significant literary figure in the 19th century. Goodrich’s works were known for their educational content, aiming to teach young readers about history, geography, and other subjects in an engaging manner. His publications had a lasting impact on American children's literature.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Remembrance.[A]

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

The Two Windmills.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

The Surf Sprite.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

Lake Superior.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The Rainbow

    "These things are real," said one, and bade me gaze
        On black and mighty shapes of iron and stone,
    On murder, on madness, on lust, on towns ablaze,
        And on a thing made all of rattling bone:
    "What," said he, "will you bring to match with these?"
        "Yea! War is real," I said, "and real is Death,
    A little while - mortal realities;
        But Love and Hope draw an immortal breath."

    Think you the storm that wrecks a summer day,
        With funeral blackness and with leaping fire
    And boiling roar of rain, more real than they
        That, when the warring heavens begin to tire,
    With tender fingers on the tumult paint;
        Spanning the huddled wrack from base to cope
    With soft effulgence, like some haloed saint, ...

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The Rainbow.

"What is the rainbow, mother dear,
    With many-colored light?
Have the clouds parted just to show
    The floor of heaven so bright?

"Or is it wings of angels pure
    That touch along the sky?
And do they come that we may see
    How fair is all on high?

"Or, mother, on that shining arch
    Do spirits rise above?
And on that bended bow ascend
    Where all is light and love?

"How beautiful must be that road!
    Why should we call those back,
Who travel to the better land
    On such a sunny track?

"Why did you weep when brother died?
    Did you not know that he
On that delightful path must tread,
    Ere he in heaven could be?"

"My dearest child, we cannot know,
    Or trace the spirit's flight,

H. P. Nichols

July 9th, 1872

Between two pillared clouds of gold
The beautiful gates of evening swung --
And far and wide from flashing fold
The half-furled banners of light, that hung
O'er green of wood and gray of wold
And over the blue where the river rolled,
The fading gleams of their glory flung.

The sky wore not a frown all day
To mar the smile of the morning tide;
The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay --
You never would think they had ever sighed;
The stream went on its sunlit way
In ripples of laughter; happy they
As the hearts that met at Riverside.

No cloudlet in the sky serene!
Not a silver speck in the golden hue!
But where the woods waved low and green,
And seldom would let the sunlight through,
Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen,
The faces of ...

Abram Joseph Ryan

The Mountain Stream.

One summer morn, while yet the thrilling lay,
Of the dew-loving lark was full and strong,
Trampling the wild flowers in my careless way,
Up the steep mountain-side I strode along
My only guide, a brook whose joyous song,
Seemed like a boy's light-hearted roundelay,
As down it rushed, the leafy bowers among,
Scattering o'er bud and bloom its pearly spray
A beauteous semblance of life's opening day.

And looking back to that all-gladdening morn,
When I was free and sportive as the stream
When roses blushed with no suspected thorn,
And fancy's sunlight gilded every dream
While hope yet shed its sweet delusive beam,
And disappointment still delayed to warn
With fond regret, I still pursued the theme
With clambering step still up the steep was borne,
Too ...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Dream-Bridge

    All drear and barren seemed the hours,
    That passed rain-swept and tempest-blown.
    The dead leaves fell like brownish notes
    Within the rain's grey monotone.

    There came a lapse between the showers;
    The clouds grew rich with sunset gleams;
    Then o'er the sky a rainbow sprang -
    A bridge unto the Land of Dreams.

Clark Ashton Smith

The Surf Sprite.

I.

In the far off sea there is many a sprite,
Who rests by day, but awakes at night.
In hidden caves where monsters creep,
When the sun is high, these spectres sleep:
From the glance of noon, they shrink with dread,
And hide 'mid the bones of the ghastly dead.
Where the surf is hushed, and the light is dull,
In the hollow tube and the whitened skull,
They crouch in fear or in whispers wail,
For the lingering night, and the coming gale.
But at even-tide, when the shore is dim,
And bubbling wreaths with the billows swim,
They rise on the wing of the freshened breeze,
And flit with the wind o'er the rolling seas.


II.

At summer eve, as I sat on the cliff,
I marked a shape like a dusky skiff,
That skimmed the brine, toward the rock...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich