The Swinging Clown.

        Swing up!
        Swing down!
Here goes the clown.

        Swing left!
        Swing right!
Mind you hold tight.

        Swing low!
        Swing high!
Right to the sky.

Richard Hunter

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Richard Hunter

Smiler.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

The Cowboy.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

Blackman the Giant.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

The Coachman.

Richard Hunter, 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.

Mister Merryman.

He's always standing on his toes,
    And never on his heels;
He's always holding up his arms--
    I wonder how it feels.

Two balls are always in his hands,
    He never lets them drop;
He's always smiling just like this,
    And never seems to stop.

Richard Hunter

Ping-Pong.

Sing a song of Ping-pong,
    Fast away he ran:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
    "Catch me if you can!"

Sing a song of Ping-pong,
    Racquet and a ball:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
    "You can't run at all!"

Richard Hunter

The Highlander.

Right about, left about,
    Halt and stand at ease!
Shoulder arms, attention,
    Steady, if you please.

Order arms, present arms,
    Forward, by your right!
Double, double, double,
    Double to the fight!

Richard Hunter

A Clown's Prelude.

Behold! I cover up this trail of tears
A moment's weakness left upon my cheek,
And hush my heart a little ere I speak
Lest the false note ring true on other ears;
The music rises and the empty cheers
Proclaim the harlequin, and lo! I stand
The painted fool again and kiss my hand
With jocund air to Folly's worshippers.
So day by day life's bitter bread is earned
With lips that smile and frame the mirthless joke,
And frailer grows the soul that once was strong,--
The joyless soul of one whose trade has turned
Life's tragic mantle to a jester's cloak,
Life's diapason to a jester's song.

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Sword Of Jehovah.

Sword of Jehovah, swing
O'er the world's ravening,
Wide on the tempest's wing,
Swing far! Swing free!
Where the mailed hand is set,
Braced to the bayonet,
Bloody and warm and wet,
Swing far! Swing free!

Strike where the sordid great
Revel in royal state,
Liberty desolate,
Strike far! Strike free!
Where the King's coursers champ,
Where the mailed millions tramp,
Ringed round the tyrant's camp,
Strike far! Strike free!

Fall where the Kaiser stands,
Guarded by gory bands,
Known by their bloody hands,
Fall far! Fall free!
Till the last Despots die,
Till the Christ, lifted high,
Consummates Destiny,
Fall far! Fall free!

A. H. Laidlaw

The Imp.

You may call him an imp,
    Or a gnome or a sprite;
And whate'er you call him
    You are sure to be right.

He is here, he is there,
    He will never stay long;
If you think he is caught,
    You are sure to be wrong.

Richard Hunter