The Watches Of The Night.

    O the waiting in the watches of the night!
    In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright;
    The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight:
    The ever weary memory that ever weary goes
    Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows -
    The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose -
    In the dreary, weary watches of the night!

    Dark - stifling dark - the watches of the night!
    With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white
    With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight! -
    What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought that may not be redressed -
    Of tears we did not brush away - of lips we left unpressed,
    And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed!
    Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night!

    What solace in the watches of the night? -
    What frailest staff of hope to stay - what faintest shaft of light?
    Do we dream and dare believe it, that by never weight of right
    Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last -
    Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past,
    In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom that flees aghast -
    Shall we survive the watches of the night?

    One leads us through the watches of the night -
    By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight
    He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might; -
    With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears,
    Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears,
    And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears
    In the waning of the watches of the night.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

The Jolly Miller

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Legend Glorified.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Book Of Joyous Children Gratefully And Affectionately Inscribed To Joel Chandler Harris

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Old Man's Nursery Rhyme

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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In The Dark.

O in the depths of midnight
    What fancies haunt the brain!
When even the sigh of the sleeper
    Sounds like a sob of pain.

A sense of awe and of wonder
    I may never well define, -
For the thoughts that come in the shadows
    Never come in the shine.

The old clock down in the parlor
    Like a sleepless mourner grieves,
And the seconds drip in the silence
    As the rain drips from the eaves.

And I think of the hands that signal
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And wonder what angel watchers
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And I think of the smiling faces
    That used to watch and wait,
Till the click of the clock was answered
    By the click of the opening gate. -

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The Night Watch

Beneath the trees with heedful step and slow
At night I go,
Fearful upon their whispering to break
Lest they awake
Out of those dreams of heavenly light that fill
Their branches still
With a soft murmur of memoried ecstasy.
There 'neath each tree
Nightlong a spirit watches, and I feel
His breath unseal
The fast-shut thoughts and longings of tired day,
That flutter away
Mothlike on luminous soft wings and frail
And moonlike pale.
There in the flowering chestnuts' bowering gloom
And limes' perfume
Wandering wavelike through the moondrawn night
That heaves toward light,
There hang I my dark thoughts and deeper prayers;
And as the airs
Of star-kissed dawn come stirring and o'er-creep
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Thy shape, great Love, grows sha...

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The Watch-Light.

Above the roofs and chimney-tops,
    And through the slow November rain,
    A light from some far attic pane,
Shines twinkling through the water-drops.

Some lonely watcher waits and weeps,
    Like me, the step that comes not yet;--
    Her watch for weary hours is set,
While far below the city sleeps.

The level lamp-rays lay the floors,
    And bridge the dark that lies below,
    O'er which my fancies come and go,
And peep, and listen at the doors;

And bring me word how sweet and plain,
    And quaint the lonely attic room,
    Where she sits singing in the gloom,
Words sadder than the autumn rain.

A thousand times by sea and shore,
    In my wild dreams I see him lie,
    With face upturned toward the sky,
Murdered, ...

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The Night-Watches.

The laurel withers on your brow,
victor, weary of the race!
And you, who sit in mighty place,
How heavy is your scepter now!

Flushed with the kiss your lips have known,
"Woman, this is your hour to wake.
And know that flesh and heart may break
When love hath entered on its own.

And you, who knew where angels trod.
And marked the path for duller eyes.
In this lone hour are you still wise?
Do you not quail before your God?

God, to whom the dark is day.
Forget not these, the strong, the right.
The happy souls, for. Lord, at night
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Advent

This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
    These Advent nights are long;
Our lamps have burned year after year
    And still their flame is strong.
'Watchman, what of the night?' we cry,
    Heart-sick with hope deferred:
'No speaking signs are in the sky,'
    Is still the watchman's word.

The Porter watches at the gate,
    The servants watch within;
The watch is long betimes and late,
    The prize is slow to win.
'Watchman, what of the night?' But still
    His answer sounds the same:
'No daybreak tops the utmost hill,
    Nor pale our lamps of flame.'

One to another hear them speak
    The patient virgins wise:
'Surely He is not far to seek' -
    'All night we watch and rise.'
'The days are evil looking back,
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When Evening Shadows Fall

When evening shadows fall,
    She hangs her cares away
Like empty garments on the wall
    That hides her from the day;
And while old memories throng,
    And vanished voices call,
She lifts her grateful heart in song
    When evening shadows fall.

Her weary hands forget
    The burdens of the day.
The weight of sorrow and regret
    In music rolls away;
And from the day's dull tomb,
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Her soul springs up in lily bloom
    When evening shadows fall.

O weary heart and hand,
    Go bravely to the strife -
No victory is half so grand
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One day shall yet be thine -
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