Time

There was a young woman named Sue,
Who wanted to catch the 2:02;
    Said the trainman, "Don't hurry
    Or flurry or worry;
It's a minute or two to 2:02."

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXIII. Love And Matrimony. [Cumberland courtship.]

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLVIII. Love And Matrimony.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Gluttony

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXII. Paradoxes.

Unknown , 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 Train Misser

At Union Station

'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin -
Ef I hain't missed that train ag'in!
Chuff! And whistle! And toot! And ring!
But blast and blister the dasted train!
How it does it I can't explain!
Git here thirty-five minutes before
The durn things due! And, drat the thing
It'll manage to git past-shore!

The more I travel around, the more
I got no sense! To stand right here
And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!
I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!
Ticket Agent's a dad-burned bore!
Sell you a tickets all they keer!
Ticket Agents ort to all be

Prosecuted - and that's jes what!
How'd I know which train's fer me?
And how'd I know which train was not?
Goern and comin' and gone astray,
And backin' and switchin' ever'-...

James Whitcomb Riley

In A Railroad Station

We stood in the shrill electric light,
Dumb and sick in the whirling din
We who had all of love to say
And a single second to say it in.

"Good-by!" "Good-by!" you turned to go,
I felt the train's slow heavy start,
You thought to see me cry, but oh
My tears were hidden in my heart.

Sara Teasdale

The Twelve-Forty-Five

(For Edward J. Wheeler)



Within the Jersey City shed
The engine coughs and shakes its head,
The smoke, a plume of red and white,
Waves madly in the face of night.
And now the grave incurious stars
Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars.
Against the kind and awful reign
Of darkness, this our angry train,
A noisy little rebel, pouts
Its brief defiance, flames and shouts --
And passes on, and leaves no trace.
For darkness holds its ancient place,
Serene and absolute, the king
Unchanged, of every living thing.
The houses lie obscure and still
In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.
Our lamps intensify the dark
Of slumbering Passaic Park.
And quiet holds the weary feet
That daily tramp through Prospect Street.
What though we clang and...

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

Time Enough

I know it is early morning,
    And hope is calling aloud,
And your heart is afire with Youth's desire
    To hurry along with the crowd.
But linger a bit by the roadside,
    And lend a hand by the way,
'Tis a curious fact that a generous act
Brings leisure and luck to a day.

I know it is only the noontime -
    There is chance enough to be kind;
But the hours run fast when noon has passed,
    And the shadows are close behind.
So think while the light is shining,
    And act ere the set of the sun,
For the sorriest woe that a soul can know
    Is to think what it might have done.

I know it is almost evening,
    But the twilight hour is long.
If you listen and heed each cry of need
    You can right full many a wrong.
For when...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Fairy Clock

Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day!
Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play?
Tell me when the sun will set - tiny globe of silver-grey.

It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn,
Oft I wondered when I met any souls who seemed forlorn -
And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn.

Mayhap I have loved too well the merry fleeting things;
Run too lightly with the wind - chased too many shining wings;
Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings.

Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun -
All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun -
In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone.

And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that...

Virna Sheard

The Station-Master of Lone Prairie

An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching,
A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette,
Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching
Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet.

North, south, east, west, the same dull gray persistence,
The tattered vapors of a vanished train,
The narrowing rails that meet to pierce the distance,
Or break the columns of the far-off rain.

Naught but myself; nor form nor figure breaking
The long hushed level and stark shining waste;
Nothing that moves to fill the vision aching,
When the last shadow fled in sullen haste.

Nothing beyond. Ah yes! From out the station
A stiff, gaunt figure thrown against the sky,
Beckoning me with some wooden salutation
Caught from his signals as the train flashed by;

Bret Harte