Tired Tim

Poor Tired Tim! It's sad for him.
He lags the long bright morning through,
Ever so tired of nothing to do;
He moons and mopes the livelong day,
Nothing to think about, nothing to say;
Up to bed with his candle to creep,
Too tired to yawn, too tired to sleep:
Poor Tired Tim! It's sad for him.

Walter De La Mare

Walter De La Mare was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and his poem "The Listeners". Born in 1873 in Charlton, Kent, De La Mare's unique blend of haunting, dreamlike imagery and masterful command of language earned him a lasting place in English literature. He was awarded the Order of Merit in 1953, and his works continue to be celebrated for their ethereal and evocative quality.

Walter De La Mare

Bluebells

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Huntsmen

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Happy Encounter

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Child In The Story Awakes

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

English

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Old Ben

Sad is old Ben Thistlewaite,
Now his day is done,
And all his children
Far away are gone.

He sits beneath his jasmined porch,
His stick between his knees,
His eyes fixed vacant
On his moss-grown trees.

Grass springs in the green path,
His flowers are lean and dry,
His thatch hangs in wisps against
The evening sky.

He has no heart to care now,
Though the winds will blow
Whistling in his casement,
And the rain drip thro'.

He thinks of his old Bettie,
How she'd shake her head and say,
'You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue
Could scold - some day,'

But as in pale high autumn skies
The swallows float and play,
His restless thoughts pass to and fro,
But nowhere stay.

Soft, on the morrow, t...

Walter De La Mare

Weariness

O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
    Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
    Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
    Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
    Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,
    Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned
    Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light
...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Tired Cupid

The thin moonlight with trickling ray,
Thridding the boughs of silver may,
Trembles in beauty, pale and cool,
On folded flower, and mantled pool.
All in a haze the rushes lean -
And he - he sits, with chin between
His two cold hands; his bare feet set
Deep in the grasses, green and wet.
About his head a hundred rings
Of gold loop down to meet his wings,
Whose feathers arched their stillness through
Gleam with slow-gathering drops of dew.
The mouse-bat peers; the stealthy vole
Creeps from the covert of its hole;
A shimmering moth its pinions furls,
Grey in the moonshine of his curls;
'Neath the faint stars the night-airs stray,
Scattering the fragrance of the may;
And with each stirring of the bough
Shadow beclouds his childlike brow.

Walter De La Mare

An Out-Worn Sappho

How tired I am! I sink down all alone
Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo,
Even as a child I hide my face and moan -
A little girl that may no farther go;
The path above me only seems to grow
    More rugged, climbing still, and ever briered
With keener thorns of pain than these below;
And O the bleeding feet that falter so
    And are so very tired!

Why, I have journeyed from the far-off Lands
Of Babyhood - where baby-lilies blew
Their trumpets in mine ears, and filled my hands
With treasures of perfume and honey-dew,
And where the orchard shadows ever drew
    Their cool arms round me when my cheeks were fired
With too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to,
And only let the starshine trickle through
    In sprays, when I was tired!

Ye...

James Whitcomb Riley

Mariana

With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He come...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Jim Jay

Do diddle di do,
    Poor Jim Jay
Got stuck fast
    In Yesterday.
Squinting he was,
    On Cross-legs bent,
Never heeding
    The wind was spent.
Round veered the weathercock,
    The sun drew in -
And stuck was Jim
    Like a rusty pin...
We pulled and we pulled
    From seven till twelve,
Jim, too frightened
    To help himself.
But all in vain.
    The clock struck one,
And there was Jim
    A little bit gone.
At half-past five
    You scarce could see
A glimpse of his flapping
    Handkerchee.
And when came noon,
    And we climbed sky-high,
Jim was a speck
    Slip - slipping by.
Come to-morrow,
    The neighbours say,
He'll be past crying for;
    Poor Jim Jay.

Walter De La Mare