In Fervent Praise Of Picnics
Picnics is fun 'at's purty hard to beat.
I purt'-nigh ruther go to them than _eat_.
I purt'-nigh ruther go to them than go
With our Char_lot_ty to the Trick-Dog Show.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Company Manners
When Bess gave her Dollies a Tea, said she,--
'It's unpolite, when they's Company,
To say you've drinked _two_ cups, you see,--
But say you've drinked _a couple_ of tea.'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Boy's Candidate
Las' time 'at Uncle Sidney come,
He bringed a watermelon home--
An' half the boys in town,
Come taggin' after him.--An' he
Says, when we et it,--_'Gracious me!
'S the boy-house fell down?'_
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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To Annie
When the lids of dusk are falling
O'er the dreamy eyes of day,
And the whippoorwills are calling,
And the lesson laid away,--
May Mem'ry soft and tender
As the prelude of the night,
Bend over you and render
As tranquil a delight.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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As Created
There's a space for good to bloom in
Every heart of man or woman,--
And however wild or human,
Or however brimmed with gall,
Never heart may beat without it;
And the darkest heart to doubt it
Has something good about it
After all.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Sphinx
I know all about the Sphinx--
I know even what she thinks,
Staring with her stony eyes
Up forever at the skies.
For last night I dreamed that she
Told me all the mystery--
Why for aeons mute she sat--:
She was just cut out for that!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Hereafter
Hereafter! O we need not waste
Our smiles or tears, whatever befall:
No happiness but holds a taste
Of something sweeter, after all;--
No depth of agony but feels
Some fragment of abiding trust,--
Whatever death unlocks or seals,
The mute beyond is just.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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When you awaken some morning and hear that somebody or other has been discovered, you can put it down as a fact that he discovered himself years ago - since that time he has been toiling, working, and striving to make himself worthy of general discovery.
quote by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Singer
While with Ambition's hectic flame
He wastes the midnight oil,
And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame,
To rest him from his toil,--
Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse,
Above him spreads her wings,
And fans the embers of his lips
To ashes as he sings.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Our Own
They walk here with us, hand-in-hand;
We gossip, knee-by-knee;
They tell us all that they have planned--
Of all their joys to be,--
And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day,
All desolate we cry
Across wide waves of voiceless graves--
Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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