BEST LOVED POEMS Read online

Joy is my name.”

  Sweet joy befall thee!

  Pretty Joy!

  Sweet Joy, but two days old.

  Sweet joy I call thee:

  Thou dost smile,

  I sing the while,

  Sweet joy befall thee!

  WILLIAM BLAKE

  A PRAYER FOR

  A LITTLE HOME God send us a little home,

  To come back to, when we roam.

  Low walls and fluted tiles,

  Wide windows, a view for miles.

  Red firelight and deep chairs,

  Small white beds upstairs—

  Great talk in little nooks,

  Dim colors, rows of books.

  One picture on each wall,

  Not many things at all.

  God send us a little ground,

  Tall trees stand round.

  Homely flowers in brown sod,

  Overhead, thy stars, O God.

  God bless thee, when winds blow,

  Our home, and all we know.

  FLORENCE BONE

  HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD Oh, to be in England

  Now that April’s there,

  And whoever wakes in England

  Sees, some morning, unaware,

  That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

  Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

  While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

  In England—now!

  And after April, when May follows,

  And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

  Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

  Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

  Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—

  That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

  Lest you should think he never could recapture

  The first fine careless rapture!

  And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

  All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

  The buttercups, the little children’s dower

  —Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

  ROBERT BROWNING

  MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

  My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

  A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

  My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

  Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,

  The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth,

  Whenever I wander, wherever I rove,

  The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

  Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow;

  Farewell to the straths and green vallies below:

  Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods;

  Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods.

  My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here.

  My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

  Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;

  My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

  ROBERT BURNS

  LULLABY TOWN There’s a quaint little place they call Lullaby Town—

  It’s just back of those hills where the sunsets go down.

  Its streets are of silver, its buildings of gold,

  And its palaces dazzling things to behold;

  There are dozens of spires, housing musical chimes;

  Its people are folk from the Nursery Rimes,

  And at night it’s alight, like a garden of gleams,

  With fairies, who bring the most wonderful dreams.

  The Sandman is Mayor, and he rules like a King.

  The climate’s so balmy that, always, it’s spring,

  And it’s never too cold, and it’s never too hot,

  And I’m told that there’s nowhere a prettier spot;

  All in and about it are giant old trees,

  Filled with radiant birds that will sing when you please;

  But the strange thing about it—this secret, pray, keep—

  Is, it never awakes till the world is asleep.

  So when night settles down, all its lights snap aglow,

  And its streets fill with people who dance to and fro.

  Mother Goose, Old King Cole and his fiddlers three,

  Miss Muffet, Jack Sprat and his wife, scamper free,

  With a whole host of others, a boisterous crew,

  Not forgetting the Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe

  And her troublesome brood who, with brownie and sprite,

  Go trooping the streets, a bewildering sight.

  There’s a peddler who carries, strapped high on his back,

  A bundle. Now, guess what he has in that pack.

  There’s a crowd all about him a-buying his wares,

  And they’re grabbing his goods up in threes and in pairs.

  No, he’s not peddling jams nor delectable creams.

  Would you know what he’s selling? Just wonderful dreams!

  There are dreams for a penny and dreams that cost two;

  And there’s no two alike, and they’re sure to come true;

  And the buyers fare off with a toss of the head,

  And they visit the Sandman, then hie them to bed;

  For there’s nothing to do in this land of Bo-Peep,

  But to frolic and sing and then go off to sleep!

  JOHN IRVING DILLER

  A DUTCH LULLABY Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

  Sailed off in a wooden shoe—

  Sailed on a river of misty light

  Into a sea of dew.

  “Where are you going, and what do you wish?”

  The old moon asked the three.

  “We have come to fish for the herring-fish

  That live in this beautiful sea;

  Nets of silver and gold have we,”

  Said Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  The old moon laughed and sung a song

  As they rocked in the wooden shoe,

  And the wind that sped them all night long

  Ruffled the waves of dew;

  The little stars were the herring-fish

  That lived in the beautiful sea;

  “Now cast your nets wherever you wish,

  But never afeard are we”—

  So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

  Said Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  All night long their nets they threw

  For the fish in the twinkling foam,

  Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,

  Bringing the fishermen home.

  ’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

  As if it could not be;

  And some folks thought ’t was a dream they’d dreamed,

  Of sailing that beautiful sea.

  But I shall name you the fishermen three:

  Said Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

  And Nod is a little head,

  And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies’

  Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;

  So shut your eyes while mother sings

  Of the wonderful sights that be,

  And you shall see the beautiful things

  As you rock in the misty sea

  Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—

  Said Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  EUGENE FIELD

  LITTLE BOY BLUE The little toy dog is covered with dust,

  But sturdy and staunch he stands;

  And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

  And his musket moulds in his hands.

  Time was when the little toy dog was new,

  And the soldier was passing fair;

  And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
<
br />   Kissed them and put them, there.

  “Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,

  “And don’t you make any noise!”

  So, toddling off to his trundle-bed.

  He dreamt of the pretty toys;

  And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

  Awakened our Little Boy Blue—

  Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

  But the little toy friends are true!

  Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

  Each in the same old place,

  Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

  The smile of a little face;

  And they wonder, as waiting the long years through

  In the dust of that little chair,

  What has become of our Little Boy Blue,

  Since he kissed them and put them there.

  EUGENE FIELD

  I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I remember, I remember,

  The house where I was born,

  The little window where the sun

  Came peeping in at morn:

  He never came a wink too soon,

  Nor brought too long a day;

  But now, I often wish the night

  Had borne my breath away.

  I remember, I remember,

  The roses, red and white;

  The violets and the lily-cups,

  Those flowers made of light!

  The lilacs where the robin built,

  And where my brother set

  The laburnum on his birthday,—

  The tree is living yet!

  I remember, I remember,

  Where I was used to swing;

  And thought the air must rush as fresh

  To swallows on the wing:

  My spirit flew in feathers then,

  That is so heavy now,

  And summer pools could hardly cool

  The fever on my brow!

  I remember, I remember,

  The fir trees dark and high;

  I used to think their slender tops

  Were close against the sky:

  It was a childish ignorance,

  But now ’tis little joy

  To know I’m farther off from heaven

  Than when I was a boy.

  THOMAS HOOD

  MOTHER O’ MINE If I were hanged on the highest hill,

  Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

  I know whose love would follow me still,

  Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

  If I were drowned in the deepest sea,

  Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

  I know whose tears would come down to me,

  Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

  If I were damned by body and soul,

  I know whose prayers would make me whole,

  Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

  RUDYARD KIPLING

  THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I have had playmates, I have had companions,

  In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;

  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

  I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

  Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;

  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

  I loved a Love once, fairest among women:

  Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,—

  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

  I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man,

  Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;

  Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

  Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,

  Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,

  Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

  Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

  Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?

  So might we talk of the old familiar faces.

  How some they have died, and some they have left me,

  And some are taken from me; all are departed;

  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

  CHARLES LAMB

  MEMORY My childhood’s home I see again,

  And sadden with the view;

  And still, as memory crowds my brain,

  There’s pleasure in it, too.

  O memory! thou midway world

  ’Twixt earth and paradise,

  Where things decayed and loved ones lost

  In dreamy shadows rise,

  And, freed from all that’s earthly, vile,

  Seem hallowed, pure and bright,

  Like scenes in some enchanted isle

  All bathed in liquid light.

  As dusky mountains please the eye

  When twilight chases day;

  As bugle notes that, passing by,

  In distance die away;

  As, leaving some grand waterfall,

  We, lingering, list its roar—

  So memory will hallow all

  We’ve known but know no more.

  Near twenty years have passed away

  Since here I bid farewell

  To woods and fields, and scenes of play,

  And playmates loved so well.

  Where many were, but few remain

  Of old familiar things,

  But seeing them to mind again

  The lost and absent brings.

  The friends I left that parting day,

  How changed, as time has sped!

  Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray;

  And half of all are dead.

  I hear the loved survivors tell

  How nought from death could save,

  Till every sound appears a knell

  And every spot a grave.

  I range the fields with pensive tread,

  And pace the hollow rooms,

  And feel (companion of the dead)

  I’m living in the tombs.

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  [When thirty-seven years old.]

  WOODMAN,

  SPARE THAT TREE Woodman, spare that tree!

  Touch not a single bough!

  In youth it sheltered me,

  And I’ll protect it now.

  ’Twas my forefather’s hand

  That placed it near his cot;

  There, woodman, let it stand,

  Thy axe shall harm it not!

  That old familiar tree,

  Whose glory and renown

  Are spread o’er land and sea,

  And wouldst thou hew it down?

  Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

  Cut not its earth-bound ties;

  O, spare that aged oak,

  Now towering to the skies!

  When but an idle boy

  I sought its grateful shade;

  In all their gushing joy

  Here too my sisters played.

  My mother kissed me here;

  My father pressed my hand—

  Forgive this foolish tear,

  But let that old oak stand!

  My heart-strings round thee cling,

  Close as thy bark, old friend!

  Here shall the wild-bird sing,

  And still thy branches bend.

  Old tree! the storm still brave!

  And, woodman, leave the spot;

  While I’ve a hand to save,

  Thy axe’shall hurt it not.

  GEORGE POPE MORRIS

  HOME, SWEET HOME ’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

  Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;

  A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,

  Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.

  Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

  There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

  An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;

  Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!

  The birds singing gayly, that came a
t my call—

  Give me them—and the peace of mind, dearer than all!

  Home, home, sweet sweet home!

  There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

  I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,

  And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,

  As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door

  Thro’ the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.

  Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

  There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

  How sweet ’tis to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,

  And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!

  Let others delight ’mid new pleasure to roam,

  But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home,

  Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

  There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

  To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care;

  The heart’s dearest solace will smile on me there;

  No more from that cottage again will I roam;

  Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

  Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

  There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

  JOHN HOWARD PAYNE

  THE SWING How do you like to go up in a swing,

  Up in the air so blue?

  Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

  Ever a child can do!

  Up in the air and over the wall,

  Till I can see so wide,

  Rivers and trees and cattle and all

  Over the countryside—

  Till I look down on the garden green,

  Down on the roof so Brown—

  Up in the air I go flying again,

  Up in the air and down!

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  MY SHADOW I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

  And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.