BEST LOVED POEMS Read online

  He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

  And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

  The funniest thing; about him is the way he likes to grow—

  Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

  For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,

  And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.

  He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,

  And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

  He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward, you can see;

  I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

  One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

  I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

  But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,

  Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN A child should always say what’s true

  And speak when he is spoken to,

  And behave mannerly at table;

  At least as far as he is able.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  YOUNG NIGHT THOUGHT All night long and every night,

  When my mama puts out the light,

  I see the people marching by,

  As plain as day, before my eye.

  Armies and emperors and kings,

  All carrying different kinds of things,

  And marching in so grand a way,

  You never saw the like by day.

  So fine a show was never seen

  At the great circus on the green;

  For every kind of beast and man

  Is marching in that caravan.

  At first they move a little slow,

  But still the faster on they go,

  And still beside them close I keep

  Until we reach the Town of Sleep.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS At evening when the lamp is lit,

  Around the fire my parents sit;

  They sit at home and talk and sing

  And do not play at anything.

  Now, with my little gun, I crawl

  All in the dark along the wall,

  And follow round the forest track

  Away behind the sofa back.

  There, in the night, where none can spy,

  All in my hunter’s camp I lie,

  And play at books that I have read

  Till it is time to go to bed.

  These are the hills, these are the woods,

  These are my starry solitudes;

  And there the river by whose brink

  The roaring lions come to drink.

  I see the others far away

  As if in firelit camp they lay,

  And I, like to an Indian scout,

  Around their party prowled about.

  So, when my nurse comes in for me,

  Home I return across the sea,

  And go to bed with backward looks

  At my dear Land of Story-books.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  RAIN The rain is raining all around,

  It falls on field and tree,

  It rains on the umbrellas here,

  And on the ships at sea.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE When I was sick and lay a-bed,

  I had two pillows at my head,

  And all my toys beside me lay

  To keep me happy all the day.

  And sometimes for an hour or so

  I watched my leaden soldiers go,

  With different uniforms and drills,

  Among the bed-clothes, through the hills.

  And sometimes sent my ships in fleets

  All up and down among the sheets;

  Or brought my trees and houses out,

  And planted cities all about.

  I was the giant great and still

  That sits upon the pillow-hill,

  And sees before him, dale and plain,

  The pleasant land of Counterpane.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  HOME IS WHERE THERE IS ONE

  TO LOVE US Home’s not merely four square walls,

  Though with pictures hung and gilded;

  Home is where Affection calls—

  Filled with shrines the Hearth had builded!

  Home! Go watch the faithful dove,

  Sailing ’neath the heaven above us.

  Home is where there’s one to love!

  Home is where there’s one to love us.

  Home’s not merely roof and room,

  It needs something to endear it;

  Home is where the heart can bloom,

  Where there’s some kind lip to cheer it!

  What is home with none to meet,

  None to welcome, none to greet us?

  Home is sweet, and only sweet,

  Where there’s one we love to meet us!

  CHARLES SWAIN

  FIRST FOOTSTEPS A little way, more soft and sweet

  Than fields aflower with May,

  A babe’s feet, venturing, scarce complete

  A little way.

  Eyes full of dawning day

  Look up for mother’s eyes to meet,

  Too blithe for song to say.

  Glad as the golden spring to greet

  Its first live leaflet’s play,

  Love, laughing, leads the little feet

  A little way.

  ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

  SWEET AND LOW Sweet and low, sweet and low,

  Wind of the western sea,

  Low, low, breathe and blow,

  Wind of the western sea!

  Over the rolling waters go,

  Come from the dying moon, and blow,

  Blow him again to me;

  While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

  Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

  Father will come to thee soon;

  Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,

  Father will come to thee soon;

  Father will come to his babe in the nest,

  Silver sails all out of the west

  Under the silver moon:

  Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

  ALFRED TENNYSON

  THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,

  When fond recollection presents them to view!

  The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,

  And every loved spot which my infancy knew,

  The wide-spreading pond and the mill that stood by it,

  The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;

  The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

  And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well.

  That moss-covered bucket I hailed as a treasure,

  For often at noon, when returned from the field,

  I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

  The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.

  How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,

  And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell.

  Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

  And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.

  How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,

  As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!

  Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

  Tho’ filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.

  And now, far removed from the loved habitation,

  The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

  As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,

  And sighs for the bucket that hung in the well.

  SAMUEL WOODWORTH

  Poems of Inspiration

  BE STRONG! Be strong!

  We are not h
ere to play, to dream, to drift;

  We have hard work to do and loads to lift;

  Shun not the struggle—face it; ’tis God’s gift.

  Be strong!

  Say not, “The days are evil. Who’s to blame?”

  And fold the hands and acquiesce—oh, shame!

  Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God’s name.

  Be strong!

  It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,

  How hard the battle goes, the day how long;

  Faint not—fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.

  MALTBIE DAVENPORT BABCOCK

  THEN LAUGH Build for yourself a strong box,

  Fashion each part with care;

  When it’s strong as your hand can make it,

  Put all your troubles there;

  Hide there all thought of your failures,

  And each bitter cup that you quaff;

  Lock all your heartaches within it,

  Then sit on the lid and laugh.

  Tell no one else its contents,

  Never its secrets share;

  When you’ve dropped in your care and worry

  Keep them forever there;

  Hide them from sight so completely

  That the world will never dream half;

  Fasten the strong box securely—

  Then sit on the lid and laugh.

  BERTHA ADAMS BACKUS

  THE THINKER Back of the beating hammer

  By which the steel is wrought,

  Back of the workshop’s clamor

  The seeker may find the Thought—

  The Thought that is ever master

  Of iron and steam and steel,

  That rises above disaster

  And tramples it under heel!

  The drudge may fret and tinker

  Or labor with lusty blows,

  But back of him stands the Thinker,

  The clear-eyed man who knows;

  For into each plow or saber,

  Each piece and part and whole,

  Must go the Brains of Labor,

  Which gives the work a soul!

  Back of the motors humming,

  Back of the bells that sing,

  Back of the hammers drumming,

  Back of the cranes that swing,

  There is the eye which scans them

  Watching through stress and strain,

  There is the Mind which plans them—

  Back of the brawn, the Brain!

  Might of the roaring boiler,

  Force of the engine’s thrust,

  Strength of the sweating toiler—

  Greatly in these we trust.

  But back of them stands the Schemer,

  The Thinker who drives things through;

  Back of the Job—the Dreamer

  Who’s making the dream come true!

  BERTON BRALEY

  LIFE’S MIRROR There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,

  There are souls that are pure and true;

  Then give to the world the best you have,

  And the best will come back to you.

  Give love, and love to your life will flow,

  A strength in your utmost need;

  Have faith, and a score of hearts will show

  Their faith in your word and deed.

  Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind,

  And honor will honor meet;

  And a smile that is sweet will surely find

  A smile that is just as sweet.

  Give sorrow and pity to those who mourn;

  You will gather in flowers again

  The scattered seeds of your thought outborne,

  Though the sowing seemed but vain.

  For life is the mirror of king and slave—

  ’Tis just what we are and do;

  Then give to the world the best you have,

  And the best will come back to you.

  “MADELINE BRIDGES”

  (MARY AINGE DE VERE)

  REWARD OF SERVICE The sweetest lives are those to duty wed,

  Whose deeds both great and small

  Are close-knit strands of an unbroken thread,,

  Where love ennobles all.

  The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells,

  The Book of Life the slurring record tells.

  Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes,

  After its own like working. A child’s kiss

  Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad;

  A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;

  A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;

  Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense

  Of service which thou renderest.

  ELIZABETH BARETT BROWNING

  TODAY So here hath been dawning

  Another blue day:

  Think, wilt thou let it

  Slip useless away?

  Out of Eternity

  This new day was born;

  Into Eternity,

  At night, will return.

  Behold it aforetime

  No eye ever did;

  So soon it forever

  From all eyes is hid.

  Here hath been dawning

  Another blue day:

  Think, wilt thou let it

  Slip useless away?

  THOMAS CARLYLE

  OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,

  Out where the smile dwells a little longer,

  That’s where the West begins;

  Out where the sun is a little brighter,

  Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,

  Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,—

  That’s where the West begins.

  Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,

  Out where friendship’s a little truer,

  That’s where the West begins;

  Out where the fresher breeze is blowing,

  Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing,

  Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing,—

  That’s where the West begins.

  Out where the world is in the making,

  Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,

  That’s where the West begins;

  Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,

  Where there’s more of giving and less of buying,

  And a man makes friends without half trying—

  That’s where the West begins.

  ARTHUR CHAPMAN

  THREE GATES If you are tempted to reveal

  A tale to you someone has told

  About another, make it pass,

  Before you speak, three gates of gold.

  These narrow gates: First, “Is it true?”

  Then, “Is it needful?” In your mind

  Give truthful answer. And the next

  Is last and narrowest, “Is it kind?”

  And if to reach your lips at last

  It passes through these gateways three,

  Then you may tell the tale, nor fear

  What the result of speech may be.

  BETH DAY

  HOLD FAST YOUR DREAMS Hold fast your dreams!

  Within your heart

  Keep one still, secret spot

  Where dreams may go,

  And, sheltered so,

  May thrive and grow

  Where doubt and fear are not.

  O keep a place apart,

  Within your heart,

  For little dreams to go!

  Think still of lovely things that are not true.

  Let wish and magic work at will in you,

  Be sometimes blind to sorrow. Make believe!

  Forget the calm that lies In disillusioned eyes.

  Though we all know that we must die.

  Yet you and I

  May walk like gods and be

  Even now at home in immortality.

  We see so many ugly things—

 
Deceits and wrongs and quarrelings;

  We know, alas! we know

  How quickly fade

  The color in the west,

  The bloom upon the flower,

  The bloom upon the breast

  And youth’s blind hour.

  Yet keep within your heart

  A place apart

  Where little dreams may go,

  May thrive and grow.

  Hold fast—hold fast your dreams!

  LOUISE DRISCOLL

  THE BRIDGE BUILDER An old man, going a lone highway,

  Came at the evening, cold and grey,

  To a chasm, vast and deep and wide,

  Through which was flowing a sullen tide,

  The old man crossed in the twilight dim—

  That sullen stream had no fears for him;

  But he turned, when he reached the other side,

  And built a bridge to span the tide.

  “Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,

  “You are wasting strength in building here.

  Your journey will end with the ending day;

  You never again must pass this way.

  You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,

  Why build you the bridge at the eventide?”

  The builder lifted his old grey head.

  “Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,

  “There followeth after me today

  A youth whose feet must pass this way.

  This chasm that has been naught to me

  To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.

  He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;

  Good friend, I am building the bridge for him.”

  WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE

  MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS My mind to me a kingdom is,

  Such present joys therein I find,

  That it excels all other bliss

  That earth affords or grows by kind

  Though much I want which most would have,