Poetry Books

OLD MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG.Old Mother HubbardWent to the cupboard,To give her poor Dog a bone,When she came thereThe cupboard was bare,And so the poor Dog had none. JOHN McLOUGHLIN, Publisher, N. Y.     She went to the Tavern,For white wine and red,When she came backThe Dog stood on his head.She brought him a cakeWhich she bought at the Fair,When she came backThe Dog sat in a chair.     She... more...

Laugh and Play.       Laughand play all the day:Don't you think with meWhen I say that's the wayIf you'd happy be?Maid and lad, if we hadNever time for song,Always sad, never glad,Days would seem so long!Tear and sigh make the skyDark and sad and grey;Never cry—only tryJust to laugh and play.Faces bright make sunlightAll the merry day;Frowns they fright out of sight—So we'll... more...

INTRODUCTION It is at my persuasion that these poems are now published. The earliest of them were read to me in London in 1896, when the writer was seventeen; the later ones were sent to me from India in 1904, when she was twenty-five; and they belong, I think, almost wholly to those two periods. As they seemed to me to have an individual beauty of their own, I thought they ought to be published. The... more...

I.   A fluttering bevy left the gate  With hurried steps, and sped away;  And then a coach with drooping freight,  Wrapped in its film of dusty gray,  Stopped; and the pastor and his mate   Stepped forth, and passed the waiting door,  And closed it on the gazing street.  "Oh Philip!" She could say no more.  "Oh Mildred! You're at home, my sweet,—  The old life... more...

CELEBRATED DUTCHESS. MADAM, I am rather apprehensive that you will rank me among the Impertinents of the Age, in giving a performance which treats professedly of the Triumphs of Folly, the Sanction of Your Grace. But tho', in the too great quickness of apprehension, this may be the case; I have not the least doubt but, in some succeeding moments of coolness and candour, you will accompany me... more...

AFTER ALL, WHAT IS POETRY? BY JOHN RAYMOND HOWARD. Considering the immense volume of poetical writing produced, and lost or accumulated, by all nations through the ages, it is of curious interest that no generally accepted definition of the word "Poetry" has ever been made. Of course, all versifiers aim at "poetry"; yet, what is poetry? Many definitions have been attempted. Some of... more...

BAYBERRY CANDLESDear sweet, when dusk comes up the hill,    The fire leaps high with golden prongs;I place along the chimneysill    The tiny candles of my songs. And though unsteadily they burn,    As evening shades from grey to blueLike candles they will surely learn    To shine more clear, for love of you. SECRET LAUGHTER"I had a secret... more...

ON LEAVING N—ST—D. Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle, For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay; And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way. Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain; The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry... more...

Winter and SummerIn Winter when the air is chill,And winds are blowing loud and shrill,All snug and warm I sit and purr,Wrapped in my overcoat of fur.In Summer quite the other way,I find it very hot all day,But Human People do not care,For they have nice thin clothes to wear.And does it not seem hard to you,When all the world is like a stew,And I am much too warm to purr,I have to wear my Winter Fur?... more...

THE DREAMERS The gypsies passed her little gate—She stopped her wheel to see,—A brown-faced pair who walked the road,Free as the wind is free;And suddenly her tidy roomA prison seemed to be. Her shining plates against the walls,Her sunlit, sanded floor,The brass-bound wedding chest that heldHer linen's snowy store,The very wheel whose humming died,—Seemed only chains she bore. She watched... more...