Poetry Books

WHO'S THERE?Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell,Who ys there that syngith so, nowell, nowell, nowell?I am here, syre Christmasse!Well come, my lord syre Christmasse,Welcome to us all, bothe more and lesse,Come nere, nowell!Dieu vous garde, beau syre, tydinges you bryng:A mayd hath born a chylde full yong,The weche causeth yew for to syng,Nowell!Criste is now born of a pure mayde,In an oxe stalle he ys... more...

ACROSS THE SEA. I.—CHILDHOOD. Ah! who can speak that country whence I fled?None but a lover may its beauty know,None but a poet can its rapture sing;And e'en his muse, upborne on Fancy's wing,Will grieve o'er beauties still unnoticed,O'er raptures language is too poor to show. Fore'er remains the land where children dwell,Earth's fairest mem'ry and its... more...

TORU DUTT. INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. If Toru Dutt were alive, she would still be younger than any recognized European writer, and yet her fame, which is already considerable, has been entirely posthumous. Within the brief space of four years which now divides us from the date of her decease, her genius has been revealed to the world under many phases, and has been recognized throughout France and England.... more...

IN MEMORIAM: PAULINE JOHNSON I cannot say how deeply it touched me to learn that Pauline Johnson expressed a wish on her death-bed that I, living here in the mother country all these miles away, should write something about her. I was not altogether surprised, however, for her letters to me had long ago shed a golden light upon her peculiar character. She had made herself believe, quite erroneously,... more...

Song the First Sir Alf he is an Atheling,Both at Stevn and at Ting.    Know ye little Alf? Alf he builds a vessel stout,For he will rove and sail about. Alf he builds a vessel high,The trade of pirate he will try. He draws on the sand a circle mark,And with a bound he gained the bark. Upon the prow Alf foremost stood,And Copenhagen’s koggers view’d. O’er the wide sea he flung a look,He knew the... more...

Medusa How did Medusa do her hair?The question fills me with despair.It must have caused her sore distressThat head of curling snakes to dress.Whenever after endless toilShe coaxed it finally to coil,The music of a Passing BandWould cause each separate hair to standOn end and sway and writhe and spit,—She couldn't "do a thing with it."And, being woman and awareOf such disaster to her... more...

HUSH-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,When the wind blows, the cradle will rock;When the bough bends, the cradle will fall.Down will come baby, cradle, and all. CURRAHOO, curr dhoo,Love me, and I'll love you![] WHEN the days begin to lengthenThe cold begins to strengthen. CANTALOUPES! Cantaloupes! What is the price?Eight for a dollar, and all very nice. PAT-A-CAKE, pat-a-cake, baker's man!Make me... more...

AN OLD HEART How young I am!  Ah! heaven, this curse of youth   Doth mock me from my mirror with great eyes,And pulsing veins repeat the unwelcome truth,   That I must live, though hope within me dies. So young, and yet I have had all of life.   Why, men have lived to see a hundred years,Who have not known the rapture, joy, and strife   Of my brief youth, its passion and its tears. Oh! what... more...

Amos and Ann had a poem to learn,A poem to learn one day;But alas! they sighed, and alack! they cried,’Twere better to go and play.Ann was sure ’twas a waste of timeTo bother a child with jingling rhyme.Amos said, “What’s the sense in rhythm—Feet and lines?” He had finished with ’em! They peered at the poem with scowly faces,And yawned and stumbled and lost their places.Then—a breeze... more...

  That model Miss, Jemima Jane  Was very good, and very plain;  Her parents noticed with delight  How neat she was, and how polite.  Sometimes her young companions came  And begged she'd join them in a game.  But it was never any use;  She'd make some civil, quiet excuse,  And, "Dear Mama," she'd whisp'ring say,  "I love plain sewing more than... more...