Section: «Poems»
Verse (ancient Greek ὁ στίχος — row, structure), a term in versification used in several meanings:
artistic speech organized by division into rhythmically commensurate segments; poetry in the narrow sense; in particular, it implies the properties of versification of a particular tradition ("antique verse", "Akhmatova's verse", etc.);
a line of poetic text organized according to a certain rhythmic pattern ("My uncle of the most honest rules").
Dearth
I hold your trembling hand to-night-- and yetI may not know what wealth of bliss is mine,My heart is such a curious designOf trust and jealousy! Your..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Dreamer, Say
Dreamer, say, will you dream for meA wild sweet dream of a foreign land,Whose border sips of a foaming seaWith lips of coral and silver sand;Where..
© James Whitcomb Riley
When Evening Shadows Fall
When evening shadows fall,She hangs her cares awayLike empty garments on the wallThat hides her from the day;And while old memories throng,And..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Old Winters On The Farm
I have jest about decidedIt 'ud keep a _town-boy_ hoppin'Fer to work all winter, choppin'Fer a' old fire-place, like _I_ did!Lawz! them old times wuz..
© James Whitcomb Riley
When De Folks Is Gone
What dat scratchin' at de kitchin do'?Done heah'n dat foh an hour er mo'!Tell you Mr. Niggah, das sho's yo' bo'n,Hit's mighty lonesome waitin' when..
© James Whitcomb Riley
A New Year's Plaint
In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,Like coarsest clothes against the cold;But that large grief which these enfoldIs given in outline and no..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Cousin Rufus' Story
My little story, Cousin Rufus said,Is not so much a story as a fact.It is about a certain willful boy--An aggrieved, unappreciated boy,Grown to..
© James Whitcomb Riley
On The Banks O' Deer Crick
On the banks o' Deer Crick! There's the place fer me!--Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be:--See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o'..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Old Man's Nursery Rhyme
I.In the jolly wintersOf the long-ago,It was not so cold as now--O! No! No!Then, as I remember,Snowballs, to eat,Were as good as apples now,And every..
© James Whitcomb Riley
A Test Of Love
'Now who shall say he loves me not.'He wooed her first in an atmosphereOf tender and low-breathed sighs;But the pang of her laugh went cutting..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-WheezeLives 'way up in the leaves o' trees.An' wunst I slipped up-stairs to playIn Aunty's room, while she 'uz away;An' I..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Dear Hands
The touches of her hands are like the fallOf velvet snowflakes; like the touch of downThe peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;The flossy..
© James Whitcomb Riley
A Song
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;There is ever a something sings alway:There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,And the song of..
© James Whitcomb Riley
When Mother Combed My Hair
When Memory, with gentle hand,Has led me to that foreign landOf childhood days, I long to beAgain the boy on bended knee,With head a-bow, and drowsy..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Even Song
Lay away the story,--Though the theme is sweet,There's a lack of something yet,Leaves it incomplete:--There's a nameless yearning--Strangely..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Elizabeth
_May 1, 1891_.I.Elizabeth! Elizabeth!The first May-morning whisperethThy gentle name in every breezeThat lispeth through the young-leaved trees,New..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Our Boyhood Haunts
Ho! I'm going back to whereWe were youngsters.--Meet me there,Dear old barefoot chum, and weWill be as we used to be,--Lawless rangers up and downThe..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Where The Children Used To Play
The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,And filled it is with plenty and to spare--,But we are lonely here in life's decline,Though fortune smiles..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Old October
Old October's purt' nigh gone,And the frosts is comin' onLittle heavier every day--Like our hearts is thataway!Leaves is changin' overheadBack from..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Donn Piatt Of Mac-O-Chee
Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,--Not the one of History,Who, with flaming tongue and pen,Scathes the vanities of men;Not the one whose biting witCuts..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Green Fields And Running Brooks
Ho! green fields and running brooks!Knotted strings and fishing-hooksOf the truant, stealing downWeedy backways of the town.Where the sunshine..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Dead Selves
How many of my selves are dead?The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo,The baby in the tiny bedWith rockers on, is blanketedAnd sleeping in the long ago;And..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Her Hair
The beauty of her hair bewilders me-Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tideSwirling about the ears on either sideAnd storming round the neck..
© James Whitcomb Riley
When The Hearse Comes Back
A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meetIs some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:The slow hearse and the hosses-- slow..
© James Whitcomb Riley
Indiana
Our Land-- our Home-- the common home indeedOf soil-born children and adopted ones--The stately daughters and the stalwart sonsOf Industry--: All..
© James Whitcomb Riley