A Poet's Wooing

      I woo'd a woman once,

But she was sharper than eastern wind. -- Tennyson.

"WHAT may I do to make you glad,

    To make you glad and free,

Till your light smiles glance,

And your bright eyes dance

    Like sunbeams on the sea?

Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay,

Of a bright May morn and a marriage day?"

And she sighed in a listless way she had, --

"Do not read -- it will make me sad!"

"What shall I do to make you glad --

    To make you glad and gay,

Till your eyes gleam bright

As the stars at night

    When as light as the light of day? --

Sing some song as I twang the strings

Of my sweet guitar through its wanderings?"

And she sighed in the weary way she had, --

"Do not sing -- it will make me sad!"

"What can I do to make you glad --

    As glad as glad can be,

Till your clear eyes seem

Like the rays that gleam

    And glint through a dew-decked tree? --

Will it please you, dear, that I now begin

A grand old air on my violin?"

    And she spoke again in the following way,

"Yes, oh yes, it would please me, sir!

    I would be so glad you'd play

Some grand old march -- in character, --

    And then as you march away

I will no longer thus be sad,

But oh, so glad -- so glad -- so glad!

James Whitcomb Riley

A Life-Lesson

THERE! little girl; don't cry!

    They have broken your doll, I know;

And your tea-set blue,

And your play-house, too,

    Are things of the long ago;

But childish troubles will soon pass by. --

     There! little girl; don't cry!

There! little girl; don't cry!

    They have broken your slate, I know;

And the glad, wild ways

Of your schoolgirl days

    Are things of the long ago;

But life and love will soon come by. --

     There! little girl; don't cry!

There! little girl; don't cry!

    They have broken your heart I know;

And the rainbow gleams

Of your youthful dreams

    Are things of the long ago;

But Heaven holds all for which you sigh. --

     There! little girl; don't cry!

James Whitcomb Riley

The Ripest Peach

THE ripest peach is highest on the tree --

And so her love, beyond the reach of me,

Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow

Her heart down to me where I worship now!

She looms aloft where every eye may see

The ripest peach is highest on the tree.

Such fruitage as her love I know, alas!

I may not reach here from the orchard grass.

I drink the sunshine showered past her lips

As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips.

The ripest peach is highest on the tree,

And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.

Why -- why do I not turn away in wrath

And pluck some heart here hanging in my path? --

Love's lower boughs bend with them -- but, ah me!

The ripest peach is highest on the tree!

James Whitcomb Riley

The Old Swimmin'-Hole

OH! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep

Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,

And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below

Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know

Before we could remember anything but the eyes

Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;

But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,

And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,

When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,

Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide

That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,

It made me love myself, as I leaped to cares

My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.

But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll

From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days

When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,

How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,

Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane

You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole

They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.

But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll

Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.

Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,

And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;

And it mottled the worter with amber and gold

Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;

And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by

Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,

Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle

As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,

The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;

The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot

Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and ferfot.

And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be --

But never again will theyr shade shelter me!

And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,

And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.

James Whitcomb Riley

When the Frost is on the Punkin

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,

And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here --

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;

But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock --

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries -- kindo' lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawsack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below -- the clover overhead! --

O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin, and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!

I don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angles wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me --

I'd want to 'commodate 'em -- all the whole-indurin' flock --

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

James Whitcomb Riley

A Barefoot Boy

A BAREFOOT boy! I mark him at his play --

For May is here once more, and so is he, --

His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,

And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:

Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array

Of feverish stripes, hint vivdly to me

Of woody pathways winding endlessly

Along the creek, where even yesterday

He plunged his shrinking body -- gasped and shook --

Yet called the water "warm," with never lack

Of joy. And so, half enviously I look

Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, --

His toe stubbed -- ay, his big toe-nail knocked back

Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.

James Whitcomb Riley

Little Orphant Annie

Inscribed, with All Faith and Affection:

To all the little children: -- the happy ones; and sad ones;

The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;

The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other children, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
     Don't
         Watch
             Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy woudn't say his prayers, --
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: --
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
     Don't
         Watch
             Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
     Don't
         Watch
             Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputter, an' the wind goes woo--oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away, --
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
     Don't
         Watch
             Out!

James Whitcomb Riley

The Song of Yesterday

         I

BUT yesterday

I looked away

O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay

In golden blots,

Inlaid with spots

Of shade and wild forget-me-nots.

My head was fair

With flaxen hair,

And fragrant breezes, faint and rare,

And, warm with drouth

From out the south,

Blew all my curls across my mouth.

And, cool and sweet,

My naked feet

Found dewy pathways through the wheat;

And out again

Where, down the lane,

The dust was dimpled with the rain.

         II

But yesterday! --

Adream, astray,

From morning's red to evening's dray,

O'er dales and hills

Of daffodils

And lorn sweet-fluting whippoorwills.

I knew nor cares

Nor tears nor prayers --

A mortal god, crowned unawares

With sunset -- and

A scepter-wand

Of apple-blossoms in my hand!

The dewy blue

Of twilight grew

To purple, with a star or two

Whose lisping rays

Failed in the blaze

Of sudden fireflies through the haze.

         III

But yesterday

I heard the lay

Of summer birds, when I, as they

With breast and wing,

All quivering

With life and love, could only sing.

My head was leant

Where, with it, blent

A maiden's, o'er her instrument;

While all the night,

From vale to height,

Was filled with echoes of delight.

And all our dreams

Were lit with gleams

Of that lost land of reedy streams,

Along whose brim

Forever swim

Pan's lilies, laughing up at him.

         IV

But yesterday! . . .

O blooms of May,

And summer roses -- where away?

O stars above;

And lips of love,

And all the honeyed sweets thereof! --

O lad and lass,

And orchard pass,

And briered lane, and daisied grass!

O gleam and gloom,

And woodland bloom,

And breezy breaths of all perfume! --

No more for me

Or mine shall be

Thy raptures -- save in memory, --

No more -- no more --

Till through the Door

Of Glory gleam the days of yore.

James Whitcomb Riley