Children poems/ page 8 of 244 /
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled
Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the
Here is the House to hold me -- cradle of all the race;Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear --Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place;Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?
Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night;Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight;Duty older than Adam -- Duty that sawAcceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw
From all division let our land be free, For God has made her one: complete she lies Within the unbroken circle of the skies,And round her indivisible the seaBreaks on her single shore; while only we, Her foster children, bound with sacred ties Of one dear blood, one storied enterprise,Are negligent of her integrity
City of huge buildings into which men have poured their souls,City of innumerable schools where little children are taught and cared for,City of the great University, discussing solemn and learned questions,City of well-dressed, beautiful women, sleek, satisfied, sure of their clothes and of themselves,And their husbands sleek and satisfied also:I, a common prostitute, in the wan morning buying cocaine,Ask you the meaning of it all
Smile then, children, hand in handBright and white as the summer snow,Or that young King of the Grecian land,Who smiled on Thetis, long ago, --So long ago when, heart aflame,The grave and gentle Peleus cameTo the shore where the halcyon fliesTo wed the maiden of his devotion,The dancing lady with sky-blue eyes,Thetis, the darling of Paradise,The daughter of old Ocean
Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt -- Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown?In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone,They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey, And Alice lies under the stone
By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.
I begin to understand the old men, parked on benchessmoking a bit of July, waiting for the earlybottle; the large tears of the passers-by, wrappedin white cotton, the world bandaged at 7 AM; when the day goes old, they lean overand nod into their arms, lovers, one-time carriersof their separate hearts; their wives, their childrenare glass partitions through which they see themselvescrying
Husband and wife! No converse now ye hold,As once ye did in your young days of love,On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays,Its silent meditations, its glad hopes,Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies;Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and blissFull, certain, and possessed