Oxford Book of Children's Verse

 

The Coming American by Sam Walter Foss

  Bring me men to match my mountains;

    Bring me men to match my plains, —

    Men with empires in their purpose,

    And new eras in their brains.

    Bring me men to match my praries,

    Men to match my inland seas,

    Men whose thought shall pave a highway

    Up to ampler destinies;

    Pioneers to clear Thought's marshlands,

    And to cleanse old Error's fen;

    Bring me men to match my mountains —

    Bring me men!

    Bring me men to match my forests,

    Strong to fight the storm and blast,

    Branching toward the skyey future,

    Rooted in the fertile past.

    Bring me men to match my valleys,

    Tolerant of sun and snow,

    Men within whose fruitful purpose

    Time's consummate blooms shall grow.

    Men to tame the tigerish instincts

    Of the lair and cave and den,

    Cleans the dragon slime of Nature —

    Bring me men!

    Bring me men to match my rivers,

    Continent cleavers, flowing free,

    Drawn by the eternal madness

    To be mingled with the sea;

    Men of oceanic impulse,

    Men whose moral currents sweep

    Toward the wide-enfolding ocean

    Of an undiscovered deep;

    Men who feel the strong pulsation

    Of the Central Sea, and then

    Time their currents to its earth throb —

    Bring me men!

Death, Be Not Proud by John Donne

 

that which we are, we are...

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling

 

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

 

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling

 

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling

 

What is Poetry, anyway?

"Poetry is the practice of creating artworks using language. Sculptors use marble, steel, cardboard, goose liver pate, whatever material they choose. Musicians use sound. Painters use paint. Furniture makers use woods and fabrics. And poets use language... Poets are interested in exploring experience through the written word. That includes any experience you can have as well as the experience through the written word. That includes any experience you can have as well as the world of your dreams and fantasies...The poet takes all these kind of experiences and the emotions and feelings they bring with them, and makes them into art through the way he uses language. And that - because you use language, too - gives you an instant link to poetry as well." Poetry for Dummies by The Poetry Center and John Timpane with Maureen Watts. 

Poetry out Loud

 

The Recessional by Rudyard Kipling

21. Recessional from Verse: 1885-1918, 1902 Composed for Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, 1897 God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line, Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine -- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies; The Captains and the Kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And, guarding, calls not Thee to guard; For frantic boast and foolish word-- Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Poetry @ Walt Whitman 1819-1892

 When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts, the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the learned astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

NO by Thomas Hood

 

Unstooping by Walter de la Mare

 Unstooping

Low on his fours the Lion
  Treads with the surly Bear;
But Men straight upward from the dust
  Walk with their heads in air;
The free sweet winds of heaven,
  The sunlight from on high
Beat on their clear bright cheeks and brows
  As they go striding by;
The doors of all their houses
  They arch so they may go
Uplifted o'er the four-foot beasts,
  Unstooping, to and fro.

 

The watches of the night  by Kristyn Getty

I look towards the wintering trees

To hush my fretful soul

As they rise to face the icy sky

And hold fast beneath the snow

Their rings grow wide, their roots go deep

That they might hold their height

And stand like valiant soldiers

Through the watches of the night

No human shoulder ever bears

The weight of all the world

But hearts can sink beneath the ache

Of trouble's sudden surge

Yet far beyond full knowing

There's a strong unsleeping light

That reaches round to hold me

Through the watches of the night

I have cried upon the steps that seem

Too steep for me to climb

And I've prayed against a burden

I did not want to be mine

But here I am and this is where

You're calling me to fight

And You I will remember

Through the watches of the night

You I will remember

Through the watches of the night

Tonight, my soul, be still and sleep;

The storms are raging on God’s deep—

God’s deep, not yours; be still and sleep.

Tonight, my soul, be still and sleep;

God’s hands will still the Tempter’s sweep—

God’s hands, not yours; be still and sleep.

Tonight, my soul, be still and sleep;

God’s love is strong while night hours creep—

God’s love, not yours; be still and sleep.

Tonight, my soul, be still and sleep;

God’s heaven will comfort those who weep—

God’s heaven, not yours; be still and sleep.

A Soldier's Prayer read by Anna at Milton Home

A Soldier’s Prayer

(found on the body of an American Soldier during World War I)

Lord God I have never spoken to you,
But now I want to say how do you do?
You see God they told me you didn’t exist,
And like a fool I believed all this.

Last night from a shell hole I saw your sky,
I figured right then they had told me a lie.
Had I taken time to see the things you’ve made,
I’d have known they weren’t calling a spade, a spade.

I wonder God if you’ll take my hand?
Somehow I feel that you will understand.
Funny how I had to come to this hellish place,
Before I had time to see your face.

Well I guess there isn’t much more to say,
But I’m sure glad God I met you today.
I guess the zero hour will soon be here,
But I’m not afraid since I know you’re near.

The signal, well God I have to go,
I like you lots, this I want you to know.

Look now this’ll be a horrible fight,
Who knows I may come to your house tonight.
Though I wasn’t friendly to you before,
I wonder God if you’d wait at your door?

Look I’m crying, Me, shedding tears,
I wish I had known you these many years.
Well, I have to go now God, good-bye.
Strange now since I’ve met you,

I’m not afraid to die.

- Author Unknown -

Poetry - After Apple Picking by Robert Frost Suggested by our Prolific Suggester, Anna

After Apple-Picking By Robert Frost My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

Porchside Schoolhouse with William Blake

28 - The Schoolboy

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me:
O what sweet company!

But to go to school in a summer morn, --
O it drives all joy away!
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

Ah then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour;
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning's bower,
Worn through with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring!

O father and mother if buds are nipped,
And blossoms blown away;
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care's dismay, --

How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?

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