They ‘re like the wondrous tales he tells
Not quite — yet maybe — true.
He knows so much of boats and tides,
Of winds and clouds and sky !
But when I tell of city things,
He sniffs and shuts one eye !
Friends
How good to lie a little while
And look up through the tree!
The Sky is like a kind big smile
Bent sweetly over me.
The Sunshine flickers through the lace
Of leaves above my head,
And kisses me upon the face
Like Mother, before bed.
The Wind comes stealing o’er the grass
To whisper pretty things;
And though I cannot see him pass,
I feel his careful wings.
So many gentle Friends are near
Whom one can scarcely see,
A child should never feel a fear,
Wherever he may be.
George Macdonald
George MacDonald (10 December 1824 – 18 September 1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister who was best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels.
His beautifully simple poem, Baby, is an ideal rhyme to celebrate the birth of a new child. It is extracted from his serialised children’s book, At the Back of the North Wind.
Baby
Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.
Where did you get those eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry twinkles left in.
Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than any one knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherubs' wings.
How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson (May 25, 1803 – April 27, 1882) was an American essayist, lecturer, and poet. He was seen as a champion of individualism, and wrote dozens of essays to criticise the pressures of his society.
The Mountain and the Squirrel was written to express that no-one is either superior or inferior in this world,and that each of us has our own unique skills which others may not posess.
The Mountain and the Squirrel
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”
Bun replied,
“You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry,
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
Rudyard Kipling
Joseph Rudyard Kipling (30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936) was a short-story writer, poet, and novelist,best remembered for his fictional collection,The Jungle Book. He was born in Bombay,India, and was taken by his family to England when he was five years old.
Playing Robinson Crusoe is an imaginative poem about a boy acting out his favourite story with the help of his pet cat and dog.
If- is a truly memorable poem about stoicism and self-control, and is often voted Britain’s favourite poem.
Playing Robinson Crusoe
Pussy can sit by the fire and sing,
Pussy can climb a tree,
Or play with a silly old cork and string
To 'muse herself, not me.
But I like Binkie, my dog, because
He knows how to behave;
So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was,
And I am the Man in the Cave.
Pussy will play Man-Friday till
It's time to wet her paw
And make her walk on the window-sill
(For the footprint Crusoe saw);
Then she fluffles her tail and mews,
And scratches and won't attend.
But Binkie will play whatever I choose,
And he is my true First Friend.
Pussy will rub my knees with her head,
Pretending she loves me hard;
But the very minute I go to my bed
Pussy runs out in the yard.
And there she stays till the morning light;
So I know it is only pretend;
But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,
And he is my Firstest Friend!
If—
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Emily Brontë
Emily Jane Brontë (30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848) was an English novelist and poet. She is best remembered for her solitary novel, Wuthering Heights, which is now considered a classic of English literature. Emily was the third eldest of the four surviving Brontë siblings, between the youngest Anne and her brother Branwell, and wrote under the pen name Ellis Bell.
Her poem, Past, Present, Future presen
ts the innocence of a child’s perspective of time using nature as descriptive metaphors.
Past, Present, Future
Tell me, tell me, smiling child,
What the past is like to thee?
‘An Autumn evening soft and mild
With a wind that sighs mournfully.’
Tell me, what is the present hour?
‘A green and flowery spray
Where a young bird sits gathering it’s power
To mount and fly away.’
And what is the future, happy one?
‘A sea beneath a cloudless sun;
A mighty, glorious, dazzling sea
Stretching into infinity.’
Clement Clarke Moore
Clement Clarke Moore (July 15, 1779 – July 10, 1863) was a Professor of Oriental and Greek Literature.
Moore’s infamous poem, A Visit From St. Nicholas was initially published anonymously in the New York Sentinel on December 23, 1823 and was frequently reprinted. Eventually he admitted authorship of the poem in 1844 at the insistence of his children (for whom it had been written).
A Visit from St. Nicholas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danc'd in their heads,
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap —
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a minature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:
"Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer and Vixen,
"On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;
"To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
"Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too:
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:
He was dress'd all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys was flung on his back,
And he look'd like a peddler just opening his pack:
His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples: how merry,
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And fill'd all the stockings; then turn'd with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight —
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Anonymous Authors
We do not know the authors of the poems which appear in this section: they have either been passed down through generations through oral tradition, or were simply published by anonymous authors.
Old Mother Hubbard is a classic nursery rhyme often considered to be the work of Sarah Catherine Martin, though she claims to have only illustrated her version and that the poem was based on an earlier work.
Ladybird Ladybird is a traditional rhyme with many variants which dates back as far as 1744, where it was discovered in a collection of nursery rhymes.
Remember Remember the Fifth of November is a homage to the grim antics of Guy Fawkes who was arrested for treason after a plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament.
The Days of the Month is a mnemonic to help us remember how many days there are in each month of the year.
Finally, we present Mr. Nobody: an amusing rhyme to explain who really getsup to no-good at home ,a delight for modern children who would prefer not to admit their own mischief!
Old Mother Hubbard
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To give the poor dog a bone;
When she came there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread;
When she came back
The dog was dead!
She went to the undertaker's
To buy him a coffin;
When she came back
The dog was laughing.
She took a clean dish
to get him some tripe;
When she came back
He was smoking his pipe.
She went to the alehouse
To get him some beer;
When she came back
The dog sat in a chair.
She went to the tavern
For white wine and red;
When she came back
The dog stood on his head.
She went to the fruiterer's
To buy him some fruit;
When she came back
He was playing the flute.
She went to the tailor's
To buy him a coat;
When she came back
He was riding a goat.
She went to the hatter's
To buy him a hat;
When she came back
He was feeding her cat.
She went to the barber's
To buy him a wig
When she came back
He was dancing a jig.
She went to the cobbler's
To buy him some shoes;
When she came back
He was reading the news.
She went to the sempstress
To buy him some linen;
When she came back
The dog was spinning.
She went to the hosier's
To buy him some hose;
When she came back
He was dressed in his clothes.
The Dame made a curtsy,
The dog made a bow;
The Dame said, Your servant;
The dog said, Bow-wow.
This wonderful dog
Was Dame Hubbard's delight,
He could read, he could dance,
He could sing, he could write;
She gave him rich dainties
Whenever he fed,
And erected this monument
When he was dead.
Ladybird Ladybird
Ladybird, ladybird fly away home,
Your house is on fire and your children are gone,
All except one,
And her name is Ann,
And she hid under the baking pan.
Remember Remember the Fifth of November
Remember, remember, the 5th of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot;
I see of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent.
To blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below.
Poor old England to overthrow.
The Days of the Month
Thirty days has September
April, June and November.
All the rest have thirty-one
Except for February, alone
Which has twenty-eight days clear
And twenty-nine in each leap year.
Mr. Nobody
I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody’s house!
There’s no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.
’Tis he who always tears out books,
Who leaves the door ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pins afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
For prithee, don’t you see,
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.
The finger marks upon the door