Poems List

The Bat

The Bat

I.
Thou dread, uncanny thing,
With fuzzy breast and leathern wing,
In mad, zigzagging flight,
Notching the dusk, and buffeting
The black cheeks of the night,
With grim delight!


II.
What witch's hand unhasps
Thy keen claw-cornered wings
From under the barn roof, and flings
Thee forth, with chattering gasps,
To scud the air,
And nip the lady-bug, and tear
Her children's hearts out unaware?

III.
The glow-worm's glimmer, and the bright,
Sad pulsings of the fire-fly's light,
Are banquet lights to thee.
O less than bird, and worse than beast,
Thou Devil's self, or brat, at least,
Grate not thy teeth at me!
302

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving


Let us be thankful--not only because
Since last our universal thanks were told
We have grown greater in the world's applause,
And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old--


But thankful for all things that come as alms
From out the open hand of Providence:--
The winter clouds and storms---the summer calms--
The sleepless dread--the drowse of indolence.


Let us be thankful--thankful for the prayers
Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed,
That they might fall upon us unawares,
And bless us, as in greater need, we prayed.


Let us be thankful for the loyal hand
That love held out in welcome to our own,
When love and only love could understand
The need of touches we had never known.


Let us be thankful for the longing eyes
That gave their secret to us as they wept,
Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise,
Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept.


And let us, too, be thankful that the tears
Of sorrow have not all been drained away,
That through them still, for all the coming years,
We may look on the dead face of To-day.
252

The Ancient Printman

The Ancient Printman

'O Printerman of sallow face,
And look of absent guile,
Is it the 'copy' on your 'case'
That causes you to smile?
Or is it some old treasure scrap
You cull from Memory's file?


'I fain would guess its mystery--
For often I can trace
A fellow dreamer's history
Whene'er it haunts the face;
Your fancy's running riot
In a retrospective race!


'Ah, Printerman, you're straying
Afar from 'stick' and type--
Your heart has 'gone a-maying,'
And you taste old kisses, ripe
Again on lips that pucker
At your old asthmatic pipe!


'You are dreaming of old pleasures
That have faded from your view;
And the music-burdened measures
Of the laughs you listen to
Are now but angel-echoes--
O, have I spoken true?'


The ancient Printer hinted
With a motion full of grace
To where the words were printed
On a card above his 'case,'-'
I am deaf and dumb!' I left him
With a smile upon his face.
272

Song Of The New Year

Song Of The New Year

I heard the bells at midnight
Ring in the dawning year;
And above the clanging chorus
Of the song, I seemed to hear
A choir of mystic voices
Flinging echoes, ringing clear,
From a band of angels winging
Through the haunted atmosphere:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in.'


And I thought of all the trials
The departed years had cost,
And the blooming hopes and pleasures
That are withered now and lost;
And with joy I drank the music
Stealing o'er the feeling there
As the spirit song came pealing
On the silence everywhere:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in.'


And I listened as a lover
To an utterance that flows
In syllables like dewdrops
From the red lips of a rose,
Till the anthem, fainter growing,
Climbing higher, chiming on
Up the rounds of happy rhyming,
Slowly vanished in the dawn:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in.'


Then I raised my eyes to Heaven,
And with trembling lips I pled
For a blessing for the living
And a pardon for the dead;
And like a ghost of music
Slowly whispered--lowly sung--
Came the echo pure and holy
In the happy angel tongue:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
And the dawn of every morrow
Will in peace be ushered in.'
278

Song

Song


'Why do I sing--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Glad as a King?--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Well, since you ask,--
I have such a pleasant task,
I can not help but sing!


'Why do I smile--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Working the while?--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Work like this is play,--
So I'm playing all the day--
I can not help but smile!


'So, If you please--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Live at your ease!--Tra-la-la-la-la!
You've only got to turn,
And, you see, its bound to churn--
I can not help but please!'


The farmer pondered and scratched his head,
Reading over each mystic word.-'
Some o' the Dreamer's work!' he said-'
Ah, here's more--and name and date
In his hand-write'!'--And the good man read,-''
Patent applied for, July third,
Eighteen hundred and forty-eight'!'
The fragment fell from his nerveless grasp--
His awed lips thrilled with the joyous gasp:
'I see the p'int to the whole concern,-He's
studied out a patent churn!'
240

Sister Jones's Confession

Sister Jones's Confession

I thought the deacon liked me, yit
I warn't adzackly shore of it--
Fer, mind ye, time and time agin,
When jiners 'ud be comin' in,
I'd seed him shakin' hands as free
With all the sistern as with me!
But jurin' last Revival, where
He called on _me_ to lead in prayer,
An' kneeled there with me, side by side,
A-whisper'n' 'he felt sanctified
Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,'--
That settled things as fur as them-
Thare other wimmin was concerned!-And--
well!--I know I must a-turned
A dozen colors!--_Flurried_?--_la_!--
No mortal sinner never saw
A gladder widder than the one
A-kneelin' there and wonderun'
Who'd pray'--So glad, upon my word,
I railly could n't thank the Lord!
282

Some Scattering Remarks Of Bub's

Some Scattering Remarks Of Bub's

Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid
An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did,
And cooked 'em on our stove one day
When our hired girl she said I may.


_Honey's_ the goodest thing--Oo-_ooh_!
And blackberry-pies is goodest, too!
But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet
Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet!


Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,--an'
She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!--
An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face--
An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'!


I _ruther_ go to the Circus-show;
But, 'cause my _parunts_ told me so,
I ruther go to the Sund'y School,
'Cause there I learn the goldun rule.


Say, Pa,--what _is_ the goldun rule
'At's allus at the Sund'y School?
253

Say Something To Me

Say Something To Me

Say something to me! I've waited so long--
Waited and wondered in vain;
Only a sentence would fall like a song
Over this listening pain--
Over a silence that glowers and frowns,--
Even my pencil to-night
Slips in the dews of my sorrow and wounds
Each tender word that I write.


Say something to me--if only to tell
Me you remember the past;
Let the sweet words, like the notes of a bell,
Ring out my vigil at last.
O it were better, far better than this
Doubt and distrust in the breast,--
For in the wine of a fanciful kiss
I could taste Heaven, and--rest.


Say something to me! I kneel and I plead,
In my wild need, for a word;
If my poor heart from this silence were freed,
I could soar up like a bird
In the glad morning, and twitter and sing,
Carol and warble and cry
Blithe as the lark as he cruises awing
Over the deeps of the sky.
263

September Dark

September Dark

1
The air falls chill;
The whippoorwill
Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill:
The dusk grows dense,
The silence tense;
And lo, the katydids commence.


2
Through shadowy rifts
Of woodland lifts
The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
While left and right
The fireflies' light
Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.


3
O Cloudland gray
And level lay
Thy mists across the face of Day!
At foot and head,
Above the dead
O Dews, weep on uncomforted!
240

Regardin' Terry Hut

Regardin' Terry Hut

Sence I tuk holt o' Gibbses' Churn
And be'n a-handlin' the concern,
I've travelled round the grand old State
Of Indiany, lots, o' late--!
I've canvassed Crawferdsville and sweat
Around the town o' Layfayette;
I've saw a many a County-seat
I ust to think was hard to beat:
At constant dreenage and expense
I've worked Greencastle and Vincennes--
Drapped out o' Putnam into Clay,
Owen, and on down thataway
Plum into Knox, on the back-track
Fer home ag'in-- and glad I'm back--!
I've saw these towns, as I say-- but
They's none 'at beats old Terry Hut!


It's more'n likely you'll insist
I claim this 'cause I'm prejudist,
Bein' born'd here in ole Vygo
In sight o' Terry Hut--; but no,
Yer clean dead wrong--! And I maintain
They's nary drap in ary vein
O' mine but what's as free as air
To jest take issue with you there--!
'Cause, boy and man, fer forty year,
I've argied ag'inst livin' here,
And jawed around and traded lies
About our lack o' enterprise,
And tuk and turned in and agreed
All other towns was in the lead,
When-- drat my melts--! They couldn't cut
No shine a-tall with Terry Hut!


Take even, statesmanship, and wit,
And ginerel git-up-and-git,
Old Terry Hut is sound clean through--!
Turn old Dick Thompson loose, er Dan
Vorehees-- and where's they any man
Kin even hold a candle to
Their eloquence--? And where's as clean
A fi-nan-seer as Rile' McKeen--
Er puorer, in his daily walk,
In railroad er in racin' stock!
And there's 'Gene Debs-- a man 'at stands
And jest holds out in his two hands
As warm a heart as ever beat
Betwixt here and the Jedgement Seat--!
All these is reasons why I putt
Sich bulk o' faith in Terry Hut.


So I've come back, with eyes 'at sees



My faults, at last--, to make my peace
With this old place, and truthful' swear--
Like Gineral Tom Nelson does--,
'They hain't no city anywhere
On God's green earth lays over us!'
Our city government is grand-'
Ner is they better farmin'-land
Sun-kissed--' as Tom goes on and says-'
Er dower'd with sich advantages!'
And I've come back, with welcome tread,
From journeyin's vain, as I have said,
To settle down in ca'm content,
And cuss the towns where I have went,
And brag on ourn, and boast and strut
Around the streets o' Terry Hut!
268

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Identification and basic context

James Whitcomb Riley was an American poet, author, and lecturer. He is celebrated as "The Hoosier Poet" for his distinctive dialect verse that vividly depicted rural life in Indiana and the American Midwest. His writings often evoked a sense of nostalgia for childhood, simplicity, and the everyday lives of common people. Riley's national fame and accessibility made him one of the most popular literary figures of his era.

Childhood and education

Riley was born and raised in Greenfield, Indiana. His father was a lawyer who encouraged his son's literary inclinations. Riley's formal education was limited; he attended public school but left before graduating. He was largely self-taught, developing a love for literature, poetry, and popular entertainment. His childhood experiences in rural Indiana, filled with local folklore, storytelling, and the rhythms of small-town life, profoundly shaped his later literary output.

Literary trajectory

Riley began his career in journalism, working for various newspapers in Indiana. He also experimented with writing songs and poems, often publishing them under pseudonyms. His breakthrough came with the serialization of "The Old Swimmin' Hole" in 1883, a poem written in Hoosier dialect that resonated with readers. This success led to the publication of his first collection, "The Old Swimmin' Hole and Other Poems" (1883), which established his reputation. He went on to publish numerous collections of poetry and prose, becoming a nationally recognized literary figure.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Riley's most famous works include "The Raggedy Man," "Little Orphant Annie," "When the Frost Is on the Punkin," and "A Country Boy." His dominant themes revolve around rural life, childhood innocence, nostalgia for the past, friendship, and the simple virtues of ordinary people. His style is characterized by its use of Hoosier dialect, colloquial language, and a warm, humorous, and often sentimental tone. He employed simple rhyme schemes and rhythmic patterns, making his poetry accessible and memorable. His poetic voice is typically that of a genial observer, sharing fond memories and gentle observations about his subjects.

Cultural and historical context

Riley's work emerged during a period of significant change in America, as the nation transitioned from an agrarian society to an industrial one. His poems tapped into a widespread sentimentality and nostalgia for the perceived simpler times of rural life, which were rapidly disappearing. He was part of a broader literary trend that celebrated regionalism and local color in American literature. His popularity reflected a national desire to connect with its agrarian roots and the everyday experiences of its citizens.

Personal life

Riley never married and lived a relatively private life, though he was a popular public figure. He suffered from ill health for much of his adult life, including a stroke that affected his mobility, but he continued to write and lecture. His deep affection for children and his memories of his own childhood were central to his creative inspiration. He maintained close ties to his family and friends in Indiana throughout his career.

Recognition and reception

James Whitcomb Riley achieved immense popularity during his lifetime. He was celebrated across the United States, hailed as a national treasure. His readings were often standing-room-only events, and his books sold exceptionally well. He received numerous honors and accolades, solidifying his status as one of America's most beloved poets. His accessible style and relatable themes ensured a broad appeal that transcended literary circles.

Influences and legacy

Riley was influenced by earlier American poets who celebrated rural life and folklore, as well as by popular song forms. His legacy lies in his enduring portrayal of Hoosier life and his contribution to American regionalist literature. He helped popularize the use of vernacular dialect in poetry, making it more relatable to a wider audience. While his work is sometimes seen as overly sentimental by modern critics, its charm and historical value continue to be recognized, and he remains a significant figure in the history of American poetry.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critics often analyze Riley's work for its nostalgic portrayal of rural America and its use of dialect. Some view his sentimentality as a way to explore universal themes of childhood and memory, while others find it to be a retreat from the complexities of modern life. His celebration of "simple folk" can be interpreted as both an affirmation of democratic ideals and a romanticized, perhaps overly idealized, depiction of rural existence.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Riley was known for his affable personality and his engaging public readings. He was an avid collector of books and manuscripts. Despite his fame, he often expressed a desire for more serious literary recognition, though his talent for popular verse was undeniable. He was also known for his interest in spiritualism.

Death and memory

James Whitcomb Riley died in Indianapolis in 1916. His death was mourned by a nation that had embraced him as a beloved literary son. His home in Greenfield is preserved as a museum, and he is remembered as "The Hoosier Poet" whose words captured the heart and spirit of Indiana.