Poems List

If I Knew What Poets Know

If I Knew What Poets Know

If I knew what poets know,
Would I write a rhyme
Of the buds that never blow
In the summer-time?
Would I sing of golden seeds
Springing up in ironweeds?
And of rain-drops turned to snow,
If I knew what poets know?


Did I know what poets do,
Would I sing a song
Sadder than the pigeon's coo
When the days are long?
Where I found a heart in pain,
I would make it glad again;
And the false should be the true,
Did I know what poets do.


If I knew what poets know,
I would find a theme
Sweeter than the placid flow
Of the fairest dream:
I would sing of love that lives
On the errors it forgives;
And the world would better grow
If I knew what poets know.
281

How Did You Rest, Last Night?

How Did You Rest, Last Night?

'How did you rest, last night?'-I've
heard my gran'pap say
Them words a thousand times--that's right--
Jes them words thataway!
As punctchul-like as morning dast
To ever heave in sight
Gran'pap 'ud allus haf to ast-'
How did you rest, last night?'


Us young-uns used to grin,
At breakfast, on the sly,
And mock the wobble of his chin
And eyebrows belt so high
And kind: _'How did you rest, last night?'_
We'd mumble and let on
Our voices trimbled, and our sight
Was dim, and hearin' gone.


* * * * *


Bad as I used to be,
All I'm a-wantin' is
As puore and ca'm a sleep fer me
And sweet a sleep as his!
And so I pray, on Jedgment Day
To wake, and with its light
See _his_ face dawn, and hear him say-'
How did you rest, last night?'
310

Home At Night

Home At Night

When chirping crickets fainter cry,
And pale stars blossom in the sky,
And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom
And blurred the butterfly:


When locust-blossoms fleck the walk,
And up the tiger-lily stalk
The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls
And glimmers down the garden-walls:


When buzzing things, with double wings
Of crisp and raspish flutterings,
Go whizzing by so very nigh
One thinks of fangs and stings:--


O then, within, is stilled the din
Of crib she rocks the baby in,
And heart and gate and latch's weight
Are lifted--and the lips of Kate.
269

His Room

His Room

'I'm home again, my dear old Room,
I'm home again, and happy, too,
As, peering through the brightening gloom,
I find myself alone with you:
Though brief my stay, nor far away,
I missed you--missed you night and day--
As wildly yearned for you as now.--
Old Room, how are you, anyhow?


'My easy chair, with open arms,
Awaits me just within the door;
The littered carpet's woven charms
Have never seemed so bright before,--
The old rosettes and mignonettes
And ivy-leaves and violets,
Look up as pure and fresh of hue
As though baptized in morning dew.


'Old Room, to me your homely walls
Fold round me like the arms of love,
And over all my being falls
A blessing pure as from above--
Even as a nestling child caressed
And lulled upon a loving breast,
With folded eyes, too glad to weep
And yet too sad for dreams or sleep.


'You've been so kind to me, old Room--
So patient in your tender care,
My drooping heart in fullest bloom
Has blossomed for you unaware;
And who but you had cared to woo
A heart so dark, and heavy, too,
As in the past you lifted mine
From out the shadow to the shine?


'For I was but a wayward boy
When first you gladly welcomed me
And taught me work was truer joy
Than rioting incessantly:
And thus the din that stormed within
The old guitar and violin
Has fallen in a fainter tone
And sweeter, for your sake alone.


'Though in my absence I have stood
In festal halls a favored guest,
I missed, in this old quietude,
My worthy work and worthy rest--
By _this_ I know that long ago
You loved me first, and told me so
In art's mute eloquence of speech



The voice of praise may never reach.


'For lips and eyes in truth's disguise
Confuse the faces of my friends,
Till old affection's fondest ties
I find unraveling at the ends;
But as I turn to you, and learn
To meet my griefs with less concern,
Your love seems all I have to keep
Me smiling lest I needs must weep.


'Yet I am happy, and would fain
Forget the world and all its woes;
So set me to my tasks again,
Old Room, and lull me to repose:
And as we glide adown the tide
Of dreams, forever side by side,
I'll hold your hands as lovers do
Their sweethearts' and talk love to you.'
308

His Mother

His Mother

DEAD! my wayward boy--_my own_--
Not _the Law's!_ but _mine_--the good
God's free gift to me alone,
Sanctified by motherhood.


'Bad,' you say: Well, who is not?
'Brutal'--'with a heart of stone'--
And 'red-handed.'--Ah! the hot
Blood upon your own!


I come not, with downward eyes,
To plead for him shamedly,--
God did not apologize
When He gave the boy to me.


Simply, I make ready now
For _His_ verdict.--_You_ prepare--
You have killed us both--and how
Will you face us There!
348

Her Hair

Her Hair

The beauty of her hair bewilders me--
Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide
Swirling about the ears on either side
And storming round the neck tumultuously:
Or like the lights of old antiquity
Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide
Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified
In chastest marble, nude of drapery.
And so I love it--. Either unconfined;
Or plaited in close braidings manifold;
Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined
In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled
At any lightest kiss; or by the wind
Whipped out in flossy ravellings of gold.
349

Herr Weiser

Herr Weiser

Herr Weiser--! Three-score-years-and-ten--,
A hale white rose of his country-men,
Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam,
And blossomy as his German home--
As blossomy and as pure and sweet
As the cool green glen of his calm retreat,
Far withdrawn from the noisy town
Where trade goes clamoring up and down,
Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife,
May not trouble his tranquil life!


Breath of rest, what a balmy gust--!
Quite of the city's heat and dust,
Jostling down by the winding road,
Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode--.
Tether the horse, as we onward fare
Under the pear-trees trailing there,
And thumping the wood bridge at night
With lumps of ripeness and lush delight,
Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn,
Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon.


Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face,
And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace
Of unassuming honesty,
Be there to welcome you and me!
And what though the toil of the farm be stopped
And the tireless plans of the place be dropped,
While the prayerful master's knees are set
In beds of pansy and mignonette
And lily and aster and columbine,
Offered in love, as yours and mine--?


What, but a blessing of kindly thought,
Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not--!
What, but a spirit of lustrous love
White as the aster he bends above--!
What, but an odorous memory
Of the dear old man, made known to me
In days demanding a help like his--,
As sweet as the life of the lily is--
As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise
Born of a lily in paradise.
346

Her Beautiful Hands

Her Beautiful Hands

Your hands--they are strangely fair!
O Fair--for the jewels that sparkle there,-Fair--
for the witchery of the spell
That ivory keys alone can tell;
But when their delicate touches rest
Here in my own do I love them best,
As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!


Marvelous--wonderful--beautiful hands!
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands
Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine,
Under mysterious touches of thine,
Into such knots as entangle the soul
And fetter the heart under such a control
As only the strength of my love understands--
My passionate love for your beautiful hands.


As I remember the first fair touch
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled--
When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow,
As you said to me, laughingly, 'Keep it now!' . . .
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand,
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.


When first I loved, in the long ago,
And held your hand as I told you so--
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss
And said 'I could die for a hand like this!'
Little I dreamed love's fullness yet
Had to ripen when eyes were wet
And prayers were vain in their wild demands
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.


. . . . . . . . .
Beautiful Hands!--O Beautiful Hands!
Could you reach out of the alien lands
Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night,
Only a touch--were it ever so light--
My heart were soothed, and my weary brain
Would lull itself into rest again;
For there is no solace the world commands
Like the caress of your beautiful hands.
275

Heat-Lightning

Heat-Lightning


There was a curious quiet for a space
Directly following: and in the face
Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow
Of the heat-lightning that pent passions throw
Long ere the crash of speech.--He broke the spell--
The host:--The Traveler's story, told so well,
He said, had wakened there within his breast
A yearning, as it were, to know _the rest_--
That all unwritten sequence that the Lord
Of Righteousness must write with flame and sword,
Some awful session of His patient thought--
Just then it was, his good old mother caught
His blazing eye--so that its fire became
But as an ember--though it burned the same.
It seemed to her, she said, that she had heard
It was the _Heavenly_ Parent never erred,
And not the _earthly_ one that had such grace:
'Therefore, my son,' she said, with lifted face
And eyes, 'let no one dare anticipate
The Lord's intent. While _He_ waits, _we_ will wait'
And with a gust of reverence genuine
Then Uncle Mart was aptly ringing in-


''_If the darkened heavens lower,
Wrap thy cloak around thy form;
Though the tempest rise in power,
God is mightier than the storm!_''

Which utterance reached the restive children all
As something humorous. And then a call
For _him_ to tell a story, or to 'say
A funny piece.' His face fell right away:
He knew no story worthy. Then he must
_Declaim_ for them: In that, he could not trust
His memory. And then a happy thought
Struck some one, who reached in his vest and brought
Some scrappy clippings into light and said
There was a poem of Uncle Mart's he read
Last April in '_The Sentinel_.' He had
It there in print, and knew all would be glad
To hear it rendered by the author.

And,
All reasons for declining at command
Exhausted, the now helpless poet rose
And said: 'I am discovered, I suppose.
Though I have taken all precautions not
To sign my name to any verses wrought
By my transcendent genius, yet, you see,
Fame wrests my secret from me bodily;
So I must needs confess I did this deed
Of poetry red-handed, nor can plead


One whit of unintention in my crime--
My guilt of rhythm and my glut of rhyme.-


'Maenides rehearsed a tale of arms,
And Naso told of curious metat_mur_phoses;
Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms,
While crazy _I_'ve made poetry _on purposes!_'


In other words, I stand convicted--need
I say--by my own doing, as I read.
312

He And I

He And I

Just drifting on together--
He and I--
As through the balmy weather
Of July
Drift two thistle-tufts imbedded
Each in each--by zephyrs wedded--
Touring upward, giddy-headed,
For the sky.


And, veering up and onward,
Do we seem
Forever drifting dawnward
In a dream,
Where we meet song-birds that know us,
And the winds their kisses blow us,
While the years flow far below us
Like a stream.


And we are happy--very--
He and I--
Aye, even glad and merry
Though on high
The heavens are sometimes shrouded
By the midnight storm, and clouded
Till the pallid moon is crowded
From the sky.


My spirit ne'er expresses
Any choice
But to clothe him with caresses
And rejoice;
And as he laughs, it is in
Such a tone the moonbeams glisten
And the stars come out to listen
To his voice.


And so, whate'er the weather,
He and I,--
With our lives linked thus together,
Float and fly
As two thistle-tufts imbedded
Each in each--by zephyrs wedded--
Touring upward, giddy-headed,
For the sky.
302

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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.