Poems List

The Old Year And The New

The Old Year And The New

I.
As one in sorrow looks upon
The dead face of a loyal friend,
By the dim light of New Year's dawn
I saw the Old Year end.


Upon the pallid features lay
The dear old smile--so warm and bright
Ere thus its cheer had died away
In ashes of delight.


The hands that I had learned to love
With strength of passion half divine,
Were folded now, all heedless of
The emptiness of mine.


The eyes that once had shed their bright
Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,
And ever lidded from the light
That made them beautiful.


II.
The chimes of bells were in the air,
And sounds of mirth in hall and street,
With pealing laughter everywhere
And throb of dancing feet:


The mirth and the convivial din
Of revelers in wanton glee,
With tunes of harp and violin
In tangled harmony.


But with a sense of nameless dread,
I turned me, from the merry face
Of this newcomer, to my dead;
And, kneeling there a space,


I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:--
By this dear face so fixed and cold,
O Lord, let not this New Year be
As happy as the old!
269

The Old Tramp

The Old Tramp

A Old Tramp slep' in our stable wunst,
An' The Raggedy Man he caught
An' roust him up, an' chased him off
Clean out through our back lot!


An' th' Old Tramp hollered back an' said,-'
You're a _purty_ man!--_You_ air!--
With a pair o' eyes like two fried eggs,
An' a nose like a Bartlutt pear!'
321

The Old Swimmin' Hole

The Old Swimmin' Hole

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Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
9 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
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Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
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Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
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Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
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And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchard to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
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Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be --
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
308

The Old Home By The Mill

The Old Home By The Mill

This is 'The old Home by the Mill'--far we still call it so,
Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few
Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!


Here, Marg'et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of' Our spring
Keeps kindo-sorto cavin' in, but don't 'taste' anything!
She's kindo agein', Marg'et is--'the old process,' like me,
All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy-three.


Jes' me and Marg'et lives alone here--like in long ago;
The childern all put off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' way out West somewhere; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.


The oldest gyrl--the first that went--married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn's Settlement--for purt' nigh thirty year!
And youngest one--was allus far the old home here--but no!--
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!


I don't miss them like _Marg'et_ does--'cause I got _her_, you see;
And when she pines for them--that's 'cause _she's_ only jes' got
_me_!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.--But talkin' sense, I'll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t'other way!


I haint so favorble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die,
I'd 'dopt the 'new process' in full, ef _Marg'et_ died, you see,-I'd
jes' crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!
279

The Old Guitar

The Old Guitar

Neglected now is the old guitar
And moldering into decay;
Fretted with many a rift and scar
That the dull dust hides away,
While the spider spins a silver star
In its silent lips to-day.


The keys hold only nerveless strings--
The sinews of brave old airs
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings
So closely here declares
A sad regret in its ravelings
And the faded hue it wears.


But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,
Has cherished a smile for me;
And its features hint of a fairer face
That comes with a memory
Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place
And a moonlit balcony.


Music sweeter than words confess,
Or the minstrel's powers invent,
Thrilled here once at the light caress
Of the fairy hands that lent
This excuse for the kiss I press
On the dear old instrument.


The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem
Still blooms; and the tiny sets
In the circle all are here; the gem
In the keys, and the silver frets;
But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them--
Alas for the heart's regrets!--


Alas for the loosened strings to-day,
And the wounds of rift and scar
On a worn old heart, with its roundelay
Enthralled with a stronger bar
That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay
Like that of the old guitar!
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The Nine Little Goblins

The Nine Little Goblins

They all climbed up on a high board-fence--
Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes--
Nine little Goblins that had no sense,
And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;
And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat--
And I asked them what they were staring at.


And the first one said, as he scratched his head
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear
And rasped its claws in his hair so red-'
This is what this little arm is fer!'
And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,
'How on earth do _you_ scratch your head?'


And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge--
Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;
And when he choked, with a final twinge
Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back
With a fist that grew on the end of his tail
Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.


And the third little Goblin leered round at me--
And there were no lids on his eyes at all--
And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,
'What is the style of your socks this fall?'
And he clapped his heels--and I sighed to see
That he had hands where his feet should be.


Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,
Bowed his head, and I saw him slip
His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,
And paste them over his upper lip;
And then he moaned in remorseful pain-'
Would--Ah, would I'd me brows again!'


And then the whole of the Goblin band
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,
And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,
Singing the songs that they used to know--
Singing the songs that their grandsires sung
In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.


And ever they kept their green-glass eyes
Fixed on me with a stony stare--
Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,
And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,
And I felt the heart in my breast snap to
As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.


And they sang 'You're asleep! There is no board-fence,
And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!-'
Tis only a vision the mind invents



After a supper of cold mince-pies,--
And you're doomed to dream this way,' they said,-'_
And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!_'
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The Merman

The Merman

I

Who would be
A merman gay,
Singing alone,
Sitting alone,
With a mermaid's knee,
For instance--hey--
For a throne?


II


I would be a merman gay;
I would sit and sing the whole day long;
I would fill my lungs with the strongest brine,
And squirt it up in a spray of song,
And soak my head in my liquid voice;
I'd curl my tail in curves divine,
And let each curve in a kink rejoice.
I'd tackle the mermaids under the sea,
And yank 'em around till they yanked me,
Sportively, sportively;
And then we would wiggle away, away,
To the pea-green groves on the coast of day,
Chasing each other sportively.


III


There would be neither moon nor star;
But the waves would twang like a wet guitar
Low thunder and thrum in the darkness grum--
Neither moon nor star;
We would shriek aloud in the dismal dales--
Shriek at each other and squawk and squeal,
"All night!" rakishly, rakishly;
They would pelt me with oysters and wiggletails,
Laughing and clapping their hands at me,
"All night!" prankishly, prankishly;
But I would toss them back in mine,
Lobsters and turtles of quaint design;
Then leaping out in an abrupt way,
I'd snatch them bald in my devilish glee,
And skip away when they snatched at me,
Fiendishly, fiendishly.
O, what a jolly life I'd lead,
Ah, what a "bang-up" life indeed!
Soft are the mermaids under the sea--
We would live merrily, merrily.
273

The Lost Kiss

The Lost Kiss

I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on--, 'Had I words to complete it,
Who'd read it, or who'd understand?'
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over it all.


So I gather it up-- where was broken
The tear-faded thread of my theme,
Telling how, as one night I sat writing,
A fairy broke in on my dream,
A little inquisitive fairy--
My own little girl, with the gold
Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy
Blue eyes of the fairies of old.


'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded-'
For was it a moment like this,'
I said, 'when she knew I was busy,
To come romping in for a kiss--?
Come rowdying up from her mother,
And clamoring there at my knee
For 'One 'ittle kiss for my dolly,
And one 'ittle uzzer for me!'


God pity, the heart that repelled her,
And the cold hand that turned her away,
And take, from the lips that denied her,
This answerless prayer of to-day!
Take Lord, from my mem'ry forever
That pitiful sob of despair,
And the patter and trip of the little bare feet,
And the one piercing cry on the stair!


I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand
Writes on--, 'Had I words to complete it
Who'd read it, or who'd understand?'
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over it all.
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The Lost Thrill

The Lost Thrill

I grow so weary, someway, of all things
That love and loving have vouchsafed to me,
Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy
Am I possessed of: The caress that clings—
The lips that mix with mine with murmurings
No language may interpret, and the free,
Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily
Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings
Of passion's fullest flower—For yet I miss
The essence that alone makes love divine—
The subtle flavoring no tang of this
Weak wine of melody may here define:—
A something found and lost in the first kiss
A lover ever poured through lips of mine.
307

The Little Fat Doctor

The Little Fat Doctor

He seemed so strange to me, every way--
In manner, and form, and size,
From the boy I knew but yesterday,--
I could hardly believe my eyes!


To hear his name called over there,
My memory thrilled with glee
And leaped to picture him young and fair
In youth, as he used to be.


But looking, only as glad eyes can,
For the boy I knew of yore,
I smiled on a portly little man
I had never seen before!--


Grave as a judge in courtliness-Professor-
like and bland--
A little fat doctor and nothing less,
With his hat in his kimboed hand.


But how we talked old times, and 'chaffed'
Each other with 'Minnie' and 'Jim'---
And how the little fat doctor laughed,
And how I laughed with him!


'And it's pleasant,' I thought, 'though I yearn to see
The face of the youth that was,
To know no boy could smile on me
As the little fat doctor does!'
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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.