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Best Famous Eugene Field Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Eugene Field poems. This is a select list of the best famous Eugene Field poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Eugene Field poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Eugene Field poems.

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by Robert William Service | |

A Versemans Apology

 Alas! I am only a rhymer,
I don't know the meaning of Art;
But I learned in my little school primer
To love Eugene Field and Bret Harte.
I hailed Hoosier Ryley with pleasure, To John Hay I took off my hat; These fellows were right to my measure, And I've never gone higher than that.
The Classics! Well, most of them bore me, The Moderns I don't understand; But I keep Burns, my kinsman before me, And Kipling, my friend, is at hand.
They taught me my trade as I know it, Yet though at their feet I have sat, For God-sake don't call me a poet, For I've never been guilty of that.
A rhyme-rustler, rugged and shameless, A Bab Balladeer on the loose; Of saccarine sonnets I'm blameless, My model has been - Mother Goose.
And I fancy my grave-digger griping As he gives my last lodging a pat: "This guy wrote McGrew; 'Twas the best he could do" .
.
.
So I'll go to my maker with that.


by Eugene Field | |

Hymn

 (FROM THE GERMAN OF MARTIN LUTHER)

O heart of mine! lift up thine eyes
And see who in yon manger lies!
Of perfect form, of face divine--
It is the Christ-child, heart of mine!

O dearest, holiest Christ-child, spread
Within this heart of mine thy bed;
Then shall my breast forever be
A chamber consecrate to thee!

Beat high to-day, O heart of mine,
And tell, O lips, what joys are thine;
For with your help shall I prolong
Old Bethlehem's sweetest cradle-song.
Glory to God, whom this dear Child Hath by His coming reconciled, And whose redeeming love again Brings peace on earth, good will to men!


by Eugene Field | |

The wanderer

 Upon a mountain height, far from the sea,
I found a shell,
And to my listening ear the lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing,
Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.
How came the shell upon that mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day? Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang,-- Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,-- Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.
And as the shell upon the mountain height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,-- So do I ever, wandering where I may,-- Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.
1883.


by Eugene Field | |

Suppose

 Suppose, my dear, that you were I
And by your side your sweetheart sate;
Suppose you noticed by and by
The distance 'twixt you were too great;
Now tell me, dear, what would you do?
I know--and so do you.
And when (so comfortably placed) Suppose you only grew aware That that dear, dainty little waist Of hers looked very lonely there; Pray tell me sooth--what would you do? I know, and so do you.
When, having done what I just did With not a frown to check or chill, Suppose her red lips seemed to bid Defiance to your lordly will; Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do? I know, and so do you.


by Eugene Field | |

At Cheyenne

 Young Lochinvar came in from the West,
With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; 
The width of his hat-brim could nowhere be beat, 
His No.
brogans were chuck full of feet, His girdle was horrent with pistols and things, And he flourished a handful of aces on kings.
The fair Mariana sate watching a star, When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar! Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow, And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!" Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin, And modestly asked if he might n't step in.
With presence of mind that was marvellous quite, The fair Mariana replied that he might; So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar, Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar.
Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame, He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same.


by Eugene Field | |

Der mann im keller

 How cool and fair this cellar where
My throne a dusky cask is;
To do no thing but just to sing
And drown the time my task is.
The cooper he's Resolved to please, And, answering to my winking, He fills me up Cup after cup For drinking, drinking, drinking.
Begrudge me not This cosy spot In which I am reclining-- Why, who would burst With envious thirst, When he can live by wining.
A roseate hue seems to imbue The world on which I'm blinking; My fellow-men--I love them when I'm drinking, drinking, drinking.
And yet I think, the more I drink, It's more and more I pine for-- Oh, such as I (forever dry) God made this land of Rhine for; And there is bliss In knowing this, As to the floor I'm sinking: I've wronged no man And never can While drinking, drinking, drinking.


by Eugene Field | |

By my sweetheart

 Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When birds are on the wing,
When bee and bud and babbling flood
Bespeak the birth of spring,
Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
And wear this posy-ring!

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
In the mellow golden glow
Of earth aflush with the gracious blush
Which the ripening fields foreshow;
Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
As into the noon we go!

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When falls the bounteous year,
When fruit and wine of tree and vine
Give us their harvest cheer;
Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
For winter it draweth near.
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart When the year is white and old, When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth, And the hand of age is cold; Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart Till the year of our love be told!


by Eugene Field | |

The Bibliomaniacs Prayer

 Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way
That I may truths eternal seek; 
I need protecting care to-day,-- 
My purse is light, my flesh is weak.
So banish from my erring heart All baleful appetites and hints Of Satan's fascinating art, Of first editions, and of prints.
Direct me in some godly walk Which leads away from bookish strife, That I with pious deed and talk May extra-illustrate my life.
But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee To keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be Most notably beset to-day; Let my temptation be a book, Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, Whereon when other men shall look, They 'll wail to know I got it cheap.
Oh, let it such a volume be As in rare copperplates abounds, Large paper, clean, and fair to see, Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.


by Eugene Field | |

With two spoons for two spoons

 How trifling shall these gifts appear
Among the splendid many
That loving friends now send to cheer
Harvey and Ellen Jenney.
And yet these baubles symbolize A certain fond relation That well beseems, as I surmise, This festive celebration.
Sweet friends of mine, be spoons once more, And with your tender cooing Renew the keen delights of yore-- The rapturous bliss of wooing.
What though that silver in your hair Tells of the years aflying? 'T is yours to mock at Time and Care With love that is undying.
In memory of this Day, dear friends, Accept the modest token From one who with the bauble sends A love that can't be spoken.


by Eugene Field | |

The Little Peach

 A little peach in the orchard grew,--
A little peach of emerald hue;
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,
It grew.
One day, passing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue-- Them two.
Up at that peach a club they threw-- Down from the stem on which it grew Fell that peach of emerald hue.
Mon Dieu! John took a bite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,-- Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue.
Too true! Under the turf where the daisies grew They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew,-- Boo hoo! What of that peach of the emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through.
Adieu! 1880.


by Eugene Field | |

The brook

 I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"

I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say, As ever it stealeth on its way - Solemnly now, and not in play: "Oh, come with me To the slumbrous sea That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!" Heigh-ho, but the years go by - I would to God that a child were I!


by Eugene Field | |

The cunnin little thing

 When baby wakes of mornings,
Then it's wake, ye people all!
For another day
Of song and play
Has come at our darling's call!
And, till she gets her dinner,
She makes the welkin ring,
And she won't keep still till she's had her fill -
The cunnin' little thing!

When baby goes a-walking,
Oh, how her paddies fly!
For that's the way
The babies say
To other folk "by-by";
The trees bend down to kiss her,
And the birds in rapture sing,
As there she stands and waves her hands -
The cunnin' little thing!

When baby goes a-rocking
In her bed at close of day,
At hide-and-seek
On her dainty cheek
The dreams and the dimples play;
Then it's sleep in the tender kisses
The guardian angels bring
From the Far Above to my sweetest love -
You cunnin' little thing!


by Eugene Field | |

In The Firelight

 The fire upon the hearth is low,
And there is stillness everywhere,
While like winged spirits, here and there,
The firelight shadows fluttering go.
And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes, "Now I lay me down to sleep.
" And somehow, with that little prayer And that sweet treble in my ears, My thoughts go back to distant years And linger with a loved one there; And as I hear my child's amen, My mother's faith comes back to me,-- Crouched at her side I seem to be, And Mother holds my hands again.
Oh, for an hour in that dear place! Oh, for the peace of that dear time! Oh, for that childish trust sublime! Oh, for a glimpse of Mother's face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone,-- Sweet magic of that treble tone, And "Now I lay me down to sleep.
"


by Eugene Field | |

Inscription for my little sons silver plate

 When thou dost eat from off this plate,
I charge thee be thou temperate;
Unto thine elders at the board
Do thou sweet reverence accord;
And, though to dignity inclined,
Unto the serving-folk be kind;
Be ever mindful of the poor,
Nor turn them hungry from the door;
And unto God, for health and food
And all that in thy life is good,
Give thou thy heart in gratitude.


by Eugene Field | |

Japanese lullaby

 Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,--
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging--
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star,-- Silvery star with a tinkling song; To the soft dew falling I hear it calling-- Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes,-- Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping-- Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?" Up from the sea there floats the sob Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning-- Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,-- Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging-- Swinging the nest where my darling lies.


by Eugene Field | |

Garden and cradle

 When our babe he goeth walking in his garden,
Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;
The posies they are good to him,
And bow them as they should to him,
As fareth he upon his kingly way;
And birdlings of the wood to him
Make music, gentle music, all the day,
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.
When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle, Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down; The little stars are kind to him, The moon she hath a mind to him And layeth on his head a golden crown; And singeth then the wind to him A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town, When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.


by Eugene Field | |

Heines Widow or Daughter?

 Shall I woo the one or other?
Both attract me--more's the pity!
Pretty is the widowed mother,
And the daughter, too, is pretty.
When I see that maiden shrinking, By the gods I swear I'll get 'er! But anon I fall to thinking That the mother 'll suit me better! So, like any idiot ass Hungry for the fragrant fodder, Placed between two bales of grass, Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!


by Eugene Field | |

Hi-spy

 Strange that the city thoroughfare,
Noisy and bustling all the day,
Should with the night renounce its care,
And lend itself to children's play!

Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys,
And have been so since Abel's birth,
And shall be so till dolls and toys
Are with the children swept from earth.
The self-same sport that crowns the day Of many a Syrian shepherd's son, Beguiles the little lads at play By night in stately Babylon.
I hear their voices in the street, Yet 't is so different now from then! Come, brother! from your winding-sheet, And let us two be boys again!


by Eugene Field | |

Horace and Lydia Reconciled

 HORACE

When you were mine in auld lang syne,
And when none else your charms might ogle,
I'll not deny,
Fair nymph, that I
Was happier than a Persian mogul.
LYDIA Before she came--that rival flame!-- (Was ever female creature sillier?) In those good times, Bepraised in rhymes, I was more famed than Mother Ilia! HORACE Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace Does she at song or harp employ her! I'd gladly die If only I Might live forever to enjoy her! LYDIA My Sybaris so noble is That, by the gods! I love him madly-- That I might save Him from the grave I'd give my life, and give it gladly! HORACE What if ma belle from favor fell, And I made up my mind to shake her, Would Lydia, then, Come back again And to her quondam flame betake her? LYDIA My other beau should surely go, And you alone should find me gracious; For no one slings Such odes and things As does the lauriger Horatius!


by Eugene Field | |

Horace iii. 13

 O fountain of Bandusia,
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I'll pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Bandusia, The dog-star's hateful spell No evil brings unto the springs That from thy bosom well; Here oxen, wearied by the plough, The roving cattle here, Hasten in quest of certain rest And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Bandusia, Ennobled shalt thou be, For I shall sing the joys that spring Beneath yon ilex-tree; Yes, fountain of Bandusia, Posterity shall know The cooling brooks that from thy nooks Singing and dancing go!