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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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Written by Robert William Service | |


 Let us have birthdays every day,
(I had the thought while I was shaving)
Because a birthday should be gay,
And full of grace and good behaving.
We can't have cakes and candles bright, And presents are beyond our giving, But let lt us cherish with delight The birthday way of lovely living.
For I have passed three-score and ten And I can count upon my fingers The years I hope to bide with men, (Though by God's grace one often lingers.
) So in the summers left to me, Because I'm blest beyond my merit, I hope with gratitude and glee To sparkle with the birthday spirit.
Let me inform myself each day Who's proudmost on the natal roster; If Washington or Henry Clay, Or Eugene Field or Stephen Foster.
oh lots of famous folks I'll find Who more than measure to my rating, And so thanksgivingly inclined Their birthdays I'll be celebrating.
For Oh I know the cheery glow| Of Anniversary rejoicing; Let me reflect its radiance so My daily gladness I'll be voicing.
And though I'm stooped and silver-haired, Let me with laughter make the hearth gay, So by the gods I may be spared Each year to hear: "Pop, Happy Birthday.

Written 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.

Written by Robert William Service | |


 I like to think that when I fall,
A rain-drop in Death's shoreless sea,
This shelf of books along the wall,
Beside my bed, will mourn for me.
Regard it.
Aye, my taste is queer.
Some of my bards you may disdain.
Shakespeare and Milton are not here; Shelly and Keats you seek in vain.
Wordsworth, Tennyson, Browning too, Remarkably are not in view.
Who are they? Omar first you see, With Vine and Rose and Nightingale, Voicing my pet philosphy Of Wine and Song.
Then Reading Gaol, Where Fate a gruesome pattern makes, And dawn-light shudders as it wakes.
The Ancient Mariner is next, With eerie and terrific text; The Burns, with pawky human touch - Poor devil! I have loved him much.
And now a gay quartette behold: Bret Harte and Eugene Field are here; And Henly, chanting brave and bold, And Chesteron, in praise of Beer.
Lastly come valiant Singers three; To whom this strident Day belongs: Kipling, to whom I bow the knee, Masefield, with rugged sailor songs.
And to my lyric troupe I add With greatful heart - The Shropshire Lad.
Behold my minstrels, just eleven.
For half my life I've loved them well.
And though I have no hope of Heaven, And more than Highland fear of Hell, May I be damned if on this shelf ye find a rhyme I made myself.

More great poems below...

Written by Eugene Field | |

Two idylls from bion the smyrnean


Once a fowler, young and artless,
To the quiet greenwood came;
Full of skill was he and heartless
In pursuit of feathered game.
And betimes he chanced to see Eros perching in a tree.
"What strange bird is that, I wonder?" Thought the youth, and spread his snare; Eros, chuckling at the blunder, Gayly scampered here and there.
Do his best, the simple clod Could not snare the agile god! Blubbering, to his aged master Went the fowler in dismay, And confided his disaster With that curious bird that day; "Master, hast thou ever heard Of so ill-disposed a bird?" "Heard of him? Aha, most truly!" Quoth the master with a smile; "And thou too, shall know him duly-- Thou art young, but bide awhile, And old Eros will not fly From thy presence by and by! "For when thou art somewhat older That same Eros thou didst see, More familiar grown and bolder, Shall become acquaint with thee; And when Eros comes thy way Mark my word, he comes to stay!" II Once came Venus to me, bringing Eros where my cattle fed-- "Teach this little boy your singing, Gentle herdsman," Venus said.
I was young--I did not know Whom it was that Venus led-- That was many years ago! In a lusty voice but mellow-- Callow pedant! I began To instruct the little fellow In the mysteries known to man; Sung the noble cithern's praise, And the flute of dear old Pan, And the lyre that Hermes plays.
But he paid no heed unto me-- Nay, that graceless little boy Coolly plotted to undo me-- With his songs of tender joy; And my pedantry o'erthrown, Eager was I to employ His sweet ritual for mine own! Ah, these years of ours are fleeting! Yet I have not vainly wrought, Since to-day I am repeating What dear lessons Eros taught; Love, and always love, and then-- Counting all things else for naught-- Love and always love again!

Written by Eugene Field | |

Two valentines

--TO MISTRESS BARBARA There were three cavaliers, all handsome and true, On Valentine's day came a maiden to woo, And quoth to your mother: "Good-morrow, my dear, We came with some songs for your daughter to hear!" Your mother replied: "I'll be pleased to convey To my daughter what things you may sing or may say!" Then the first cavalier sung: "My pretty red rose, I'll love you and court you some day, I suppose!" And the next cavalier sung, with make-believe tears: "I've loved you! I've loved you these many long years!" But the third cavalier (with the brown, bushy head And the pretty blue jacket and necktie of red) He drew himself up with a resolute air, And he warbled: "O maiden, surpassingly fair! I've loved you long years, and I love you to-day, And, if you will let me, I'll love you for aye!" I (the third cavalier) sang this ditty to you, In my necktie of red and my jacket of blue; I'm sure you'll prefer the song that was mine And smile your approval on your valentine.
--TO A BABY BOY Who I am I shall not say, But I send you this bouquet With this query, baby mine: "Will you be my valentine?" See these roses blushing blue, Very like your eyes of hue; While these violets are the red Of your cheeks.
It can be said Ne'er before was babe like you.
And I think it is quite true No one e'er before to-day Sent so wondrous a bouquet As these posies aforesaid-- Roses blue and violets red! Sweet, repay me sweets for sweets-- 'Tis your lover who entreats! Smile upon me, baby mine-- Be my little valentine!

Written by Eugene Field | |

The straw parlor

 Way up at the top of a big stack of straw
Was the cunningest parlor that ever you saw!
And there could you lie when aweary of play
And gossip or laze in the coziest way;
No matter how careworn or sorry one's mood
No worldly distraction presumed to intrude.
As a refuge from onerous mundane ado I think I approve of straw parlors, don't you? A swallow with jewels aflame on her breast On that straw parlor's ceiling had builded her nest; And she flew in and out all the happy day long, And twittered the soothingest lullaby song.
Now some might suppose that that beautiful bird Performed for her babies the music they heard; I reckon she twittered her répertoire through For the folk in the little straw parlor, don't you? And down from a rafter a spider had hung Some swings upon which he incessantly swung.
He cut up such didoes--such antics he played Way up in the air, and was never afraid! He never made use of his horrid old sting, But was just upon earth for the fun of the thing! I deeply regret to observe that so few Of these good-natured insects are met with, don't you? And, down in the strawstack, a wee little mite Of a cricket went chirping by day and by night; And further down, still, a cunning blue mouse In a snug little nook of that strawstack kept house! When the cricket went "chirp," Miss Mousie would squeak "Come in," and a blush would enkindle her cheek! She thought--silly girl! 't was a beau come to woo, But I guess it was only the cricket, don't you? So the cricket, the mouse, and the motherly bird Made as soothingsome music as ever you heard And, meanwhile, that spider by means of his swings Achieved most astounding gyrations and things! No wonder the little folk liked what they saw And loved what they heard in that parlor of straw! With the mercury up to 102 In the shade, I opine they just sizzled, don't you? But once there invaded that Eden of straw The evilest Feline that ever you saw! She pounced on that cricket with rare promptitude And she tucked him away where he'd do the most good; And then, reaching down to the nethermost house, She deftly expiscated little Miss Mouse! And, as for the Swallow, she shrieked and withdrew-- I rather admire her discretion, don't you? Now listen: That evening a cyclone obtained, And the mortgage was all on that farm that remained! Barn, strawstack and spider--they all blew away, And nobody knows where they're at to this day! And, as for the little straw parlor, I fear It was wafted clean off this sublunary sphere! I really incline to a hearty "boo-hoo" When I think of this tragical ending, don't you?

Written by Eugene Field | |



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!

Written by Eugene Field | |

The two little skeezucks

 There were two little skeezucks who lived in the isle
Of Boo in a southern sea;
They clambered and rollicked in heathenish style
In the boughs of their cocoanut tree.
They didn't fret much about clothing and such And they recked not a whit of the ills That sometimes accrue From having to do With tailor and laundry bills.
The two little skeezucks once heard of a Fair Far off from their native isle, And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't go there To take in the sights for awhile.
Now old King Fan Was a good-natured man (As good-natured monarchs go), And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a bore, He hadn't the heart to say "No.
" So the two little skeezucks sailed off to the Fair In a great big gum canoe, And I fancy they had a good time there, For they tarried a year or two.
And old King Fan at last began To reckon they'd come to grief, When glory! one day They sailed into the bay To the tune of "Hail to the Chief!" The two little skeezucks fell down on the sand, Embracing his majesty's toes, Till his majesty graciously bade them stand And salute him nose to nose.
And then quoth he: "Divulge unto me What happenings have hapt to you; And how did they dare to indulge in a Fair So far from the island of Boo?" The two little skeezucks assured their king That what he surmised was true; That the Fair would have been a different thing Had it only been held in Boo! "The folk over there in no wise compare With the folk of the southern seas; Why, they comb out their heads And they sleep in beds Instead of in caverns and trees!" The two little skeezucks went on to say That children (so far as they knew) Had a much harder time in that land far away Than here in the island of Boo! They have to wear clo'es Which (as every one knows) Are irksome to primitive laddies, While, with forks and with spoons, they're denied the sweet boons That accrue from free use of one's paddies! "And now that you're speaking of things to eat," Interrupted the monarch of Boo, "We beg to inquire if you happened to meet With a nice missionary or two?" "No, that we did not; in that curious spot Where were gathered the fruits of the earth, Of that special kind Which Your Nibs has in mind There appeared a deplorable dearth!" Then loud laughed that monarch in heathenish mirth And loud laughed his courtiers, too, And they cried: "There is elsewhere no land upon earth So good as our island of Boo!" And the skeezucks, tho' glad Of the journey they'd had, Climbed up in their cocoanut trees, Where they still may be seen with no shirts to keep clean Or trousers that bag at the knees.

Written 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.

Written by Eugene Field | |

The wind


Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing--
Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession.
"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses-- Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing; Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes-- She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!" "Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!" "Straight from my wooing I come--my lips are bedewed with her kisses-- My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!" (THE SONG) The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose, And he wooeth his love to wed: Sweet is his song The Summer long As he kisseth her lips so red; And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought When the Summer of love is sped! (AGAIN THE TALE) Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter.
"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamentations?" Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate garden Come I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!" "Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and loving, It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing displeasure.
" The Wind maketh ever more moan and ever it giveth this answer: "My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of the Summer-- I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow of Winter; I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her loveliness lieth And the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that forever outcrieth!" (AGAIN THE SONG) The Wind he waileth the red, red Rose When the Summer of love is sped-- He waileth above His lifeless love With her shroud of snow o'erspread-- Crieth such things as a true heart brings To the grave of its precious dead.

Written by Eugene Field | |

The dreams

 Two dreams came down to earth one night
From the realm of mist and dew;
One was a dream of the old, old days,
And one was a dream of the new.
One was a dream of a shady lane That led to the pickerel pond Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves To the brown old hills beyond.
And the people that peopled the old-time dream Were pleasant and fair to see, And the dreamer he walked with them again As often of old walked he.
Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane That tangled his curly hair! Oh, sweet was the music the robins made To the springtime everywhere! Was it the dew the dream had brought From yonder midnight skies, Or was it tears from the dear, dead years That lay in the dreamer's eyes? The other dream ran fast and free, As the moon benignly shed Her golden grace on the smiling face In the little trundle-bed.
For 't was a dream of times to come-- Of the glorious noon of day-- Of the summer that follows the careless spring When the child is done with play.
And 't was a dream of the busy world Where valorous deeds are done; Of battles fought in the cause of right, And of victories nobly won.
It breathed no breath of the dear old home And the quiet joys of youth; It gave no glimpse of the good old friends Or the old-time faith and truth.
But 't was a dream of youthful hopes, And fast and free it ran, And it told to a little sleeping child Of a boy become a man! These were the dreams that came one night To earth from yonder sky; These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed-- My little boy and I.
And in our hearts my boy and I Were glad that it was so; He loved to dream of days to come, And I of long ago.
So from our dreams my boy and I Unwillingly awoke, But neither of his precious dream Unto the other spoke.
Yet of the love we bore those dreams Gave each his tender sign; For there was triumph in his eyes-- And there were tears in mine!

Written by Eugene Field | |

The drum

 I'm a beautiful red, red drum,
And I train with the soldier boys;
As up the street we come,
Wonderful is our noise!
There's Tom, and Jim, and Phil,
And Dick, and Nat, and Fred,
While Widow Cutler's Bill
And I march on ahead,
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum -
Oh, there's bushels of fun in that
For boys with a little red drum!

The Injuns came last night
While the soldiers were abed,
And they gobbled a Chinese kite
And off to the woods they fled!
The woods are the cherry-trees
Down in the orchard lot,
And the soldiers are marching to seize
The booty the Injuns got.
With tum-titty-um-tum-tum, And r-r-rat-tat-tat, When soldiers marching come Injuns had better scat! Step up there, little Fred, And, Charley, have a mind! Jim is as far ahead As you two are behind! Ready with gun and sword Your valorous work to do - Yonder the Injun horde Are lying in wait for you.
And their hearts go pitapat When they hear the soldiers come With a r-r-rat-tat-tat And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum! Course it's all in play! The skulking Injun crew That hustled the kite away Are little white boys, like you! But "honest" or "just in fun," It is all the same to me; And, when the battle is won, Home once again march we With a r-r-rat-tat-tat And tum-titty-um-tum-tum; And there's glory enough in that For the boys with their little red drum!

Written by Eugene Field | |

The fly-away horse

 Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse -
Perhaps you have seen him before;
Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept

Through the moonlight that floats on the floor.
For it's only at night, when the stars twinkle bright, That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane, Is up on his heels and away! The Moon in the sky, As he gallopeth by, Cries: "Oh! what a marvelous sight!" And the Stars in dismay Hide their faces away In the lap of old Grandmother Night.
It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse Speedeth ever and ever away - Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains, Over streamlets that sing at their play; And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he, While the ships they go sailing below, And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast Adjudge him some portent of woe.
"What ho there!" they cry, As he flourishes by With a whisk of his beautiful tail; And the fish in the sea Are as scared as can be, From the nautilus up to the whale! And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those faraway lands You little folk dream of at night - Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow, And corn-fields with popcorn are white; And the beasts in the wood are ever so good To children who visit them there - What glory astride of a lion to ride, Or to wrestle around with a bear! The monkeys, they say: "Come on, let us play," And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees: While the parrots, that cling To the peanut-vines, sing Or converse with comparative ease! Off! scamper to bed - you shall ride him tonight! For, as soon as you've fallen asleep, With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away Over forest and hillside and deep! But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear In those beautiful lands over there, Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his faraway course With the wee one consigned to his care.
Then grandma will cry In amazement: "Oh, my!" And she'll think it could never be so; And only we two Shall know it is true - You and I, little precious! shall know!

Written by Eugene Field | |

The great journalist in spain

 Good editor Dana--God bless him, we say--
Will soon be afloat on the main,
Will be steaming away
Through the mist and the spray
To the sensuous climate of Spain.
Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land Which is famed for its soap and its Moor, For, as we understand, The scenery is grand Though the system of railways is poor.
For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, And the ladies, we're told, Are a joy to behold As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.
What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar And murmur a passionate strain; Oh, fairer by far Than those ravishments are The castles abounding in Spain.
These castles are built as the builder may list-- They are sometimes of marble or stone, But they mostly consist Of east wind and mist With an ivy of froth overgrown.
A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise On a futile foundation of hope, And its glories shall blaze In the somnolent haze Of the mythical lake del y Soap.
The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air And the visions of Dreamland obtain, And the song of "World's Fair" Shall be heard everywhere Through that beautiful castle in Spain.

Written by Eugene Field | |

The Bibliomaniacs Bride

 The women-folk are like to books,--
Most pleasing to the eye,
Whereon if anybody looks
He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale,-- Those that record no dates, And such editions as regale The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade And size they may be found,-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice, I'd choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal,-- As plump and pudgy as a snipe; Well worth her weight in gold; Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And just the size to hold! With such a volume for my wife How should I keep and con! How like a dream should run my life Unto its colophon! Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health, she would not care To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a jeu d'esprit,-- But nothing ever worse! Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse when to verse inclined,-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine! With such a fair unique as this What happiness abounds! Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes!