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Best Famous Child Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Edgar Allan Poe | |

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago 
In a kingdom by the sea 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that long ago In this kingdom by the sea A wind blew out of a cloud chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels not half so happy in heaven Went envying her and me- Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride In the sepulchre there by the sea In her tomb by the sounding sea.


by Fleda Brown | |

The Women Who Loved Elvis All Their Lives

She reads, of course, what he's doing, shaking Nixon's hand, 
dating this starlet or that, while he is faithful to her 
like a stone in her belly, like the actual love child, 
its bills and diapers.
Once he had kissed her and time had stood still, at least some point seems to remain back there as a place to return to, to wait for.
What is she waiting for? He will not marry her, nor will he stop very often.
Desireé will grow up to say her father is dead.
Desireé will imagine him standing on a timeless street, hungry for his child.
She will wait for him, not in the original, but in a gesture copied to whatever lover she takes.
He will fracture and change to landscape, to the Pope, maybe, or President Kennedy, or to a pain that darkens her eyes.
"Once," she will say, as if she remembers, and the memory will stick like a fishbone.
She knows how easily she will comply when a man puts his hand on the back of her neck and gently steers her.
She knows how long she will wait for rescue, how the world will go on expanding outside.
She will see her mother's photo of Elvis shaking hands with Nixon, the terrifying conjunction.
A whole war with Asia will begin slowly, in her lifetime, out of such irreconcilable urges.
The Pill will become available to the general public, starting up a new waiting in that other depth.
The egg will have to keep believing in its timeless moment of completion without any proof except in the longing of its own body.
Maris will break Babe Ruth's record while Orbison will have his first major hit with "Only the Lonely," trying his best to sound like Elvis.
© 1999, Fleda Brown (first published in The Iowa Review, 29 [1999])


by Maya Angelou | |

When You Come

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words, I cry.


More great poems below...

by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

I Dont Like Flowers...

I don't like flowers - they do remind me often
Of funerals, of weddings and of balls;
Their presence on tables for a dinner calls.
But sub-eternal roses' ever simple charm Which was my solace when I was a child, Has stayed - my heritage - a set of years behind, Like Mozart's ever-living music's hum.


by Emily Dickinson | |

Going to him! Happy letter!

"Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him--
Tell him the page I didn't write;
Tell him I only said the syntax,
And left the verb and the pronoun out.
Tell him just how the fingers hurried Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow- And then you wished you had eyes in your pages, So you could see what moved them so.
"Tell him it wasn't a practised writer, You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled; You could hear the bodice tug, behind you, As if it held but the might of a child; You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.
Tell him--No, you may quibble there, For it would split his heart to know it, And then you and I were silenter.
"Tell him night finished before we finished And the old clock kept neighing 'day!' And you got sleepy and begged to be ended-- What could it hinder so, to say? Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious But if he ask where you are hid Until to-morrow,--happy letter! Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"


by Emily Dickinson | |

A narrow fellow in the grass

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,--did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb, A spotted shaft is seen; And then it closes at your feet And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre, A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot, I more than once, at morn, Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash Unbraiding in the sun,-- When, stooping to secure it, It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's people I know, and they know me; I feel for them a transport Of cordiality; But never met this fellow, Attended or alone, Without a tighter breathing, And zero at the bone.


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

A Dream of the Unknown

I DREAM'D that as I wander'd by the way 
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, 
And gentle odours led my steps astray, 
Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 5 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 
But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, 10 The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets¡ª Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth¡ª Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 15 When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; 20 And wild roses, and ivy serpentine With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edge 25 There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 30 And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 35 Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours Within my hand,¡ªand then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come That I might there present it¡ªoh! to Whom? 40


by Sylvia Plath | |

Event

How the elements solidify! ---
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie

Back to back.
I here an owl cry From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.
The child in the white crib revolves and sighs, Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.
Then there are the stars - ineradicable, hard.
One touch : it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.
Where apple bloom ices the night I walk in a ring, A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us? The dark is melting.
We touch like cripples.


by Sarah Fuller Flower Adams | |

He Sendeth Sun He Sendeth Shower

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, 
Alike they're needful for the flower: 
And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love? Creator! I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Oh, ne'er will I at life repine: Enough that thou hast made it mine.
When falls the shadow cold of death I yet will sing, with parting breath, As comes to me or shade or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done!


by William Blake | |

The Little Black Boy

MY mother bore me in the southern wild, 
And I am black, but O, my soul is white! 
White as an angel is the English child, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree, 5 And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kiss¨¨d me, And, pointing to the East, began to say: 'Look at the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, 10 And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 15 Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice, Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.
"' 20 Thus did my mother say, and kiss¨¨d me, And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear 25 To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.


by William Blake | |

Reeds of Innocence

PIPING down the valleys wild  
Piping songs of pleasant glee  
On a cloud I saw a child  
And he laughing said to me: 

'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' 5 
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper pipe that song again;' So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' 10 So I sung the same again While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.
' So he vanish'd from my sight; 15 And I pluck'd a hollow reed And I made a rural pen And I stain'd the water clear And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.
20


by John Keats | |

La Belle Dame sans Merci

'O WHAT can ail thee knight-at-arms  
Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge is wither'd from the lake  
And no birds sing.
'O what can ail thee knight-at-arms 5 So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full And the harvest 's done.
'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew; 10 And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.
' 'I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful¡ªa faery's child Her hair was long her foot was light 15 And her eyes were wild.
'I made a garland for her head And bracelets too and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love And made sweet moan.
20 'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long For sideways would she lean and sing A faery's song.
'She found me roots of relish sweet 25 And honey wild and manna dew And sure in language strange she said I love thee true! 'She took me to her elfin grot And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore; 30 And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
'And there she lull¨¨d me asleep And there I dream'd¡ªAh! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd 35 On the cold hill's side.
'I saw pale kings and princes too Pale warriors death-pale were they all; They cried¡ª"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" 40 'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gap¨¨d wide And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn here 45 Alone and palely loitering Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake And no birds sing.
'


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Stanzas Written in Dejection near Naples

THE sun is warm the sky is clear  
The waves are dancing fast and bright  
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent might: 
The breath of the moist earth is light 5 
Around its unexpanded buds; 
Like many a voice of one delight¡ª 
The winds' the birds' the ocean-floods'¡ª 
The city's voice itself is soft like solitude's.
I see the deep's untrampled floor 10 With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown.
I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noontide ocean 15 Is flashing round me and a tone Arises from its measured motion¡ª How sweet did any heart now share in my emotion! Alas! I have nor hope nor health Nor peace within nor calm around; 20 Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found And walk'd with inward glory crown'd; Nor fame nor power nor love nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround¡ª 25 Smiling they live and call life pleasure: To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child 30 And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear ¡ª Till death like sleep might steal on me And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold and hear the sea 35 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Hymn to the Spirit of Nature

LIFE of Life! thy lips enkindle 
With their love the breath between them; 
And thy smiles before they dwindle 
Make the cold air fire: then screen them 
In those locks where whoso gazes 5 
Faints entangled in their mazes.
Child of Light! thy limbs are burning Through the veil which seems to hide them As the radiant lines of morning Through thin clouds ere they divide them; 10 And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.
Fair are others: none beholds thee; But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest for it folds thee 15 From the sight that liquid splendour; And all feel yet see thee never As I feel now lost for ever! Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness 20 And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness Till they fail as I am failing Dizzy lost yet unbewailing!


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

To the Night

SWIFTLY walk over the western wave  
Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where all the long and lone daylight  
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 5 
Which make thee terrible and dear ¡ª 
Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray  
Star-inwrought; 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day 10 
Kiss her until she be wearied out: 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land  
Touching all with thine opiate wand¡ª 
Come long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn 15 
I sigh'd for thee; 
When light rode high and the dew was gone  
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree  
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
Lingering like an unloved guest 20 
I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came and cried Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep the filmy-eyed Murmur'd like a noontide bee 25 Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? ¡ªAnd I replied No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead Soon too soon; 30 Sleep will come when thou art fled: Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee belov¨¨d Night¡ª Swift be thine approaching flight Come soon soon! 35


by John Donne | |

Song

GO and catch a falling star, 
Get with child a mandrake root, 
Tell me where all past years are, 
Or who cleft the Devil's foot; 
Teach me to hear mermaids singing, 5 
Or to keep off envy's stinging, 
And find 
What wind 
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights, 10 Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, 15 And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet.
20 Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet.
Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she 25 Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

Maidenhood

MAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes  
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun  
Golden tresses wreathed in one 5 
As the braided streamlets run! 

Standing with reluctant feet  
Where the brook and river meet  
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

Gazing with a timid glance 10 
On the brooklet's swift advance  
On the river's broad expanse! 

Deep and still that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem  
As the river of a dream.
15 Then why pause with indecision When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian? Seest thou shadows sailing by As the dove with startled eye 20 Sees the falcon's shadow fly? Hearest thou voices on the shore That our ears perceive no more Deafened by the cataract's roar? Oh thou child of many prayers! 25 Life hath quicksands Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares! Like the swell of some sweet tune Morning rises into noon May glides onward into June.
30 Childhood is the bough where slumbered Birds and blossoms many numbered;¡ª Age that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather then each flower that grows When the young heart overflows 35 To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow wrong and ruth 40 In thy heart the dew of youth On thy lips the smile of truth.
O that dew like balm shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; 45 And that smile like sunshine dart Into many a sunless heart For a smile of God thou art.


by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

Rosalinds Scroll

I LEFT thee last a child at heart  
A woman scarce in years: 
I come to thee a solemn corpse 
Which neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs; 5 They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.
Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou.
No look of thine can change this smile 10 Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart Is of thine earth¡ªthine earth¡ªa part: It cannot vex thee now.
I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob 15 When passion's course was free; I have pray'd for thee with silent lips In the anguish none could see; They whisper'd oft 'She sleepeth soft'¡ª But I only pray'd for thee.
20 Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong no farther woe 25 Hath licence from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.
I charge thee by the living's prayer And the dead's silentness To wring from out thy soul a cry 30 Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand And pale among the saints I stand A saint companionless.


by | |

On Salathiel Pavy

A child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel 
Epitaphs: ii


WEEP with me all you that read 
This little story; 
And know for whom a tear you shed 
Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a child that so did thrive 5 In grace and feature As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature.
Years he number'd scarce thirteen When Fates turn'd cruel 10 Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly As sooth the Parcae thought him one 15 He play'd so truly.
So by error to his fate They all consented; But viewing him since alas too late! They have repented; 20 And have sought to give new birth In baths to steep him; But being so much too good for earth Heaven vows to keep him.


by Sappho | |

On the throne of many hues Immortal Aphrodite

On the throne of many hues Immortal Aphrodite 
child of Zeus weaving wiles--I beg you
not to subdue my spirit Queen 
with pain or sorrow 

but come--if ever before 
having heard my voice from far away
you listened and leaving your father's 
golden home you came 

in your chariot yoked with swift lovely
sparrows bringing you over the dark earth
thick-feathered wings swirling down
from the sky through mid-air 

arriving quickly--you Blessed One 
with a smile on your unaging face
asking again what have I suffered
and why am I calling again 

and in my wild heart what did I most wish
to happen to me: "Again whom must I persuade
back into the harness of your love?
Sappho who wrongs you? 

For if she flees soon she'll pursue 
she doesn't accept gifts but she'll give 
if not now loving soon she'll love
even against her will." 

Come to me now again release me from
this pain everything my spirit longs 
to have fulfilled fulfill and you
be my ally 

--Translated by Diane Rayor 


by Sappho | |

Some an army of horsemen some an army on foot

Some an army of horsemen some an army on foot
and some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest sight
on this dark earth; but I say it is what-
ever you desire: 

and it it possible to make this perfectly clear
to all; for the woman who far surpassed all others 
in her beauty Helen left her husband --
the best of all men -- 

behind and sailed far away to Troy; she did not spare
a single thought for her child nor for her dear parents
but [the goddess of love] led her astray
[to desire...] 

[...which]
reminds me now of Anactoria
although far away  

--Translated by Josephine Balmer 


by Dimitris Varos | |

Mind Games

 I am a waterfall in the desert.
A rain from a cloudless sky.
A well known but unborn child.
An insistence experience that you never had.
I play mind games with your brain.
When you strike the keys and remember the sea I come as indefinable memory.
When you look at your watch and the time has passed you feel me like a fleeting hallucination.
I play mind games with your brain.
I’m nesting behind your eyes.
I’m ranging through your dreams.
You are finding me in all of your desires.
In all of those are absent from you.
I play mind games with your brain.
I stand in the places that you cannot reach.
I exist where you cannot touch upon.
But I am what you always waiting for I m what holds your life on.
I play mind games with your brain.
But I swear this is not a fun.
I feel unbearable loneliness.
Because I do not have a body And you, that you have, refuse me yours.


by Allama Iqbal | |

A Mothers Dream

One night while sleeping
I dreamt
Seeing which I began
To get impatient

I saw that
To a place I am going
Where everywhere was dark
And paths are not reaching

As I proceeded
With the confidence I gathered
A queue I saw
Where boys had assembled

Emerald-like garment
They were wearing
In every hand
A little lamp was burning

Without making any noise
To and fro they were moving
Lord alone knows
Where exactly were they going?

While in this thought
My son did I find
Standing in this set
And left behind.
He was at the back 'coz he was not quick.
The lamp in his hand Was not getting burnt.
I said 'Dear One! Remember me.
Leaving me behind, Where have you come? Restless I am In your separation Enjoining I am A necklace of tears To us you have showed No concern at all The wound once healed Loyal you are not at all When saw the children My fret and fume Turning his face The reply came If you are sad When from you I separate Neither for your lad Is there any profit (in separation)! Saying this, the child For sometime remained quiet.
Then lamp in his hand held He spoke thus: Are you wondering, What to this is happening? Your tears flowing Has barred it from burning.


by Wole Soyinka | |

Dedication

Dedication

for Moremi, 1963

Earth will not share the rafter's envy; dung floors
Break, not the gecko's slight skin, but its fall
Taste this soil for death and plumb her deep for life

As this yam, wholly earthed, yet a living tuber
To the warmth of waters, earthed as springs
As roots of baobab, as the hearth.
The air will not deny you.
Like a top Spin you on the navel of the storm, for the hoe That roots the forests plows a path for squirrels.
Be ageless as dark peat, but only that rain's Fingers, not the feet of men, may wash you over.
Long wear the sun's shadow; run naked to the night.
Peppers green and red—child—your tongue arch To scorpion tail, spit straight return to danger's threats Yet coo with the brown pigeon, tendril dew between your lips.
Shield you like the flesh of palms, skyward held Cuspids in thorn nesting, insealed as the heart of kernel— A woman's flesh is oil—child, palm oil on your tongue Is suppleness to life, and wine of this gourd From self-same timeless run of runnels as refill Your podlings, child, weaned from yours we embrace Earth's honeyed milk, wine of the only rib.
Now roll your tongue in honey till your cheeks are Swarming honeycombs—your world needs sweetening, child.
Camwood round the heart, chalk for flight Of blemish—see? it dawns!—antimony beneath Armpits like a goddess, and leave this taste Long on your lips, of salt, that you may seek None from tears.
This, rain-water, is the gift Of gods—drink of its purity, bear fruits in season.
Fruits then to your lips: haste to repay The debt of birth.
Yield man-tides like the sea And ebbing, leave a meaning of the fossilled sands.