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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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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.


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 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 | |

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 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 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 | |

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 Christina Rossetti | |

Is it Well with the Child?

 SAFE where I cannot die yet, 
 Safe where I hope to lie too, 
Safe from the fume and the fret; 
 You, and you, 
 Whom I never forget.
Safe from the frost and the snow, Safe from the storm and the sun, Safe where the seeds wait to grow One by one, And to come back in blow.


by Lew Welch | |

Not yet 40 my beard is already white.

 Not yet 40, my beard is already white.
Not yet awake, my eyes are puffy and red, like a child who has cried too much.
What is more disagreeable than last night's wine? I'll shave.
I'll stick my head in the cold spring and look around at the pebbles.
Maybe I can eat a can of peaches.
Then I can finish the rest of the wine, write poems 'til I'm drunk again, and when the afternoon breeze comes up I'll sleep until I see the moon and the dark trees and the nibbling deer and hear the quarreling coons


by Richard Wilbur | |

Boy at the Window

 Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes Returns him such a God-forsaken stare As outcast Adam gave to paradise.
The man of snow is, nonetheless, content, Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element, He melts enough to drop from one soft eye A trickle of the purest rain, a tear For the child at the bright pane surrounded by Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Child Is Father To The Man

 'The child is father to the man.
' How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can: 'The child is father to the man.
' No; what the poet did write ran, 'The man is father to the child.
' 'The child is father to the man!' How can he be? The words are wild.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Spring and Fall: To A Young Child

 Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving? 
Leaves, like the things of man, you 
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? 
Ah! as the heart grows older 
It will come to such sights colder 
By & by, nor spare a sigh 
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; 
And yet you wíll weep & know why.
Now no matter, child, the name: Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed: It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

To a Young Child

 Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name: Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Felix Randal

 Felix Randal the farrier, O he is dead then? my duty all ended,
Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome
Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some
Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended? 
Sickness broke him.
Impatient he cursed at first, but mended Being anointed and all; though a heavenlier heart began some Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom Tendered to him.
Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended! This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears.
My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears, Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal; How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years, When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers, Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal!


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Handsome Heart

 at a Gracious Answer


'But tell me, child, your choice; what shall I buy
You?'—'Father, what you buy me I like best.
' With the sweetest air that said, still plied and pressed, He swung to his first poised purport of reply.
What the heart is! which, like carriers let fly— Doff darkness, homing nature knows the rest— To its own fine function, wild and self-instressed, Falls light as ten years long taught how to and why.
Mannerly-hearted! more than handsome face— Beauty's bearing or muse of mounting vein, All, in this case, bathed in high hallowing grace.
.
.
Of heaven what boon to buy you, boy, or gain Not granted?—Only .
.
.
O on that path you pace Run all your race, O brace sterner that strain!


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Thee God I Come from

 Thee, God, I come from, to thee go, 
All day long I like fountain flow 
From thy hand out, swayed about 
Mote-like in thy mighty glow.
What I know of thee I bless, As acknowledging thy stress On my being and as seeing Something of thy holiness.
Once I turned from thee and hid, Bound on what thou hadst forbid; Sow the wind I would; I sinned: I repent of what I did.
Bad I am, but yet thy child.
Father, be thou reconciled.
Spare thou me, since I see With thy might that thou art mild.
I have life before me still And thy purpose to fulfil; Yea a debt to pay thee yet: Help me, sir, and so I will.
But thou bidst, and just thou art, Me shew mercy from my heart Towards my brother, every other Man my mate and counterpart.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Sea Took Pity

 The sea took pity: it interposed with doom: 
‘I have tall daughters dear that heed my hand: 
Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb, 
And she shall child them on the New-world strand.
’ .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Harry Ploughman

 Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue
Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank
Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank—
 Head and foot, shoulder and shank—
By a grey eye's heed steered well, one crew, fall to;
Stand at stress.
Each limb's barrowy brawn, his thew That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank— Soared or sank—, Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll-call, rank And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do— His sinew-service where do.
He leans to it, Harry bends, look.
Back, elbow, and liquid waist In him, all quail to the wallowing o' the plough: 's cheek crimsons; curls Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced— See his wind- lilylocks -laced; Churlsgrace, too, child of Amansstrength, how it hangs or hurls Them—broad in bluff hide his frowning feet lashed! raced With, along them, cragiron under and cold furls— With-a-fountain's shining-shot furls.


by G K Chesterton | |

A Child of the Snows

 There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim, 
And never before or again, 
When the nights are strong with a darkness long, 
And the dark is alive with rain.
Never we know but in sleet and in snow, The place where the great fires are, That the midst of the earth is a raging mirth And the heart of the earth a star.
And at night we win to the ancient inn Where the child in the frost is furled, We follow the feet where all souls meet At the inn at the end of the world.
The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, For the flame of the sun is flown, The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold, And a Child comes forth alone.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Child of a Day

 Child of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thy urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return!

And why the wish! the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep.
O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Well I Remember How You Smiled

 Well I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand .
.
.
"O! what a child! You think you're writing upon stone!" I have since written what no tide Shall ever wash away, what men Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide And find Ianthe's name again.


by William Henry Davies | |

Money

 When I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking all day at my door.
Then felt I like a child that holds A trumpet that he must not blow Because a man is dead; I dared Not speak to let this false world know.
Much have I thought of life, and seen How poor men’s hearts are ever light; And how their wives do hum like bees About their work from morn till night.
So, when I hear these poor ones laugh, And see the rich ones coldly frown— Poor men, think I, need not go up So much as rich men should come down.
When I had money, money, O! My many friends proved all untrue; But now I have no money, O! My friends are real, though very few.