Best Famous For Children Poems

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

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Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Ash Wednesday


Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained In the hollow round of my skull.
And God said Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live? And that which had been contained In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping: Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness, and because She honours the Virgin in meditation, We shine with brightness.
And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions Which the leopards reject.
The Lady is withdrawn In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them.
As I am forgotten And would be forgotten, so I would forget Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose.
And God said Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only The wind will listen.
And the bones sang chirping With the burden of the grasshopper, saying Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied The greater torment Of love satisfied End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other, Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand, Forgetting themselves and each other, united In the quiet of the desert.
This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot.
And neither division nor unity Matters.
This is the land.
We have our inheritance.
III At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below The same shape twisted on the banister Under the vapour in the fetid air Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair I left them twisting, turning below; There were no more faces and the stair was dark, Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair, Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.
At the first turning of the third stair Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair; Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair, Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.
IV Who walked between the violet and the violet Whe walked between The various ranks of varied green Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour, Talking of trivial things In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour Who moved among the others as they walked, Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour, Sovegna vos Here are the years that walk between, bearing Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring With a new verse the ancient rhyme.
Redeem The time.
Redeem The unread vision in the higher dream While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue Between the yews, behind the garden god, Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down Redeem the time, redeem the dream The token of the word unheard, unspoken Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew And after this our exile V If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence Not on the sea or on the islands, not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land, For those who walk in darkness Both in the day time and in the night time The right time and the right place are not here No place of grace for those who avoid the face No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee, Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender Yew trees pray for those who offend her And are terrified and cannot surrender And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks In the last desert before the last blue rocks The desert in the garden the garden in the desert Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn Wavering between the profit and the loss In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying (Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things From the wide window towards the granite shore The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying Unbroken wings And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell Quickens to recover The cry of quail and the whirling plover And the blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden, Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still Even among these rocks, Our peace in His will And even among these rocks Sister, mother And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea, Suffer me not to be separated And let my cry come unto Thee.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Bonfire

 “OH, let’s go up the hill and scare ourselves,
As reckless as the best of them to-night,
By setting fire to all the brush we piled
With pitchy hands to wait for rain or snow.
Oh, let’s not wait for rain to make it safe.
The pile is ours: we dragged it bough on bough Down dark converging paths between the pines.
Let’s not care what we do with it to-night.
Divide it? No! But burn it as one pile The way we piled it.
And let’s be the talk Of people brought to windows by a light Thrown from somewhere against their wall-paper.
Rouse them all, both the free and not so free With saying what they’d like to do to us For what they’d better wait till we have done.
Let’s all but bring to life this old volcano, If that is what the mountain ever was— And scare ourselves.
Let wild fire loose we will….
” “And scare you too?” the children said together.
“Why wouldn’t it scare me to have a fire Begin in smudge with ropy smoke and know That still, if I repent, I may recall it, But in a moment not: a little spurt Of burning fatness, and then nothing but The fire itself can put it out, and that By burning out, and before it burns out It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars, And sweeping round it with a flaming sword, Made the dim trees stand back in wider circle— Done so much and I know not how much more I mean it shall not do if I can bind it.
Well if it doesn’t with its draft bring on A wind to blow in earnest from some quarter, As once it did with me upon an April.
The breezes were so spent with winter blowing They seemed to fail the bluebirds under them Short of the perch their languid flight was toward; And my flame made a pinnacle to heaven As I walked once round it in possession.
But the wind out of doors—you know the saying.
There came a gust.
You used to think the trees Made wind by fanning since you never knew It blow but that you saw the trees in motion.
Something or someone watching made that gust.
It put the flame tip-down and dabbed the grass Of over-winter with the least tip-touch Your tongue gives salt or sugar in your hand.
The place it reached to blackened instantly.
The black was all there was by day-light, That and the merest curl of cigarette smoke— And a flame slender as the hepaticas, Blood-root, and violets so soon to be now.
But the black spread like black death on the ground, And I think the sky darkened with a cloud Like winter and evening coming on together.
There were enough things to be thought of then.
Where the field stretches toward the north And setting sun to Hyla brook, I gave it To flames without twice thinking, where it verges Upon the road, to flames too, though in fear They might find fuel there, in withered brake, Grass its full length, old silver golden-rod, And alder and grape vine entanglement, To leap the dusty deadline.
For my own I took what front there was beside.
I knelt And thrust hands in and held my face away.
Fight such a fire by rubbing not by beating.
A board is the best weapon if you have it.
I had my coat.
And oh, I knew, I knew, And said out loud, I couldn’t bide the smother And heat so close in; but the thought of all The woods and town on fire by me, and all The town turned out to fight for me—that held me.
I trusted the brook barrier, but feared The road would fail; and on that side the fire Died not without a noise of crackling wood— Of something more than tinder-grass and weed— That brought me to my feet to hold it back By leaning back myself, as if the reins Were round my neck and I was at the plough.
I won! But I’m sure no one ever spread Another color over a tenth the space That I spread coal-black over in the time It took me.
Neighbors coming home from town Couldn’t believe that so much black had come there While they had backs turned, that it hadn’t been there When they had passed an hour or so before Going the other way and they not seen it.
They looked about for someone to have done it.
But there was no one.
I was somewhere wondering Where all my weariness had gone and why I walked so light on air in heavy shoes In spite of a scorched Fourth-of-July feeling.
Why wouldn’t I be scared remembering that?” “If it scares you, what will it do to us?” “Scare you.
But if you shrink from being scared, What would you say to war if it should come? That’s what for reasons I should like to know— If you can comfort me by any answer.
” “Oh, but war’s not for children—it’s for men.
” “Now we are digging almost down to China.
My dears, my dears, you thought that—we all thought it.
So your mistake was ours.
Haven’t you heard, though, About the ships where war has found them out At sea, about the towns where war has come Through opening clouds at night with droning speed Further o’erhead than all but stars and angels,— And children in the ships and in the towns? Haven’t you heard what we have lived to learn? Nothing so new—something we had forgotten: War is for everyone, for children too.
I wasn’t going to tell you and I mustn’t.
The best way is to come up hill with me And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.
Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

Contemplation Of The Sword

 Reason will not decide at last; the sword will decide.
The sword: an obsolete instrument of bronze or steel, formerly used to kill men, but here In the sense of a symbol.
The sword: that is: the storms and counter-storms of general destruction; killing of men, Destruction of all goods and materials; massacre, more or less intentional, of children and women; Destruction poured down from wings, the air made accomplice, the innocent air Perverted into assasin and poisoner.
The sword: that is: treachery and cowardice, incredible baseness, incredible courage, loyalties, insanities.
The sword: weeping and despair, mass-enslavement, mass-tourture, frustration of all hopes That starred man's forhead.
Tyranny for freedom, horror for happiness, famine for bread, carrion for children.
Reason will not decide at last, the sword will decide.
Dear God, who are the whole splendor of things and the sacred stars, but also the cruelty and greed, the treacheries And vileness, insanities and filth and anguish: now that this thing comes near us again I am finding it hard To praise you with a whole heart.
I know what pain is, but pain can shine.
I know what death is, I have sometimes Longed for it.
But cruelty and slavery and degredation, pestilence, filth, the pitifulness Of men like hurt little birds and animals .
if you were only Waves beating rock, the wind and the iron-cored earth, With what a heart I could praise your beauty.
You will not repent, nor cancel life, nor free man from anguish For many ages to come.
You are the one that tortures himself to discover himself: I am One that watches you and discovers you, and praises you in little parables, idyl or tragedy, beautiful Intolerable God.
The sword: that is: I have two sons whom I love.
They are twins, they were born in nineteen sixteen, which seemed to us a dark year Of a great war, and they are now of the age That war prefers.
The first-born is like his mother, he is so beautiful That persons I hardly know have stopped me on the street to speak of the grave beauty of the boy's face.
The second-born has strength for his beauty; when he strips for swimming the hero shoulders and wrestler loins Make him seem clothed.
The sword: that is: loathsome disfigurements, blindness, mutilation, locked lips of boys Too proud to scream.
Reason will not decide at last: the sword will decide.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

The Hill

 Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom, and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever, One was burned in a mine, One was killed in a brawl, One died in jail, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife-- All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie, and Edith, The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?-- All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth, One of a thwarted love, One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, One of a broken pride, in a search for a heart's desire, One after life in faraway London and Paris Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag-- All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Issac and Aunt Emily, And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, And Major Walker who had talked With veneravle men of the revolution?-- All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war, And daughters whom life had crushed, And their children fatherless, crying-- All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is old Fiddler Jones Who played with life all his ninety years, Braving the sleet with bared breast, Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven? Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, Of the horse-races long ago at Clary's Grove, Of what Abe Lincoln said One time at Springfield.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Jottings of New York

 Oh, mighty city of New York, you are wonderful to behold--
Your buildings are magnificent-- the truth be it told--
They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye,
Because many of them are thirteen storeys high;

And as for Central Park, it is lovely to be seen--
Especially in the summer season when its shrubberies are green
And the Burns Statue is there to be seen,
Surrounded by trees on the beautiful sward so green;
Also Shakespeare and the immortal Sir Walter Scott,
Which by Scotchmen and Englishmen will never be forgot.
There are people on the Sabbath day in thousands resort-- All lov'd, in conversation, and eager for sport; And some of them viewing the wild beasts there, While the joyous shouts of children does rend the air-- And also beautiful black swans, I do declare.
And there's beautiful boats to be seen there, And joyous shouts of children does rend the air, While the boats sail along with them o'er Lohengrin Lake, And fare is 5 cents for children, and adults ten is all they take.
And there's also summer-house shades, and merry-go-rounds And with the merry laughter of the children the Park resounds, During the live-long Sabbath day Enjoying themselves at the merry-go-round play.
Then there's the elevated railroads abont five storeys high, Which the inhabitants can hear night and day passing by; Of, such a mass of people there daily do throng-- No less than five 100,000 daily pass along; And all along the city you can get for five cents-- And, believe me, among the passengers there's few discontent.
And the top of the houses are mostly all flat, And in the warm weather the people gather to chat; Besides, on the housetops they dry their clothes; And, also, many people all night on the housetops repose.
And numerous ships end steamboats are there to be seen, Sailing along the East River water, which is very green-- Which is certainly a most beautiful sight To see them sailing o'er the smooth water day and night.
And as for Brooklyn Bridge, it's a very great height, And fills the stranger's heart with wonder at first sight; And with all its loftiness I venture to say It cannot surpass the new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay.
And there's also ten thousand rumsellers there-- Oh, wonderful to think of, I do declare! To accommodate the people of New York therein, And to encourage them to commit all sorts of sin.
And on the Sabbath day ye will see many a man Going for beer with a big tin can, And seems proud to be seen carrying home the beer To treat his neighbours and his family dear.
Then at night numbers of the people dance and sing, Making the walls of their houses to ring With their songs and dancing on Sabbath night, Which I witnessed with disgust, and fled from the sight.
And with regard to New York and the sights I did see-- Believe me, I never saw such sights in Dundee; And the morning I sailed from the city of New York My heart it felt as light as a cork.
Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

Time Of Disturbance

 The best is, in war or faction or ordinary vindictive
 life, not to take sides.
Leave it for children, and the emotional rabble of the streets, to back their horse or support a brawler.
But if you are forced into it: remember that good and evil are as common as air, and like air shared By the panting belligerents; the moral indignation that hoarsens orators is mostly a fool.
Hold your nose and compromise; keep a cold mind.
Fight, if needs must; hate no one.
Do as God does, Or the tragic poets: they crush their man without hating him, their Lear or Hitler, and often save without love.
As for these quarrels, they are like the moon, recurrent and fantastic.
They have their beauty but night's is better.
It is better to be silent than make a noise.
It is better to strike dead than strike often.
It is better not to strike.
Written by Bliss Carman | Create an image from this poem

By the Aurelian Wall

 In Memory of John Keats
By the Aurelian Wall,
Where the long shadows of the centuries fall
From Caius Cestius' tomb,
A weary mortal seeking rest found room
For quiet burial,
Leaving among his friends
A book of lyrics.
Such untold amends A traveller might make In a strange country, bidden to partake Before he farther wends; Who slyly should bestow The foreign reed-flute they had seen him blow And finger cunningly, On one of the dark children standing by, Then lift his cloak and go.
The years pass.
And the child Thoughtful beyond his fellows, grave and mild, Treasures the rough-made toy, Until one day he blows it for clear joy, And wakes the music wild.
His fondness makes it seem A thing first fashioned in delirious dream, Some god had cut and tried, And filled with yearning passion, and cast aside On some far woodland stream,-- After long years to be Found by the stranger and brought over sea, A marvel and delight To ease the noon and pierce the dark blue night, For children such as he.
He learns the silver strain Wherewith the ghostly houses of gray rain And lonely valleys ring, When the untroubled whitethroats make the spring A world without a stain; Then on his river reed, With strange and unsuspected notes that plead Of their own wild accord For utterances no bird's throat could afford, Lifts it to human need.
His comrades leave their play, When calling and compelling far away By river-slope and hill, He pipes their wayward footsteps where he will, All the long lovely day.
Even his elders come.
"Surely the child is elvish," murmur some, And shake the knowing head; "Give us the good old simple things instead, Our fathers used to hum.
" Others at open door Smile when they hear what they have hearkened for These many summers now, Believing they should live to learn somehow Things never known before.
But he can only tell How the flute's whisper lures him with a spell, Yet always just eludes The lost perfection over which he broods; And how he loves it well.
Till all the country-side, Familiar with his piping far and wide, Has taken for its own That weird enchantment down the evening blown,-- Its glory and its pride.
And so his splendid name, Who left the book of lyrics and small fame Among his fellows then, Spreads through the world like autumn--who knows when?-- Till all the hillsides flame.
Grand Pré and Margaree Hear it upbruited from the unresting sea; And the small Gaspereau, Whose yellow leaves repeat it, seems to know A new felicity.
Even the shadows tall, Walking at sundown through the plain, recall A mound the grasses keep, Where once a mortal came and found long sleep By the Aurelian Wall.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Crazed Moon

 Crazed through much child-bearing
The moon is staggering in the sky;
Moon-struck by the despairing
Glances of her wandering eye
We grope, and grope in vain,
For children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead! When she in all her virginal pride First trod on the mountain's head What stir ran through the countryside Where every foot obeyed her glance! What manhood led the dance! Fly-catchers of the moon, Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem But slender needles of bone; Blenched by that malicious dream They are spread wide that each May rend what comes in reach.
Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

To a Childless Woman

 You think I cannot understand.
Ah, but I do.
I have been wrung with anger and compassion for you.
I wonder if you’d loathe my pity, if you knew.
But you shall know.
I’ve carried in my heart too long This secret burden.
Has not silence wrought your wrong— Brought you to dumb and wintry middle-age, with grey Unfruitful withering?—Ah, the pitiless things I say.
What do you ask your God for, at the end of day, Kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head? What mercy can He give you?—Dreams of the unborn Children that haunt your soul like loving words unsaid— Dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn? I see you in the chapel, where you bend before The enhaloed calm of everlasting Motherhood That wounds your life; I see you humbled to adore The painted miracle you’ve never understood.
Tender, and bitter-sweet, and shy, I’ve watched you holding Another’s child.
O childless woman, was it then That, with an instant’s cry, your heart, made young again, Was crucified for ever—those poor arms enfolding The life, the consummation that had been denied you? I too have longed for children.
Ah, but you must not weep.
Something I have to whisper as I kneel beside you.
And you must pray for me before you fall asleep.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

In A Light Time

 The alder shudders in the April winds 
off the moon.
No one is awake and yet sunlight streams across the hundred still beds of the public wards for children.
At ten do we truly sleep in a blessed sleep guarded by angels and social workers? Do we dream of gold found in secret trunks in familiar rooms? Do we talk to cats and dogs? I think not.
I think when I was ten I was almost an adult, slightly less sentimental than now and better with figures.
No one could force me to cry, nothing could convince me of God's concern for America much less the fall of a sparrow.
I spit into the wind, even on mornings like this, the air clear, the sky utterly silent, the fresh light flooding across bed after bed as though something were reaching blindly -- for we are blindest in sunlight -- for hands to take and eyelids to caress and bless before they open to the alder gone still and the winds hushed, before the children waken separately into their childhoods.