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Best Famous Little Sister Poems

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

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Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Sisters cake

 I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind,
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind;
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares,
She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs,
And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake.
At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say: "Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!" Poor mother'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not-- For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot-- But neither she nor he presumed to signify dissent, Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went! No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand, The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand; The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew, With every damper set just so to heat the oven through; The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake.
And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro; The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow-- And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight-- And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite! But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound.
Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl! Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl; Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so, And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough! It looked so sweet and yellow--sure, to taste it were no sin-- But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in! The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through, That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do! So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night, Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might; These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake! And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane-- For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain.
I never had a sister--may be that is why today I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay; A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirth, But I (because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth! Had I a little sister--oh, how happy I should be! I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me; I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse-- I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse; And--yes, what's more and vastly more--I tell you what I'd do: I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too! I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see-- Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me! I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks, When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks; But I draw the line at one thing--yes, I don my hat and take A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake!


Written by Robert Pinsky | Create an image from this poem

To Television

 Not a "window on the world"
But as we call you,
A box a tube

Terrarium of dreams and wonders.
Coffer of shades, ordained Cotillion of phosphors Or liquid crystal Homey miracle, tub Of acquiescence, vein of defiance.
Your patron in the pantheon would be Hermes Raster dance, Quick one, little thief, escort Of the dying and comfort of the sick, In a blue glow my father and little sister sat Snuggled in one chair watching you Their wife and mother was sick in the head I scorned you and them as I scorned so much Now I like you best in a hotel room, Maybe minutes Before I have to face an audience: behind The doors of the armoire, box Within a box--Tom & Jerry, or also brilliant And reassuring, Oprah Winfrey.
Thank you, for I watched, I watched Sid Caesar speaking French and Japanese not Through knowledge but imagination, His quickness, and Thank You, I watched live Jackie Robinson stealing Home, the image--O strung shell--enduring Fleeter than light like these words we Remember in, they too winged At the helmet and ankles.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Drunkards Funeral

 "Yes," said the sister with the little pinched face,
The busy little sister with the funny little tract: —
"This is the climax, the grand fifth act.
There rides the proud, at the finish of his race.
There goes the hearse, the mourners cry, The respectable hearse goes slowly by.
The wife of the dead has money in her purse, The children are in health, so it might have been worse.
That fellow in the coffin led a life most foul.
A fierce defender of the red bar-tender, At the church he would rail, At the preacher he would howl.
He planted every deviltry to see it grow.
He wasted half his income on the lewd and the low.
He would trade engender for the red bar-tender, He would homage render to the red bar-tender, And in ultimate surrender to the red bar-tender, He died of the tremens, as crazy as a loon, And his friends were glad, when the end came soon.
There goes the hearse, the mourners cry, The respectable hearse goes slowly by.
And now, good friends, since you see how it ends, Let each nation-mender flay the red bar-tender, — Abhor The transgression Of the red bar-tender, — Ruin The profession Of the red bar-tender: Force him into business where his work does good.
Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood, Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood.
"The moral, The conclusion, The verdict now you know:— 'The saloon must go, The saloon must go, The saloon, The saloon, The saloon, Must go.
'" "You are right, little sister," I said to myself, "You are right, good sister," I said.
"Though you wear a mussy bonnet On your little gray head, You are right, little sister," I said.
Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem

The Black Swan

 When the swans turned my sister into a swan
 I would go to the lake, at night, from milking:
The sun would look out through the reeds like a swan,
 A swan's red beak; and the beak would open
And inside there was darkness, the stars and the moon.
Out on the lake, a girl would laugh.
"Sister, here is your porridge, sister," I would call; and the reeds would whisper, "Go to sleep, go to sleep, little swan.
" My legs were all hard and webbed, and the silky Hairs of my wings sank away like stars In the ripples that ran in and out of the reeds: I heard through the lap and hiss of water Someone's "Sister .
.
.
sister," far away on the shore, And then as I opened my beak to answer I heard my harsh laugh go out to the shore And saw - saw at last, swimming up from the green Low mounds of the lake, the white stone swans: The white, named swans .
.
.
"It is all a dream," I whispered, and reached from the down of the pallet To the lap and hiss of the floor.
And "Sleep, little sister," the swan all sang From the moon and stars and frogs of the floor.
But the swan my sister called, "Sleep at last, little sister," And stroked all night, with a black wing, my wings.
Written by Jane Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Come and Play in the Garden

 Little sister, come away, 
And let us in the garden play,
For it is a pleasant day.
On the grass-plat let us sit, Or, if you please, we'll play a bit, And run about all over it.
But the fruit we will not pick, For that would be a naughty trick, And very likely make us sick.
Nor will we pluck the pretty flowers That grow about the beds and bowers, Because you know they are not ours.
We'll take the daisies, white and red, Because mamma has often said That we may gather then instead.
And much I hope we always may Our very dear mamma obey, And mind whatever she may say.
Written by Ann Taylor | Create an image from this poem

About the Little Girl that Beat Her Sister

 Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss
Your little sister dear; 
I must not have such things as this,
And noisy quarrels here.
What! little children scratch and fight, That ought to be so mild; Oh! Mary, it's a shocking sight To see an angry child.
I can't imagine, for my part, The reason for your folly; She did not do you any hurt By playing with your dolly.
See, see, the little tears that run Fast from her watery eye: Come, my sweet innocent, have done, 'Twill do no good to cry.
Go, Mary, wipe her tears away, And make it up with kisses: And never turn a pretty play To such a pet as this is.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Sir Richards Song

 (A.
D.
1066) I followed my Duke ere I was a lover, To take from England fief and fee; But now this game is the other way over-- But now England hath taken me! I had my horse, my shield and banner, And a boy's heart, so whole and free; But now I sing in another manner-- But now England hath taken me! As for my Father in his tower, Asking news of my ship at sea, He will remember his own hour-- Tell him England hath taken me! As for my Mother in her bower, That rules my Father so cunningly, She will remember a maiden's power-- Tell her England hath taken me! As for my Brother in Rouen City, A nimble and naughty' page is he, But he will come to suffer and pity-- Tell him England hath taken me! As for my little Sister waiting In the pleasant orchards of Normandie, Tell her youth is the time for mating-- Tell her England hath taken me! As for my comrades in camp and highway That lift their eyebrows scornfully, Tell them their way is not my way-- Tell them England hath taken me! Kings and Princes and Barons famed, Knights and Captains in your degree; Hear me a little before I am blamed-- Seeing England hath taken me! Howso great man's strength be reckoned, There are two things he cannot flee.
Love is the first, and Death is the second- And Love in England hath taken me!


Written by George William Russell | Create an image from this poem

A Prayer

 O HOLY SPIRIT of the Hazel, hearken now:
Though shining suns and silver moons burn on the bough,
And though the fruit of stars by many myriads gleam,
Yet in the undergrowth below, still in thy dream,
Lighting the monstrous maze and labyrinthine gloom
Are many gem-winged flowers with gay and delicate bloom.
And in the shade, hearken, O Dreamer of the Tree, One wild-rose blossom of thy spirit breathed on me With lovely and still light: a little sister flower To those that whitely on the tall moon-branches tower.
Lord of the Hazel, now, O hearken while I pray.
This wild-rose blossom of thy spirit fades away.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

TO A VIOLET FOUND ON ALL SAINTS' DAY

Belated wanderer of the ways of spring,
Lost in the chill of grim November rain,
Would I could read the message that you bring
And find in it the antidote for pain.
Does some sad spirit out beyond the day,
Far looking to the hours forever dead,
Send you a tender offering to lay
Upon the grave of us, the living dead?
Or does some brighter spirit, unforlorn,
Send you, my little sister of the wood,
To say to some one on a cloudful morn,
"Life lives through death, my brother, all is good?"
With meditative hearts the others go
The memory of their dead to dress anew.
But, sister mine, bide here that I may know,
Life grows, through death, as beautiful as you.

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