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Best Famous Mother Goose Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Mother Goose poems, articles about Mother Goose poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Mother Goose poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

A Star

Higher than a house, higher than a tree.Oh! whatever can that be?


Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

A Sunshiny Shower

A sunshiny showerWon't last half an hour.
Written by Maya Angelou | Create an image from this poem

Life doesn't frighten me at all

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn't frighten me at all
 
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud
Life doesn't frighten me at all
 
Mean old Mother Goose
Lions on the loose
They don't frighten me at all
 
Dragons breathing flame
On my counterpane
That doesn't frighten me at all.
 
I go boo
Make them shoo
I make fun
Way they run
I won't cry
So they fly
I just smile
They go wild
 
Life doesn't frighten me at all.
 
Tough guys fight
All alone at night
Life doesn't frighten me at all.
 
Panthers in the park
Strangers in the dark
No, they don't frighten me at all.
 
That new classroom where
Boys all pull my hair
(Kissy little girls
With their hair in curls)
They don't frighten me at all.
 
Don't show me frogs and snakes
And listen for my scream,
If I'm afraid at all
It's only in my dreams.
 
I've got a magic charm
That I keep up my sleeve
I can walk the ocean floor
And never have to breathe.
 
Life doesn't frighten me at all
Not at all
Not at all.
 
Life doesn't frighten me at all.
Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

The Tarts

 
Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

A Little Man

  There was a little man, and he had a little gun,  And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;He went to the brook, and saw a little duck,  And shot it right through the head, head, head.He carried it home to his old wife Joan,  And bade her a fire to make, make, make.To roast the little duck he had shot in the brook,  And he'd go and fetch the drake, drake, drake.The drake was a-swimming with his curly tail;  The little man made it his mark, mark, mark.He let off his gun, but he fired too soon,  And the drake flew away with a quack, quack, quack.


Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

For Want Of A Nail

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;For want of the shoe, the horse was lost;For want of the horse, the rider was lost;For want of the rider, the battle was lost;For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost,And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

Ride Away, Ride Away

Ride away, ride away,  Johnny shall ride,And he shall have pussy-cat  Tied to one side;And he shall have little dog  Tied to the other,And Johnny shall ride  To see his grandmother.
Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

Thirty Days Hath September

Thirty days hath September,April, June, and November;February has twenty-eight alone,All the rest have thirty-one,Excepting leap-year, that's the timeWhen February's days are twenty-nine.
Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

What Are Little Boys Made Of?

What are little boys made of, made of?What are little boys made of?"Snaps and snails, and puppy-dogs' tails;And that's what little boys are made of."What are little girls made of, made of?What are little girls made of?"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;And that's what little girls are made of."
Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver

 "Son," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"you've need of clothes to cover you,
and not a rag have I.

"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.

"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,—

"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.

"It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!"
And she made a ***** sound.

That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.

"Son," said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap."

And, oh, but we were silly
For half and hour or more,
Me with my long legs,
Dragging on the floor,

A-rock-rock-rocking
To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour's time!

But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity's sake.

The night before Christmas
I cried with cold,
I cried myself to sleep 
Like a two-year old.

And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where.

Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Rapidly,

And gold threads whistling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.

She wove a child's jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
"She's made it for a king's son,"
I said, "and not for me."
But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,
Shw wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke,
And when I awoke,—

There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteeen,
And not a day older, 

A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.

And piled beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
Just my size.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things