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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.

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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 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.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem


 The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim, And all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty For the lad of one-and-twenty, But Spring for him is no more now Than daisies to a munching cow; Just a cheery pleasant season, Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled And shrieked at snowdrops when a child, Or wept one evening secretly For April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered Babylon to bits: she scattered To the hedges and ditches All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone, Mother Goose and Oberon, Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood Take together to the wood, And Sir Galahad lies hid In a cave with Captain Kidd.
None of all the magic hosts, None remain but a few ghosts Of timorous heart, to linger on Weeping for lost Babylon.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

A Versemans Apology

 Alas! I am only a rhymer,
I don't know the meaning of Art;
But I learned in my little school primer
To love Eugene Field and Bret Harte.
I hailed Hoosier Ryley with pleasure, To John Hay I took off my hat; These fellows were right to my measure, And I've never gone higher than that.
The Classics! Well, most of them bore me, The Moderns I don't understand; But I keep Burns, my kinsman before me, And Kipling, my friend, is at hand.
They taught me my trade as I know it, Yet though at their feet I have sat, For God-sake don't call me a poet, For I've never been guilty of that.
A rhyme-rustler, rugged and shameless, A Bab Balladeer on the loose; Of saccarine sonnets I'm blameless, My model has been - Mother Goose.
And I fancy my grave-digger griping As he gives my last lodging a pat: "This guy wrote McGrew; 'Twas the best he could do" .
So I'll go to my maker with that.
Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

Old Mother Goose

Old Mother Goose, when
  She wanted to wander,
Would ride through the air
  On a very fine gander.