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Best Famous Pranks Poems

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

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Written by John Masefield | Create an image from this poem

A Ballad of John Silver

 We were schooner-rigged and rakish, 
with a long and lissome hull, 
And we flew the pretty colours of the crossbones and the skull; 
We'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore, 
And we sailed the Spanish Water in the happy days of yore.
We'd a long brass gun amidships, like a well-conducted ship, We had each a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip; It's a point which tells against us, and a fact to be deplored, But we chased the goodly merchant-men and laid their ships aboard.
Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains, And the paint-work all was spatter dashed with other peoples brains, She was boarded, she was looted, she was scuttled till she sank.
And the pale survivors left us by the medium of the plank.
O! then it was (while standing by the taffrail on the poop) We could hear the drowning folk lament the absent chicken coop; Then, having washed the blood away, we'd little else to do Than to dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught us to.
O! the fiddle on the fo'c'sle, and the slapping naked soles, And the genial "Down the middle, Jake, and curtsey when she rolls!" With the silver seas around us and the pale moon overhead, And the look-out not a-looking and his pipe-bowl glowing red.
Ah! the pig-tailed, quidding pirates and the pretty pranks we played, All have since been put a stop to by the naughty Board of Trade; The schooners and the merry crews are laid away to rest, A little south the sunset in the islands of the Blest.


Written by Louisa May Alcott | Create an image from this poem

The Lay of a Golden Goose

 Long ago in a poultry yard 
One dull November morn, 
Beneath a motherly soft wing 
A little goose was born.
Who straightway peeped out of the shell To view the world beyond, Longing at once to sally forth And paddle in the pond.
"Oh! be not rash," her father said, A mild Socratic bird; Her mother begged her not to stray With many a warning word.
But little goosey was perverse, And eagerly did cry, "I've got a lovely pair of wings, Of course I ought to fly.
" In vain parental cacklings, In vain the cold sky's frown, Ambitious goosey tried to soar, But always tumbled down.
The farmyard jeered at her attempts, The peacocks screamed, "Oh fie! You're only a domestic goose, So don't pretend to fly.
" Great cock-a-doodle from his perch Crowed daily loud and clear, "Stay in the puddle, foolish bird, That is your proper sphere," The ducks and hens said, one and all, In gossip by the pool, "Our children never play such pranks; My dear, that fowl's a fool.
" The owls came out and flew about, Hooting above the rest, "No useful egg was ever hatched From transcendental nest.
" Good little goslings at their play And well-conducted chicks Were taught to think poor goosey's flights Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.
They were content to swim and scratch, And not at all inclined For any wild goose chase in search Of something undefined.
Hard times she had as one may guess, That young aspiring bird, Who still from every fall arose Saddened but undeterred.
She knew she was no nightingale Yet spite of much abuse, She longed to help and cheer the world, Although a plain gray goose She could not sing, she could not fly, Nor even walk, with grace, And all the farmyard had declared A puddle was her place.
But something stronger than herself Would cry, "Go on, go on! Remember, though an humble fowl, You're cousin to a swan.
" So up and down poor goosey went, A busy, hopeful bird.
Searched many wide unfruitful fields, And many waters stirred.
At length she came unto a stream Most fertile of all Niles, Where tuneful birds might soar and sing Among the leafy isles.
Here did she build a little nest Beside the waters still, Where the parental goose could rest Unvexed by any bill.
And here she paused to smooth her plumes, Ruffled by many plagues; When suddenly arose the cry, "This goose lays golden eggs.
" At once the farmyard was agog; The ducks began to quack; Prim Guinea fowls relenting called, "Come back, come back, come back.
" Great chanticleer was pleased to give A patronizing crow, And the contemptuous biddies clucked, "I wish my chicks did so.
" The peacocks spread their shining tails, And cried in accents soft, "We want to know you, gifted one, Come up and sit aloft.
" Wise owls awoke and gravely said, With proudly swelling breasts, "Rare birds have always been evoked From transcendental nests!" News-hunting turkeys from afar Now ran with all thin legs To gobble facts and fictions of The goose with golden eggs.
But best of all the little fowls Still playing on the shore, Soft downy chicks and goslings gay, Chirped out, "Dear Goose, lay more.
" But goosey all these weary years Had toiled like any ant, And wearied out she now replied "My little dears, I can't.
"When I was starving, half this corn Had been of vital use, Now I am surfeited with food Like any Strasbourg goose.
" So to escape too many friends, Without uncivil strife, She ran to the Atlantic pond And paddled for her life.
Soon up among the grand old Alps She found two blessed things, The health she had so nearly lost, And rest for weary limbs.
But still across the briny deep Couched in most friendly words, Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse From literary birds.
Whereat the renovated fowl With grateful thanks profuse, Took from her wing a quill and wrote This lay of a Golden Goose.
Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat

 There's a whisper down the line at 11.
39 When the Night Mail's ready to depart, Saying "Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to hunt the thimble? We must find him or the train can't start.
" All the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster's daughters They are searching high and low, Saying "Skimble where is Skimble for unless he's very nimble Then the Night Mail just can't go.
" At 11.
42 then the signal's nearly due And the passengers are frantic to a man— Then Skimble will appear and he'll saunter to the rear: He's been busy in the luggage van! He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes And the signal goes "All Clear!" And we're off at last for the northern part Of the Northern Hemisphere! You may say that by and large it is Skimble who's in charge Of the Sleeping Car Express.
From the driver and the guards to the bagmen playing cards He will supervise them all, more or less.
Down the corridor he paces and examines all the faces Of the travellers in the First and the Third; He establishes control by a regular patrol And he'd know at once if anything occurred.
He will watch you without winking and he sees what you are thinking And it's certain that he doesn't approve Of hilarity and riot, so the folk are very quiet When Skimble is about and on the move.
You can play no pranks with Skimbleshanks! He's a Cat that cannot be ignored; So nothing goes wrong on the Northern Mail When Skimbleshanks is aboard.
Oh, it's very pleasant when you have found your little den With your name written up on the door.
And the berth is very neat with a newly folded sheet And there's not a speck of dust on the floor.
There is every sort of light-you can make it dark or bright; There's a handle that you turn to make a breeze.
There's a funny little basin you're supposed to wash your face in And a crank to shut the window if you sneeze.
Then the guard looks in politely and will ask you very brightly "Do you like your morning tea weak or strong?" But Skimble's just behind him and was ready to remind him, For Skimble won't let anything go wrong.
And when you creep into your cosy berth And pull up the counterpane, You ought to reflect that it's very nice To know that you won't be bothered by mice— You can leave all that to the Railway Cat, The Cat of the Railway Train! In the watches of the night he is always fresh and bright; Every now and then he has a cup of tea With perhaps a drop of Scotch while he's keeping on the watch, Only stopping here and there to catch a flea.
You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never knew That he was walking up and down the station; You were sleeping all the while he was busy at Carlisle, Where he greets the stationmaster with elation.
But you saw him at Dumfries, where he speaks to the police If there's anything they ought to know about: When you get to Gallowgate there you do not have to wait— For Skimbleshanks will help you to get out! He gives you a wave of his long brown tail Which says: "I'll see you again! You'll meet without fail on the Midnight Mail The Cat of the Railway Train.
"
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Knight in Disguise

 [Concerning O.
Henry (Sidney Porter)] "He could not forget that he was a Sidney.
" Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this loud clown, The darling of the glad and gaping town? This is that dubious hero of the press Whose slangy tongue and insolent address Were spiced to rouse on Sunday afternoon The man with yellow journals round him strewn.
We laughed and dozed, then roused and read again, And vowed O.
Henry funniest of men.
He always worked a triple-hinged surprise To end the scene and make one rub his eyes.
He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer.
He comes with megaphone and specious cheer.
His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean, Step from the pages of the magazine With slapstick or sombrero or with cane: The rube, the cowboy or the masher vain.
They over-act each part.
But at the height Of banter and of canter and delight The masks fall off for one ***** instant there And show real faces: faces full of care And desperate longing: love that's hot or cold; And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold.
The masks go back.
'Tis one more joke.
Laugh on! The goodly grown-up company is gone.
No doubt had he occasion to address The brilliant court of purple-clad Queen Bess, He would have wrought for them the best he knew And led more loftily his actor-crew.
How coolly he misquoted.
'Twas his art — Slave-scholar, who misquoted — from the heart.
So when we slapped his back with friendly roar Æsop awaited him without the door, — Æsop the Greek, who made dull masters laugh With little tales of fox and dog and calf .
And be it said, mid these his pranks so odd With something nigh to chivalry he trod And oft the drear and driven would defend — The little shopgirls' knight unto the end.
Yea, he had passed, ere we could understand The blade of Sidney glimmered in his hand.
Yea, ere we knew, Sir Philip's sword was drawn With valiant cut and thrust, and he was gone.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

Epitaphs For Two Players

 I.
EDWIN BOOTH An old actor at the Player's Club told me that Edwin Booth first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California.
There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided with crude assembly rooms for strolling players.
The youth played in the blear hotel.
The rafters gleamed with glories strange.
And winds of mourning Elsinore Howling at chance and fate and change; Voices of old Europe's dead Disturbed the new-built cattle-shed, The street, the high and solemn range.
The while the coyote barked afar All shadowy was the battlement.
The ranch-boys huddled and grew pale, Youths who had come on riot bent.
Forgot were pranks well-planned to sting.
Behold there rose a ghostly king, And veils of smoking Hell were rent.
When Edwin Booth played Hamlet, then The camp-drab's tears could not but flow.
Then Romance lived and breathed and burned.
She felt the frail queen-mother's woe, Thrilled for Ophelia, fond and blind, And Hamlet, cruel, yet so kind, And moaned, his proud words hurt her so.
A haunted place, though new and harsh! The Indian and the Chinaman And Mexican were fain to learn What had subdued the Saxon clan.
Why did they mumble, brood, and stare When the court-players curtsied fair And the Gonzago scene began? And ah, the duel scene at last! They cheered their prince with stamping feet.
A death-fight in a palace! Yea, With velvet hangings incomplete, A pasteboard throne, a pasteboard crown, And yet a monarch tumbled down, A brave lad fought in splendor meet.
Was it a palace or a barn? Immortal as the gods he flamed.
There in his last great hour of rage His foil avenged a mother shamed.
In duty stern, in purpose deep He drove that king to his black sleep And died, all godlike and untamed.
I was not born in that far day.
I hear the tale from heads grown white.
And then I walk that earlier street, The mining camp at candle-light.
I meet him wrapped in musings fine Upon some whispering silvery line He yet resolves to speak aright.
II.
EPITAPH FOR JOHN BUNNY, MOTION PICTURE COMEDIAN In which he is remembered in similitude, by reference to Yorick, the king's jester, who died when Hamlet and Ophelia were children.
Yorick is dead.
Boy Hamlet walks forlorn Beneath the battlements of Elsinore.
Where are those oddities and capers now That used to "set the table on a roar"? And do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds Ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright? No doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer, But silence broods on Elsinore tonight.
That little elf, Ophelia, eight years old, Upon her battered doll's staunch bosom weeps.
("O best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.
") With tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps.
Hamlet himself could not give cheer or help, Though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled.
For every game they started out to play Yorick invented, in the days of old.
The times are out of joint! O cursed spite! The noble jester Yorick comes no more.
And Hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride By some lone turret-stair of Elsinore.


Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

62. Epistle to William Simson

 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,
 And unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin billie
 Your flatterin strain.
But I’se believe ye kindly meant it: I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho’ in sic phraisin terms ye’ve penn’d it, I scarce excuse ye.
My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield, The braes o’ fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name.
(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye E’nbrugh gentry! The tithe o’ what ye waste at cartes Wad stow’d his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, Or lassies gie my heart a screed— As whiles they’re like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu’ fain, She’s gotten poets o’ her ain; Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a’ resound again Her weel-sung praise.
Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur’d style; She lay like some unkenn’d-of-isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.
Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings; While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon Naebody sings.
Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line: But Willie, set your fit to mine, An’ cock your crest; We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine Up wi’ the best! We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells, Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells, Her banks an’ braes, her dens and dells, Whare glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Suthron billies.
At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace’ side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, Or glorious died! O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy; While thro’ the braes the cushat croods With wailfu’ cry! Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave thro’ the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark’ning the day! O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi’ life an light; Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn’d to wander, Adown some trottin burn’s meander, An’ no think lang: O sweet to stray, an’ pensive ponder A heart-felt sang! The war’ly race may drudge an’ drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive; Let me fair Nature’s face descrive, And I, wi’ pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure.
Fareweel, “my rhyme-composing” brither! We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While Highlandmen hate tools an’ taxes; While moorlan’s herds like guid, fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis, Diurnal turns; Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice, In Robert Burns.
POSTCRIPTMY memory’s no worth a preen; I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this “new-light,” ’Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie; But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon Gaed past their viewin; An’ shortly after she was done They gat a new ane.
This passed for certain, undisputed; It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it, An’ ca’d it wrang; An’ muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an’ lang.
Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For ’twas the auld moon turn’d a neuk An’ out of’ sight, An’ backlins-comin to the leuk She grew mair bright.
This was deny’d, it was affirm’d; The herds and hissels were alarm’d The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ storm’d, That beardless laddies Should think they better wer inform’d, Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks; Frae words an’ aiths to clours an’ nicks; An monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi’ hearty crunt; An’ some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang’d an’ brunt.
This game was play’d in mony lands, An’ auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi’ nimble shanks; Till lairds forbad, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks.
But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an-stowe; Till now, amaist on ev’ry knowe Ye’ll find ane plac’d; An’ some their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac’d.
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin; Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin Wi’ girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on By word an’ write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns! Some auld-light herds in neebor touns Are mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons, To tak a flight; An’ stay ae month amang the moons An’ see them right.
Guid observation they will gie them; An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them, The hindmaist shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them Just i’ their pouch; An’ when the new-light billies see them, I think they’ll crouch! Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter Is naething but a “moonshine matter”; But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulyie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulyie.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

These are the days that Reindeer love

 These are the days that Reindeer love
And pranks the Northern star --
This is the Sun's objective,
And Finland of the Year.
Written by Bliss Carman | Create an image from this poem

Behind the Arras

 I like the old house tolerably well, 
Where I must dwell 
Like a familiar gnome; 
And yet I never shall feel quite at home.
I love to roam.
Day after day I loiter and explore From door to door; So many treasures lure The curious mind.
What histories obscure They must immure! I hardly know which room I care for best; This fronting west, With the strange hills in view, Where the great sun goes,—where I may go too, When my lease is through,— Or this one for the morning and the east, Where a man may feast His eyes on looming sails, And be the first to catch their foreign hails Or spy their bales Then the pale summer twilights towards the pole! It thrills my soul With wonder and delight, When gold-green shadows walk the world at night, So still, so bright.
There at the window many a time of year, Strange faces peer, Solemn though not unkind, Their wits in search of something left behind Time out of mind; As if they once had lived here, and stole back To the window crack For a peep which seems to say, "Good fortune, brother, in your house of clay!" And then, "Good day!" I hear their footsteps on the gravel walk, Their scraps of talk, And hurrying after, reach Only the crazy sea-drone of the beach In endless speech.
And often when the autumn noons are still, By swale and hill I see their gipsy signs, Trespassing somewhere on my border lines; With what designs? I forth afoot; but when I reach the place, Hardly a trace, Save the soft purple haze Of smouldering camp-fires, any hint betrays Who went these ways.
Or tatters of pale aster blue, descried By the roadside, Reveal whither they fled; Or the swamp maples, here and there a shred Of Indian red.
But most of all, the marvellous tapestry Engrosses me, Where such strange things are rife, Fancies of beasts and flowers, and love and strife, Woven to the life; Degraded shapes and splendid seraph forms, And teeming swarms Of creatures gauzy dim That cloud the dusk, and painted fish that swim, At the weaver's whim; And wonderful birds that wheel and hang in the air; And beings with hair, And moving eyes in the face, And white bone teeth and hideous grins, who race From place to place; They build great temples to their John-a-nod, And fume and plod To deck themselves with gold, And paint themselves like chattels to be sold, Then turn to mould.
Sometimes they seem almost as real as I; I hear them sigh; I see them bow with grief, Or dance for joy like any aspen leaf; But that is brief.
They have mad wars and phantom marriages; Nor seem to guess There are dimensions still, Beyond thought's reach, though not beyond love's will, For soul to fill.
And some I call my friends, and make believe Their spirits grieve, Brood, and rejoice with mine; I talk to them in phrases quaint and fine Over the wine; I tell them all my secrets; touch their hands; One understands Perhaps.
How hard he tries To speak! And yet those glorious mild eyes, His best replies! I even have my cronies, one or two, My cherished few.
But ah, they do not stay! For the sun fades them and they pass away, As I grow gray.
Yet while they last how actual they seem! Their faces beam; I give them all their names, Bertram and Gilbert, Louis, Frank and James, Each with his aims; One thinks he is a poet, and writes verse His friends rehearse; Another is full of law; A third sees pictures which his hand can draw Without a flaw.
Strangest of all, they never rest.
Day long They shift and throng, Moved by invisible will, Like a great breath which puffs across my sill, And then is still; It shakes my lovely manikins on the wall; Squall after squall, Gust upon crowding gust, It sweeps them willy nilly like blown dust With glory or lust.
It is the world-ghost, the time-spirit, come None knows wherefrom, The viewless draughty tide And wash of being.
I hear it yaw and glide, And then subside, Along these ghostly corridors and halls Like faint footfalls; The hangings stir in the air; And when I start and challenge, "Who goes there?" It answers, "Where?" The wail and sob and moan of the sea's dirge, Its plangor and surge; The awful biting sough Of drifted snows along some arctic bluff, That veer and luff, And have the vacant boding human cry, As they go by;— Is it a banished soul Dredging the dark like a distracted mole Under a knoll? Like some invisible henchman old and gray, Day after day I hear it come and go, With stealthy swift unmeaning to and fro, Muttering low, Ceaseless and daft and terrible and blind, Like a lost mind.
I often chill with fear When I bethink me, What if it should peer At my shoulder here! Perchance he drives the merry-go-round whose track Is the zodiac; His name is No-man's-friend; And his gabbling parrot-talk has neither trend, Beginning, nor end.
A prince of madness too, I'd cry, "A rat!" And lunge thereat,— Let out at one swift thrust The cunning arch-delusion of the dust I so mistrust, But that I fear I should disclose a face Wearing the trace Of my own human guise, Piteous, unharmful, loving, sad, and wise With the speaking eyes.
I would the house were rid of his grim pranks, Moaning from banks Of pine trees in the moon, Startling the silence like a demoniac loon At dead of noon.
Or whispering his fool-talk to the leaves About my eaves.
And yet how can I know 'T is not a happy Ariel masking so In mocking woe? Then with a little broken laugh I say, Snatching away The curtain where he grinned (My feverish sight thought) like a sin unsinned, "Only the wind!" Yet often too he steals so softly by.
With half a sigh, I deem he must be mild, Fair as a woman, gentle as a child, And forest wild.
Passing the door where an old wind-harp swings, With its five strings, Contrived long years ago By my first predecessor bent to show His handcraft so, He lay his fingers on the aeolian wire, As a core of fire Is laid upon the blast To kindle and glow and fill the purple vast Of dark at last.
Weird wise, and low, piercing and keen and glad, Or dim and sad As a forgotten strain Born when the broken legions of the rain Swept through the plain— He plays, like some dread veiled mysteriarch, Lighting the dark, Bidding the spring grow warm, The gendering merge and loosing of spirit in form, Peace out of storm.
For music is the sacrament of love; He broods above The virgin silence, till She yields for rapture shuddering, yearning still To his sweet will.
I hear him sing, "Your harp is like a mesh, Woven of flesh And spread within the shoal Of life, where runs the tide-race of the soul In my control.
"Though my wild way may ruin what it bends, It makes amends To the frail downy clocks, Telling their seed a secret that unlocks The granite rocks.
"The womb of silence to the crave of sound Is heaven unfound, Till I, to soothe and slake Being's most utter and imperious ache, Bid rhythm awake.
"If with such agonies of bliss, my kin, I enter in Your prison house of sense, With what a joyous freed intelligence I shall go hence.
" I need no more to guess the weaver's name, Nor ask his aim, Who hung each hall and room With swarthy-tinged vermilion upon gloom; I know that loom.
Give me a little space and time enough, From ravelings rough I could revive, reweave, A fabric of beauty art might well believe Were past retrieve.
O men and women in that rich design, Sleep-soft, sun-fine, Dew-tenuous and free, A tone of the infinite wind-themes of the sea, Borne in to me, Reveals how you were woven to the might Of shadow and light.
You are the dream of One Who loves to haunt and yet appears to shun My door in the sun; As the white roving sea tern fleck and skim The morning's rim; Or the dark thrushes clear Their flutes of music leisurely and sheer, Then hush to hear.
I know him when the last red brands of day Smoulder away, And when the vernal showers Bring back the heart to all my valley flowers In the soft hours.
O hand of mine and brain of mine, be yours, While time endures, To acquiesce and learn! For what we best may dare and drudge and yearn, Let soul discern.
So, fellows, we shall reach the gusty gate, Early or late, And part without remorse, A cadence dying down unto its source In music's course; You to the perfect rhythms of flowers and birds, Colors and words, The heart-beats of the earth, To be remoulded always of one worth From birth to birth; I to the broken rhythm of thought and man, The sweep and span Of memory and hope About the orbit where they still must grope For wider scope, To be through thousand springs restored, renewed, With love imbrued, With increments of will Made strong, perceiving unattainment still From each new skill.
Always the flawless beauty, always the chord Of the Overword, Dominant, pleading, sure, No truth too small to save and make endure.
No good too poor! And since no mortal can at last disdain That sweet refrain, But lets go strife and care, Borne like a strain of bird notes on the air, The wind knows where; Some quiet April evening soft and strange, When comes the change No spirit can deplore, I shall be one with all I was before, In death once more.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

To a soubrette

 'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met;
And yet--ah, yet, how swift and tender
My thoughts go back in time's dull track
To you, sweet pink of female gender!
I shall not say--though others may--
That time all human joy enhances;
But the same old thrill comes to me still
With memories of your songs and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter days Invite my praise, but never get it; I still am true to yours and you-- My record's made, I'll not upset it! The pranks they play, the things they say-- I'd blush to put the like on paper, And I'll avow they don't know how To dance, so awkwardly they caper! I used to sit down in the pit And see you flit like elf or fairy Across the stage, and I'll engage No moonbeam sprite was half so airy; Lo, everywhere about me there Were rivals reeking with pomatum, And if, perchance, they caught your glance In song or dance, how did I hate 'em! At half-past ten came rapture--then Of all those men was I most happy, For bottled beer and royal cheer And têtes-à-têtes were on the tapis.
Do you forget, my fair soubrette, Those suppers at the Cafe Rector,-- The cosey nook where we partook Of sweeter cheer than fabled nectar? Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways Knew every phase of harmless folly! Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delights Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! Gone are they all beyond recall, And I--a shade, a mere reflection-- Am forced to feed my spirit's greed Upon the husks of retrospection! And lo! to-night, the phantom light, That, as a sprite, flits on the fender, Reveals a face whose girlish grace Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; And, all the while, the old-time smile Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,-- As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled!
Written by Louisa May Alcott | Create an image from this poem

From The Short Story Shadow-Children

 Little shadows, little shadows 
Dancing on the chamber wall, 
While I sit beside the hearthstone 
Where the red flames rise and fall.
Caps and nightgowns, caps and nightgowns, My three antic shadows wear; And no sound they make in playing, For the six small feet are bare.
Dancing gayly, dancing gayly, To and fro all together, Like a family of daisies Blown about in windy weather; Nimble fairies, nimble fairies, Playing pranks in the warm glow, While I sing the nursery ditties Childish phantoms love and know.
Now what happens, now what happens? One small shadow's tumbled down: I can see it on the carpet Softly rubbing its hurt crown.
No one whimpers, no one whimpers; A brave-hearted sprite is this: See! the others offer comfort In a silent, shadowy kiss.
Hush! they're creeping; hush! they're creeping, Up about my rocking-chair: I can feel their loving fingers Clasp my neck and touch my hair.
Little shadows, little shadows, Take me captive, hold me tight, As they climb and cling and whisper, "Mother dear, good night! good night!"