Poems by James Whitcomb Riley

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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"Johnson's Boy"

The world is turned ag'in' me,

And people says, "They guess

That nothin' else is in me

But pure maliciousness!"

I git the blame for doin'

What other chaps destroy,

And I'm a-goin' to ruin

Because I'm "Johnson's boy."

James Whitcomb Riley

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine

As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,

And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,

So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till in shadowy design

I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,

As I turn it low, to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,

And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke

Its fate with my tobacco, and to vanish with the smoke.

James Whitcomb Riley

At Crown Hill

Leave him here in the fresh

greening grasses and trees

And the symbols of love, and the solace of these-

The saintly white lilies and blossoms he keeps

In endless caress as

he breathlessly sleeps.

The tears of our eyes wrong the scene of his rest,

For the sky's at its clearest-the sun's at its best-

James Whitcomb Riley

The Song Of Yesterday

But yesterday

I looked away

O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay

In golden blots,

Inlaid with spots

Of shade and wild forget-me-nots.

My head was fair

James Whitcomb Riley

A Passing Hail

Let us rest ourselves a bit!

Worry?— wave your hand to it —

Kiss your finger-tips and smile

It farewell a little while.

Weary of the weary way

We have come from Yesterday,

Let us fret not, instead,

Of the wary way ahead.

James Whitcomb Riley

Knee-Deep in June

Tell you what I like the best —

'Long about knee-deep in June,

'Bout the time strawberries melts

On the vine, — some afternoon

Like to jes' git out and rest,

And not work at nothin' else!

Orchard's where I'd ruther be —

Needn't fence it in fer me! —

James Whitcomb Riley

Who Bides His Time

Who bides his time, and day by day

Faces defeat full patiently,

And lifts a mirthful roundelay,

However poor his fortunes be,—

He will not fail in any qualm

Of poverty — the paltry dime

It will grow golden in his palm,

Who bides his time.

James Whitcomb Riley

A Song Of The Road

O I will walk with you, my lad, whichever way you fare,

You'll have me, too, the side o' you, with heart as light as air;

No care for where the road you take's a-leadin' anywhere,—

It can but be a joyful ja'nt whilst you journey there.

The road you take's the path o' love, an' that's the bridth o' two—

An' I will walk with you, my lad — O I will walk with you.

Ho! I will walk with you, my lad,

Be weather black or blue

James Whitcomb Riley

The Lost Thrill

I grow so weary, someway, of all things

That love and loving have vouchsafed to me,

Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy

Am I possessed of: The caress that clings—

The lips that mix with mine with murmurings

No language may interpret, and the free,

Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily

Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings

James Whitcomb Riley

A Summer Afternoon

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,

With labored respiration, moves the wheat

From distant reaches, till the golden seas

Break in crisp whispers at my feet.

My book, neglected of an idle mind,

Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;

Or lightly opened by a critic wind,

Affrightedly reviews itself again.

James Whitcomb Riley

The Ripest Peach

The ripest peach is highest on the tree —

And so her love, beyond the reach of me,

Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow

Her heart down to me where I worship now!

She looms aloft where every eye may see

The ripest peach is highest on the tree.

Such fruitage as her love I know, alas!

I may not reach here from the orchard grass.

James Whitcomb Riley

When The Frost Is On The Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,

And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

James Whitcomb Riley