James Whitcomb Riley

(7 October 1849 - 22 July 1916 / Greenfield, Indiana)

James Whitcomb Riley Poems

1. Over The Eyes Of Gladness 4/9/2010
2. Pan 4/9/2010
3. Plain Sermons 4/9/2010
4. Prior To Miss Belle's Appearance 4/9/2010
5. Private Theatricals 4/9/2010
6. Proem 4/9/2010
7. Reach Your Hand To Me 4/9/2010
8. Regardin' Terry Hut 4/9/2010
9. Scraps 4/9/2010
10. September Dark 4/9/2010
11. Silence 4/9/2010
12. Sister Jones's Confession 4/9/2010
13. Sleep 4/9/2010
14. Some Scattering Remarks Of Bub's 4/9/2010
15. Some Songs After Master Singers 4/9/2010
16. Song 4/9/2010
17. That Other Maud Muller 4/9/2010
18. The Ancient Printman 4/9/2010
19. The Artemus Of Michigan 4/9/2010
20. The Beautiful City 4/9/2010
21. The Best Is Good Enough 4/9/2010
22. The Best Times 4/9/2010
23. The Book Of Joyous Children 4/9/2010
24. The Boy Lives On Our Farm 4/9/2010
25. The Boys 4/9/2010
26. The Boy's Candidate 4/9/2010
27. The Child-World 4/9/2010
28. The Clover 4/9/2010
29. The Curse Of The Wandering Foot 4/9/2010
30. The Cyclone 4/9/2010
31. The Dead Lover 4/9/2010
32. The Frog 4/9/2010
33. The Harp Of The Minstrel 4/9/2010
34. The Hereafter 4/9/2010
35. The Hired Man And Floretty 4/9/2010
36. The Jaybird 4/9/2010
37. The Katydids 4/9/2010
38. The Little Coat 4/9/2010
39. The Loehrs And The Hammonds 4/9/2010
40. The Mulberry Tree 4/9/2010
Best Poem of James Whitcomb Riley

A Barefoot Boy

A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play --
For May is here once more, and so is he, --
His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,
And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:
Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array
Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me
Of woody pathways winding endlessly
Along the creek, where even yesterday
He plunged his shrinking body -- gasped and shook --
Yet called the water 'warm,' with never lack
Of joy. And so, half enviously I look
Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, --
His toe stubbed -- ay, his big toe-nail ...

Read the full of A Barefoot Boy

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.

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