James Whitcomb Riley

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

James Whitcomb Riley Poems

161. How It Happened 4/9/2010
162. How John Quit The Farm 4/9/2010
163. I Smoke My Pipe 4/9/2010
164. If I Knew What Poets Know 4/9/2010
165. Igo And Ago 4/9/2010
166. Ike Walton's Prayer 1/3/2003
167. Illileo 4/9/2010
168. In Bohemia 4/9/2010
169. In Fervent Praise Of Picnics 4/9/2010
170. In The Dark 4/9/2010
171. In The Evening 4/9/2010
172. In The South 4/9/2010
173. Indiana 4/9/2010
174. Inscribed 4/9/2010
175. Intellectual Limitations 4/9/2010
176. Iry And Billy Jo 4/9/2010
177. It's_Got_To Be 4/9/2010
178. Jack-In-The-Box 4/9/2010
179. James Whitcomb Riley 3/12/2015
180. Jap Miller 4/9/2010
181. Jim 4/9/2010
182. Job Work 4/9/2010
183. John Alden And Percilly 4/9/2010
184. John Brown 4/9/2010
185. John Mckeen 4/9/2010
186. John Walsh 4/9/2010
187. Johnson's Boy 4/9/2010
188. Joney 4/9/2010
189. Judith 4/9/2010
190. June 4/9/2010
191. June At Woodruff 4/9/2010
192. Just To Be Good 4/9/2010
193. Kingry's Mill 4/9/2010
194. Kissing The Rod 4/9/2010
195. Knee-Deep In June 1/3/2003
196. Kneeling With Herrick 4/9/2010
197. Last Night-- And This 4/9/2010
198. Laughter Holding Both His Sides 4/9/2010
199. Leedle Dutch Baby 4/9/2010
200. Leonainie 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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