James Whitcomb Riley

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

James Whitcomb Riley Poems

241. Old Winters On The Farm 4/9/2010
242. On The Banks O' Deer Crick 4/9/2010
243. On The Sunny Side 4/9/2010
244. Only A Dream 4/9/2010
245. Orlie Wilde 1/3/2003
246. Our Boyhood Haunts 4/9/2010
247. Our Hired Girl 12/31/2002
248. Our Kind Of A Man 4/9/2010
249. Our Little Girl 4/9/2010
250. Our Own 4/9/2010
251. Out Of Nazareth 4/9/2010
252. Out Of The Hitherwhere 4/9/2010
253. Over The Eyes Of Gladness 4/9/2010
254. Pan 4/9/2010
255. Philiper Flash 4/9/2010
256. Pipes O' Pan At Zekesbury 4/9/2010
257. Plain Sermons 4/9/2010
258. Prior To Miss Belle's Appearance 4/9/2010
259. Private Theatricals 4/9/2010
260. Proem 4/9/2010
261. Reach Your Hand To Me 4/9/2010
262. Red Riding-Hood 4/9/2010
263. Regardin' Terry Hut 4/9/2010
264. Right Here At Home 4/9/2010
265. Robert Burns Wilson 4/9/2010
266. Romancin' 4/9/2010
267. Say Something To Me 4/9/2010
268. Scraps 4/9/2010
269. September Dark 4/9/2010
270. Silence 4/9/2010
271. Sister Jones's Confession 4/9/2010
272. Sleep 4/9/2010
273. Some Scattering Remarks Of Bub's 4/9/2010
274. Some Songs After Master Singers 4/9/2010
275. Song 4/9/2010
276. Song Of Parting 4/9/2010
277. Song Of The New Year 4/9/2010
278. Squire Hawkins's Story 4/9/2010
279. Thanksgiving 4/9/2010
280. That Other Maud Muller 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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