John Greenleaf Whittier

(17 December 1807 – 7 September 1892 / Haverhill, Massachusetts)

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

1. The Rock In El Ghor 4/6/2010
2. The Christian Tourists 4/6/2010
3. The Christmas Of 1888 4/6/2010
4. The Cities Of The Plain 4/6/2010
5. The Conquest Of Finland 4/6/2010
6. The Crisis 4/6/2010
7. The Cry Of A Lost Soul 4/6/2010
8. The Curse Of The Charter-Breakers 4/6/2010
9. The Dead Feast Of The Kol-Folk 4/6/2010
10. The Disenthralled 4/6/2010
11. The Dole Of Jarl Thorkell 4/6/2010
12. The Dream Of Pio Nono 4/6/2010
13. The Drovers 4/6/2010
14. The Familist's Hymn 4/6/2010
15. The Fountain 4/6/2010
16. The Freed Islands 4/6/2010
17. The Friend’s Burial 4/6/2010
18. The Eve Of Election 4/6/2010
19. The Garrison Of Cape Ann 4/6/2010
20. The Golden Wedding Of Longwood 4/6/2010
21. The Haschish 4/6/2010
22. The Hive At Gettysburg 4/6/2010
23. The Huskers 4/6/2010
24. The Inward Judge 4/6/2010
25. The Khan's Devil 4/6/2010
26. The Lakeside 4/6/2010
27. The Last Eve Of Summer 4/6/2010
28. The Legend Of St. Mark 4/6/2010
29. The Library 4/6/2010
30. The Lost Statesman 4/6/2010
31. The Meeting 4/6/2010
32. The Memory Of Burns 4/6/2010
33. The Men Of Old 4/6/2010
34. The Merrimac 4/6/2010
35. The Maids Of Attitash 4/6/2010
36. The Old Burying-Ground 4/6/2010
37. The Pageant 4/6/2010
38. The Pass Of The Sierra 4/6/2010
39. The Pastoral Letter 4/6/2010
40. The Palm-Tree 4/6/2010
Best Poem of John Greenleaf Whittier

In School-Days

Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are creeping.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting. ...

Read the full of In School-Days

Randolph Of Roanoke

O Mother Earth! upon thy lap
Thy weary ones receiving,
And o'er them, silent as a dream,
Thy grassy mantle weaving,
Fold softly in thy long embrace
That heart so worn and broken,
And cool its pulse of fire beneath
Thy shadows old and oaken.

[Hata Bildir]