Christopher Morley

(5 May 1890 – 28 March 1957 / Haverford, Pennslyvania)

Christopher Morley Poems

1. At The Mermaid Caffeteria 4/20/2010
2. Elegy Written In A Country Coal-Bin 4/20/2010
3. Hymn To The Dairymaids On Beacon Street 4/20/2010
4. Taking Title 4/20/2010
5. The Barren Music Of A Word Or Phrase, 4/20/2010
6. The Commercial Traveler 4/20/2010
7. Two O'Clock 4/20/2010
8. When I A Householder Became 4/20/2010
9. Ballade Of A Horoscope 10/24/2013
10. Song In A Dentists Chair 10/24/2013
11. Washing The Dishes 4/20/2010
12. The Milkman 4/20/2010
13. The Wedded Lover 4/20/2010
14. The Church Of Unbent Knees 4/20/2010
15. Reading Aloud 4/20/2010
16. Six Weeks Old 4/20/2010
17. Dedication For A Fireplace 4/20/2010
18. Burning Leaves In Spring 4/20/2010
19. Burning Leaves, November 4/20/2010
20. Caught In The Undertow 4/20/2010
21. Tit For Tat 4/20/2010
22. The Intruder 4/20/2010
23. To You, Remembering The Past 4/20/2010
24. On Naming A House 4/20/2010
25. Our House 4/20/2010
26. To A Post Office Inkwell 4/20/2010
27. The Music Box 4/20/2010
28. The Secret 4/20/2010
29. Inscription For A Grammar 1/13/2003
30. The Old Swimmer 4/20/2010
31. Scuttle, Scuttle, Little Roach 3/20/2012
32. Only A Matter Of Time 4/20/2010
33. Song For A Little House 4/20/2010
34. Animal Crackers 4/20/2010
35. Smells 4/20/2010
36. To A Child 4/20/2010
Best Poem of Christopher Morley

To A Child

The greatest poem ever known
Is one all poets have outgrown:
The poetry, innate, untold,
Of being only four years old.

Still young enough to be a part
Of Nature's great impulsive heart,
Born comrade of bird, beast, and tree
And unselfconscious as the bee-

And yet with lovely reason skilled
Each day new paradise to build;
Elate explorer of each sense,
Without dismay, without pretense!

In your unstained transparent eyes
There is no conscience, no surprise:
Life's queer conundrums you accept,
Your strange divinity still ...

Read the full of To A Child

Burning Leaves, November

THESE are the folios of April,
All the library of spring,
Missals gilt and rubricated
With the frost's illumining.

Ruthless, we destroy these treasures,
Set the torch with hand profane-
Gone, like Alexandrian vellums,
Like the books of burnt Louvain!

[Report Error]