James Whitcomb Riley
James Whitcomb Riley Poems
|441.||A Poet's Wooing||1/3/2003|
|443.||A Cup Of Tea||4/9/2010|
|444.||A Noon Interval||1/3/2003|
|445.||Knee-Deep In June||1/3/2003|
|446.||A Summer Afternoon||1/3/2003|
|447.||Little Orphant Annie||12/31/2002|
|448.||A Barefoot Boy||12/31/2002|
|449.||When The Frost Is On The Punkin||12/31/2002|
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 ...
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.