John Greenleaf Whittier

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

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

361. Daniel Wheeler 4/6/2010
362. Astraea 4/6/2010
363. A Summer Pilgrimage 4/6/2010
364. Arisen At Last 4/6/2010
365. James Russell Lowell 4/6/2010
366. We May Not Climb The Heavenly Steeps 4/6/2010
367. Andrew Rykman’s Prayer 4/6/2010
368. For Righteousness' Sake 4/6/2010
369. Anniversary Poem 4/6/2010
370. Within The Gate 4/6/2010
371. Freedom In Brazil 4/6/2010
372. The Battle Autumn Of 1862 4/6/2010
373. Song Of The Negro Boatman 4/6/2010
374. Ezekiel 4/6/2010
375. At School-Close 4/6/2010
376. Sunset On The Bearcamp 4/6/2010
377. Burial Of Barber 4/6/2010
378. Banished From Massachusetts 4/6/2010
379. St. Martin's Summer 4/6/2010
380. Elliott 4/6/2010
381. Giving And Taking 4/6/2010
382. How The Women Went From Dover 4/6/2010
383. On Receiving An Eagle's Quill From Lake Superior 4/6/2010
384. Hazel Blossoms 4/6/2010
385. The Angel Of Patience 4/6/2010
386. Centennial Hymn 4/6/2010
387. My Soul And I 4/6/2010
388. Kathleen 4/6/2010
389. A Song Inscribed To The Fremont Clubs 4/6/2010
390. Cobbler Keezar's Vision 4/6/2010
391. First-Day Thoughts 4/6/2010
392. Inscription On A Fountain 4/6/2010
393. My Playmate 4/6/2010
394. My Psalm 4/6/2010
395. The Angels Of Buena Vista 4/6/2010
396. Ego 4/6/2010
397. At Washington 4/6/2010
398. Amy Wentworth 4/6/2010
399. Gone 4/6/2010
400. All’s Well 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

Telling The Bees

Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.

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