John Greenleaf Whittier

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

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

41. The Peace Of Europe 4/6/2010
42. The Poet And The Children 4/6/2010
43. The Prayer Of Agassiz 4/6/2010
44. The Prayer-Seeker 4/6/2010
45. The Prisoner For Debt 4/6/2010
46. The Prisoners Of Naples 4/6/2010
47. The Prophecy Of Samuel Sewall 4/6/2010
48. The Quaker Alumni 4/6/2010
49. The Rendition 4/6/2010
50. The Reunion 4/6/2010
51. The Rock-Tomb Of Bradore 4/6/2010
52. The Sentence Of John L. Brown 4/6/2010
53. The Sisters 4/6/2010
54. The Sisters - A Picture By Barry 4/6/2010
55. The Slaves Of Martinique 4/6/2010
56. The Star Of Bethlehem 4/6/2010
57. The Swan Song Of Parson Avery 4/6/2010
58. The Tent On The Beach 4/6/2010
59. The Two Rabbins 4/6/2010
60. The Vanishers 4/6/2010
61. The Vaudois Teacher 4/6/2010
62. The Vision Of Echard 4/6/2010
63. The Voices 4/6/2010
64. The Vow Of Washington 4/6/2010
65. The Waiting 4/6/2010
66. The Truce Of Piscataqua 4/6/2010
67. The Two Angels 4/6/2010
68. The Two Elizabeths 4/6/2010
69. The Wind Of March 4/6/2010
70. The Wish Of To-Day 4/6/2010
71. To ----- 4/6/2010
72. To E. C. S. 4/6/2010
73. To ------, 4/6/2010
74. Theirs 4/6/2010
75. Thomas Starr King 4/6/2010
76. To A Southern Statesman 4/6/2010
77. To Delaware 4/6/2010
78. To Fredrika Bremer 4/6/2010
79. To G. G. 4/6/2010
80. To George B. Cheever 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

The Pipes At Lucknow

Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of bloom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,
Have heard your sweetest strain!

[Report Error]