John Greenleaf Whittier

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

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

81. To James T. Fields 4/6/2010
82. To Lydia Maria Child 4/6/2010
83. To Pennsylvania 4/6/2010
84. To The Memory Of Thomas Shipley 4/6/2010
85. To The Reformers Of England 4/6/2010
86. To The Thirty-Ninth Congress 4/6/2010
87. To William H. Seward 4/6/2010
88. To Ronge 4/6/2010
89. To Samuel E. Sewall And Harriet W. Sewall Of Melrose 4/6/2010
90. Utterance 4/6/2010
91. Valuation 4/6/2010
92. Trinitas 4/6/2010
93. Somehow not only for Christmas 12/14/2015
94. To The Memory Of Charles B. Storrs 4/6/2010
95. To Pius Ix 4/6/2010
96. To My Sister, 4/6/2010
97. To Oliver Wendell Holmes 4/6/2010
98. To Massachusetts 4/6/2010
99. To J. P. 4/6/2010
100. To Avis Keene 4/6/2010
101. To A Cape Ann Schooner 4/6/2010
102. The Wood Giant 4/6/2010
103. The Summons 4/6/2010
104. The Relic 4/6/2010
105. The Ranger 4/6/2010
106. The Problem 4/6/2010
107. The Proclamation 4/6/2010
108. The Preacher 4/6/2010
109. The Peace Autumn 4/6/2010
110. The Over-Heart 4/6/2010
111. The New Exodus 4/6/2010
112. The New Wife And The Old 4/6/2010
113. The New Year 4/6/2010
114. The Mantle Of St. John De Matha. A Legend Of 4/6/2010
115. The Lumbermen 4/6/2010
116. The Lost Occasion 4/6/2010
117. The King's Missive 4/6/2010
118. The Knight Of St. John 4/6/2010
119. The Hermit Of Thebaid 4/6/2010
120. The Jubilee Singers 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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