John Greenleaf Whittier

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

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

201. The Trailing Arbutus 4/6/2010
202. The Slave Ships 4/6/2010
203. The Yankee Girl 4/6/2010
204. The Christian Slave 4/6/2010
205. The Hunters Of Men 4/6/2010
206. To William Lloyd Garrison 4/6/2010
207. The Witch's Daughter 4/6/2010
208. If Thou Of Fortune Be Bereft 11/26/2014
209. The Bay Of Seven Islands 4/6/2010
210. Vesta 1/4/2003
211. The Changeling ( From The Tent On The Beach ) 1/1/2004
212. The Sycamores 1/3/2003
213. Rabbi Ismael 4/6/2010
214. Raphael 4/6/2010
215. Requital 4/6/2010
216. Revisited 4/6/2010
217. Ritner 4/6/2010
218. Sumner 4/6/2010
219. My Thanks, 4/6/2010
220. Naples – 1860 4/6/2010
221. One Of The Signers 4/6/2010
222. Our Autocrat 4/6/2010
223. Samuel J. Tilden 4/6/2010
224. Remembrance 4/6/2010
225. Rantoul 4/6/2010
226. Red Riding Hood 4/6/2010
227. Norumbega Hall 4/6/2010
228. The Frost Spirit 1/3/2003
229. My Birthday 4/6/2010
230. Kossuth 4/6/2010
231. Lexington 4/6/2010
232. Pentucket 4/6/2010
233. Our Master 4/6/2010
234. Response 4/6/2010
235. The Book 4/6/2010
236. On A Prayer-Book, With Its Frontispiece, Ary Scheffer’s 4/6/2010
237. Requirement 4/6/2010
238. Pennsylvania Hall 4/6/2010
239. Mogg Megone - Part Ii. 4/6/2010
240. Kinsman 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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