James Whitcomb Riley
James Whitcomb Riley
James Whitcomb Rileywas an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. During his lifetime he was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and his children's poetry respectively. His poems tended to be humorous or sentimental, and of the approximately one thousand poems that Riley authored, the majority are in dialect. His famous works include "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man"...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth7 October 1849
CountryUnited States of America
Tell you what I like the best - 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine, - some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else!
I don't know how to tell it--but ef such a thing could be As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me-- I'd want to 'ccommodate 'em--all the whole-in-durin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The most essential factor is persistence - the determination never to allow your energy or enthusiasm to be dampened by the discouragement that must inevitably come.
Continuous, unflagging effort, persistence and determination will win. Let not the man be discouraged who has these.
To make the world a friendly place, one must show it a friendly face.
I love the horse from hoof to head. From head to hoof and tail to mane. I love the horse as I have said - From head to hoof and back again.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till in shadowy design I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.
Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strewberries melts On the vine.
O, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, when the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
One naked star has waded through The purple shallows of the night, And faltering as falls the dew It drips its misty light.
The ripest peach is highest on the tree
I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead. He is just away. With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, He has wandered into an unknown land And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you - oh you, who the wildest yearn For an old-time step, and the glad return, Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here. Think of him still as the same. I say, He is not dead - he is just away.
Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me. It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree, And hovering above them ... is a fairy cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.