James Whitcomb Riley Poems

How tired I am! I sink down all alone
Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo,
Even as a child I hide my face and moan--
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I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight
Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night;
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There are many things that boys may know--
Why this and that are thus and so,--
Who made the world in the dark and lit
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Hi and whoop-hooray, boys!
Sing a song of cheer!
Here's a holiday, boys,
Lasting half a year!
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Low hidden in among the forest trees
An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep
In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these
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It's the curiousest thing in creation,
Whenever I hear that old song,
'Do They Miss Me at Home?' I'm so bothered,
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He faced his canvas (as a seer whose ken
Pierces the crust of this existence through)
And smiled beyond on that his genius knew
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1 You better not fool with a Bumblebee! --
2 Ef you don't think they can sting -- you'll see!
3 They're lazy to look at, an' kind o' go
4 Buzzin' an' bummin' aroun' so slow,
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Noon-time and June-time, down around the river!
Have to furse with 'Lizey Ann--but lawzy! I fergive her!
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'You are old, Father William, and though one would think
All the veins in your body were dry,
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