John Greenleaf Whittier

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

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

1. The Rock In El Ghor 4/6/2010
2. The Christian Tourists 4/6/2010
3. The Christmas Of 1888 4/6/2010
4. The Cities Of The Plain 4/6/2010
5. The Conquest Of Finland 4/6/2010
6. The Crisis 4/6/2010
7. The Cry Of A Lost Soul 4/6/2010
8. The Curse Of The Charter-Breakers 4/6/2010
9. The Dead Feast Of The Kol-Folk 4/6/2010
10. The Disenthralled 4/6/2010
11. The Dole Of Jarl Thorkell 4/6/2010
12. The Dream Of Pio Nono 4/6/2010
13. The Drovers 4/6/2010
14. The Familist's Hymn 4/6/2010
15. The Fountain 4/6/2010
16. The Freed Islands 4/6/2010
17. The Friend’s Burial 4/6/2010
18. The Eve Of Election 4/6/2010
19. The Garrison Of Cape Ann 4/6/2010
20. The Golden Wedding Of Longwood 4/6/2010
21. The Haschish 4/6/2010
22. The Hive At Gettysburg 4/6/2010
23. The Huskers 4/6/2010
24. The Inward Judge 4/6/2010
25. The Khan's Devil 4/6/2010
26. The Lakeside 4/6/2010
27. The Last Eve Of Summer 4/6/2010
28. The Legend Of St. Mark 4/6/2010
29. The Library 4/6/2010
30. The Lost Statesman 4/6/2010
31. The Meeting 4/6/2010
32. The Memory Of Burns 4/6/2010
33. The Men Of Old 4/6/2010
34. The Merrimac 4/6/2010
35. The Maids Of Attitash 4/6/2010
36. The Old Burying-Ground 4/6/2010
37. The Pageant 4/6/2010
38. The Pass Of The Sierra 4/6/2010
39. The Pastoral Letter 4/6/2010
40. The Palm-Tree 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!

[Hata Bildir]