Mary Botham Howitt
Mary Howitt (12 March 1799 – 30 January 1888) was an English poet, and author of the famous poem The Spider and the Fly. She was born Mary Botham at Coleford, in Gloucestershire, the temporary residence of her parents, while her father, Samuel Botham, a prosperous Quaker of Uttoxeter, Staffordshire, was looking after some mining property. Samuel had married his wife Ann in South Wales in 1796 when... more »
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Mary Botham Howitt Poems
The Spider And The Fly
Will you walk into my parlour?' said the Spider to the Fly, 'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
Summer Song Of The Strawberry-Girl
It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks! There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine on the brooks
In all the years which have been, The spring hath green'd the bough - The gladsome hopeful spring-time! -
The Old Man's Story
There was an old and quiet man, And by the fire sate he, 'And now,' he said, 'to you I'll tell A dismal thing, which once befell
Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea, When first the wild wood rings With each sound of vernal minstrelsy, When fresh the green grass springs!
The Sparrow's Nest
Nay, only look what I have found! A Sparrow's nest upon the ground; A Sparrow's nest as you may see, Blown out of yonder old elm tree.
The Fossil Elephant
The earth is old! Six thousand ears, Are gone since I had birth; In the forests of the olden time, And the solitude’s of earth.
D' ye know the little Wood-Mouse, That pretty little thing, That sits among the forest leaves,
The humming-bird! the humming-bird! So fairy-like and bright: It lives among the sunny flowers, A creature of delight!
The clock is on the stroke of six
The clock is on the stroke of six, The Father’s work is done; Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire, And put the kettle on.
The Broom Flower
Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it.
I love the sunshine everywhere - In wood, and field, and glen; I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprison'd men.
The Sea Fowler
THE BARON hath the landward park, the fisher hath the sea; But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl belong alone to me.
The Rose Of May
Ah! there's the lily, marble pale, The bonny broom, the cistus frail; The rich sweet pea, the iris blue, The larkspur with its peacock hue;
Comments about Mary Botham Howitt
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Spider And The Fly
Will you walk into my parlour?' said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to show when you are there.'
Oh no, no,' said the little Fly, 'to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again.'
'I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?' said the Spider to the Fly.
'There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest...