Poetry of my Childhood

On the following pages are some of the poems I grew up hearing or even learning.  Most from grade school (Paupack Elementary School in Paupack, PA.)  Some from High School (Wallenpaupack Area High School, in Hawley, PA.)       This one is one I heard from a Mr. Jacobs who was a substitute teacher at our high school.  He was in his 80's when I met him. Instead of going over our class assignments he would spend the class time reciting poetry to us. This is one of my favorites:  SOMEBODY'S MOTHER The woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of a winter's day; The streets were white with a recent snow, And the woman's feet with age were slow.   At the crowded crossing she waited long, Jostled aside by the careless throng Of human beings who passed her by, Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.   Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of "school let out," Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep; Past the woman, so old and gray, Hastened the children on their way.   None offered a helping hand to her, So weak and timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should trample her down in the slippery street.   At last came out of the merry troop The gayest boy of all the group; He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you across, if you wish to go."   Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so without hurt or harm he guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were young and strong; Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content.   "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged, and poor and slow; And some one, some time, may lend a hand To help my mother--you understand?-- If ever she's old and poor and gray, And her own dear boy so far away."   "Somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was: "God be kind to that noble boy, Who is somebody's son and pride and joy. by Mary Dow Brine   Another one that Mr. Jacob's recited to us LAMENT Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I'll make you little jackets' I'll make you little trousers From his old pants. There'll be in his pockets Things he used to put there. Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco' Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank' Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on. Though good men die' Anne, eat your breakfast' Dan, take your medicine' Live must go on' I forget just why. By Enda St. Vincent Millay The following poems are ones we had to memorize and recite while we were in elementary school!  After all these years I still remember parts of all of these and the way we heard them read to us. O Captain My Captain by Walt Whitman O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.  This one always made us laugh. To recite it correctly was a chore and we had to repeat it until we got it right!     LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE by: James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)  ITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!   Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,-- An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:-- An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!   An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!   An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!    This one always brought visions of the country. I lived in the country most of my life, but when I did live in a city I often thought of this poem to help me get though.

Mending Wall By Robert Frost Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours." Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know.    His house is in the village though;    He will not see me stopping here    To watch his woods fill up with snow.    My little horse must think it queer    To stop without a farmhouse near    Between the woods and frozen lake    The darkest evening of the year.    He gives his harness bells a shake    To ask if there is some mistake.    The only other sound’s the sweep    Of easy wind and downy flake.    The woods are lovely, dark and deep,    But I have promises to keep,    And miles to go before I sleep,    And miles to go before I sleep. Woodman, Spare That Tree WOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand -- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall hurt it not.  by George Pope Morris