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Poems Every Child Should Know

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<h3>The Village Blacksmith.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">Longfellow (1807-82) is truly the children's poet. His poems are as simple, pathetic, artistic, and philosophical as if they were intended to tell the plain everyday story of life to older people. "The Village Blacksmith" has been learned by thousands of children, and there is no criticism to be put upon it. The age of the child has nothing whatever to do with his learning it. Age does not grade children nor is poetry wholly to be so graded. "Time is the false reply." </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands, And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. </div> <div class="stanza"> His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. </div> <div class="stanza"> Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. </div> <div class="stanza"> And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. </div> <div class="stanza"> He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. </div> <div class="stanza"> It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. </div> <div class="stanza"> Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. </div> </td></tr></table> Henry W. Longfellow. <h3>Sweet and Low.</h3> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dropping moon and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. </div> </td></tr></table> Alfred Tennyson. <h3>The Violet.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Violet," by Jane Taylor (1783-1824), is another of those dear old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view. </div> <div class="stanza"> And yet it was a lovely flower, No colours bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there. </div> <div class="stanza"> Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet perfume, Within the silent shade. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility. </div> </td></tr></table> Jane Taylor. <h3>The Rainbow. (A FRAGMENT.)</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Rainbow," by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), accords with every child's feelings. It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to imagine it "a bridge to heaven." </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. </div> </td></tr></table> William Wordsworth. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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