The Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems, by James Whitcomb Riley

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Title: Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems

Author: James Whitcomb Riley

Release Date: February 16, 2005 [EBook #15079]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREEN FIELDS ***

Produced by Al Haines

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

INDIANAPOLIS

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1893

BY JAMES W. RILEY

TO MY SISTERS

ELVA AND MARY

CONTENTS.

PROEM

  Artemus of Michigan, The
  As My Uncle Used to Say
  At Utter Loaf
  August
  Autumn

  Bedouin
  Being His Mother
  Blind
  Blossoms on the Trees, The
  By Any Other Name
  By Her White Bed

  Chant of the Cross-Bearing Child, The
  Country Pathway, A
  Cup of Tea, A
  Curse of the Wandering Foot, The
  Cyclone, The

  Dan Paine
  Dawn, Noon and Dewfall
  Discouraging Model, A
  Ditty of No Tone, A
  Don Piatt of Mac-o-chee
  Dot Leedle Boy
  Dream of Autumn, A

  Elizabeth
  Envoy

  Farmer Whipple—Bachelor
  Full Harvest, A

  Glimpse of Pan, A
  Go, Winter

  Her Beautiful Eyes
  Hereafter, The
  His Mother's Way
  His Vigil
  Home at Night
  Home-Going, The
  Hoodoo, The
  Hoosier Folk-Child, The
  How John Quit the Farm

  Iron Horse, The
  Iry and Billy and Jo

  Jack the Giant-Killer
  Jap Miller
  John Alden and Percilly
  John Brown
  John McKeen
  Judith
  June at Woodruff
  Just to Be Good

  Last Night—And This
  Let Us Forget
  Little Fat Doctor, The
  Longfellow
  Lounger, A

  Monument for the Soldiers, A
  Mr. What's-His-Name
  My Friend

  Nessmuk
  North and South

  Old Retired Sea Captain, The
  Old Winters on the Farm
  Old Year and the New, The
  On the Banks o' Deer Crick
  Out of Nazareth

  Passing of A Heart, The
  Plaint Human, The

  Quarrel, The
  Quiet Lodger, The

  Reach Your Hand to Me
  Right Here at Home
  Rival, The
  Rivals, The; or the Showman's Ruse
  Robert Burns Wilson
  Rose, The

  September Dark
  Shoemaker, The
  Singer, The
  Sister Jones's Confession
  Sleep
  Some Scattering Remarks of Bub's
  Song of Long Ago, A
  Southern Singer, A
  Suspense

  Thanksgiving
  Their Sweet Sorrow
  Them Flowers
  To an Importunate Ghost
  To Hear Her Sing
  Tom Van Arden
  To the Serenader
  Tugg Martin
  Twins, The

  Wandering Jew, The
  Watches of the Night, The
  Water Color, A
  We to Sigh Instead of Sing
  What Chris'mas Fetched the Wigginses
  When Age Comes On
  Where-Away
  While the Musician Played
  Wife-Blesséd, The
  Wraith of Summertime, A

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS

  Ho! green fields and running brooks!
  Knotted strings and fishing-hooks
  Of the truant, stealing down
  Weedy backways of the town.

  Where the sunshine overlooks,
  By green fields and running brooks,
  All intruding guests of chance
  With a golden tolerance,

  Cooing doves, or pensive pair
  Of picnickers, straying there—
  By green fields and running brooks,
  Sylvan shades and mossy nooks!

  And—O Dreamer of the Days,
  Murmurer of roundelays
  All unsung of words or books,
  Sing green fields and running brooks!

A COUNTRY PATHWAY.

  I come upon it suddenly, alone—
    A little pathway winding in the weeds
  That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,
    I wander as it leads.

  Full wistfully along the slender way,
    Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,
  I take the path that leads me as it may—
    Its every choice is mine.

  A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,
    Is startled by my step as on I fare—
  A garter-snake across the dusty trail
    Glances and—is not there.

  Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos
    And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,
  Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose
    When autumn winds arise.

  The trail dips—dwindles—broadens then, and lifts
    Itself astride a cross-road dubiously,
  And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts
    Still onward, beckoning me.

  And though it needs must lure me mile on mile
    Out of the public highway, still I go,
  My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file,
    Allure me even so.

  Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went
    At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars,
  And was not found again, though Heaven lent
    His mother ail the stars

  With which to seek him through that awful night.
    O years of nights as vain!—Stars never rise
  But well might miss their glitter in the light
    Of tears in mother-eyes!

  So—on, with quickened breaths, I follow still—
    My avant-courier must be obeyed!
  Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will,
    Invites me to invade

  A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide
    Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile,
  And stumbles down again, the other side,
    To gambol there awhile

  In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead
    I see it running, while the clover-stalks
  Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said—
    "You dog our country-walks

  And mutilate us with your walking-stick!—
    We will not suffer