Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newspapers

  • The Dog

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, May 16, 1915.

    I’ve never known a dog to wag
        His tail in glee he didn’t feel,
    Nor quit his old-time friend to tag
        At some more influential heel.
    The yellowest cur I ever knew
    Was to the boy who loved him true.

    I’ve never known a dog to show
        Half-way devotion to his friend,
    To seek a kinder man to know
        Or richer, but unto the end
    The humblest dog I ever knew
    Was, to the man that loved him, true.

    I’ve never known a dog to fake
        Affection for a present gain,
    A false display of love to make,
        Some little favor to attain.
    I’ve never known a Prince or Spot
    That seemed to be what he was not.

    But I have known a dog to fight
        With all his strength to shield a friend
    And, whether wrong or whether right,
        To stick with him until the end.
    And I have known a dog to lick
    The hand of him that men would kick.

    And I have known a dog to bear
        Starvation’s pangs from day to day
    With him who had been glad to share
        His bread and meat along the way.
    No dog, however mean or rude,
    Is guilty of ingratitude.

    The dog is listed with the dumb,
        No voice has he to speak his creed,
    His messages to humans come
        By faithful conduct and by deed.
    He shows, as seldom mortals do,
    A high ideal of being true.

  • Real Joy

    From the Richmond Times Dispatch, May 15, 1915.

    There are lots of simple pleasures,
        Caught in nature’s ebb and flow,
    That will multiply life’s treasures,
        If your heart’s attuned to know;
    There is one joymaker granted
        Quite the sweetest ever found—
    When the green things you have planted
        Show their heads above the ground.

    There are sunsets, limned with glories
        By the Master Artist’s brush,
    And at morn the soft love stories
        Of the mocking bird and thrush.
    There are streams that seem enchanted,
        There are beauties all around—
    And just now the hopes you’ve planted
        Spring in rapture from the ground.

  • The Arrow and the Song

    From the Evening Public Ledger, May 14, 1915. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    I shot an arrow into the air,
    It fell to earth, I know not where;
    For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
    Could not follow it in its flight.

    I breathed a song into the air,
    It fell to earth, I know not where;
    For who has sight so keen and strong
    That it can follow the flight of song?

    Long, long afterward, in an oak
    I found the arrow, still unbroke;
    And the song, from beginning to end,
    I found again in the heart of a friend.

  • Spring Rain

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 13, 1915. By Robert Loveman.

    It isn’t raining rain to me,
        It’s raining daffodils.
    In every dimpled drop I see
        Wild flowers on the hills.
    The clouds of gray engulf the day
        And overwhelm the town—
    It isn’t raining rain for me
        It’s raining roses down.
    It isn’t raining rain to me,
        But fields of clover bloom
    Where any buccaneering bee
        May find a bed and room.
    A health unto the happy
        A fig for him who frets—
    It isn’t raining rain to me
        It’s raining violets.

  • The Night and I

    From the Evening Public Ledger, May 12, 1915. By James Stephens.

    The night was creeping on the ground,
    She crept along without a sound
    Until she reached the tree, and then
    She covered it, and stole again
    Along the grass up to the wall.

    I heard the rustle of her shawl
    Inside the room where I was hid;
    But no matter what she did
    To everything that was without,
    She could not put my candle out.

    So I peeped at the night, and she
    Stared back solemnly at me.

  • Poor Archery

    From the Richmond Times Dispatch, May 11, 1915.

    Dan Cupid once a-scouting went,
        To search for victims, cause commotion;
    The bow that wings his shafts was bent,
        The shafts tipped with love’s fateful potion,
            And when a shaft sped from that bow
            ’Twas bound to lay somebody low.

    To right and left this archer mad
        Dispatched his messengers of worry,
    Nor cared he if his aim was bad,
        For Cupid’s always in a hurry.
            “If age, not youth, receive a dart,
            Why then,” quoth he, “let old age smart.”

    His marksmanship was much at fault,
        For hearts that scorned him heard love singing,
    While hearts left bare to his assault—
        That begged the blow that he was bringing—
            Escaped all wounds and mourned that he
            Should leave them whole and fancy free.

    Perhaps you’ve wondered in what way
        Dan Cupid’s victims are selected;
    Perhaps you’ve thought sometimes that they
        Had not been properly inspected.
            Well, this is why: Dan banks on chance
            And speeds his darts without a glance.

  • Wishes

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 10, 1915. By Howard Arnold Walter.

    I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
        I would be pure, for there are those who care;
    I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
        I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

    I would be friend to all—the foe—the friendless;
        I would be giving, and forget the gift;
    I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
        I would look up—and laugh—and love—and lift.

  • The Fairy’s Invitation

    From The Sun, May 9, 1915. By Lillian MacDonald.

    Dear child, I’ve brought a toadstool,
        It’s a table for our feast,
    And a cowslip (such a bargain—
        Worth three daisies at the least!)

    With five small cups upon it,
        Full of sparkling, shining dew,
    And of violets for perfume
        We will scatter just a few.

    We’ve pollen in a rose leaf;
        Other dainties, more or less;
    For it takes such choice refreshments
        To make parties a success.

    Please come at half past midnight;
        I’ll send Glowworm to attend.
    Until supper time, believe me,
        Your devoted Fairy Friend.

  • Little Boy Blue

    From The Detroit Times, May 8, 1915. By Eugene Field.

    The little toy dog is covered with dust,
        But sturdy and staunch he stands;
    And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
        And his musket molds in his hands.
    Time was when the little toy dog was new,
        And the soldier was passing fair;
    And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
        Kissed them and put them there.

    “Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
        “And don’t you make any noise!”
    So, toddling off to his trundle bed,
        He dreamt of the pretty toys;
    And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
        Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
    Oh! the years are many, the years are long
        But the little toy friends are true!

    Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
        Each in the same old place,
    Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
        The smile of a little face;
    And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
        In the dust of that little chair,
    What has become of our Little Boy Blue
        Since he kissed them and put them there.

  • Inspiration

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 7, 1915. By Berton Braley.

    Though the world is harsh and the game goes wrong
        And the skies are far from clearing,
    And out of the vast uncaring throng
        There’s never a word that’s cheering;
    Though fortune shun me soon and late,
        And destiny jolt and shove me,
    I’ll keep my nerve and I’ll laugh at fate,
        While I have a friend to love me!

    If I have one friend who is leal and true,
        One friend who will not alter,
    I’ll fight the world and the devil, too,
        And never my heart shall falter.
    Though I know despair and I know defeat
        And the clouds hang black above me,
    I’ll fear no fate that is mine to meet
        While I have a friend to love me!