Conlon 1

18 Poems Every Child Should Know

A poetry Anthology By Peter Conlon

Table of Contents
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Conlon 2

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4-5 Selection from the Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

6- Jabberwocky by Lewis Caroll
7- The Tyger by William Blake
8- Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
9- I am Nobody, Who are you? By Emily Dickenson
10- Dirty Face by Shel Silverstein
11- Now We are Six by A.A. Milne
12- Id Love to be a Fairy Child by Robert Graves
13-14- Paul Reveres Ride by Henry Longfellow
15- At the Zoo by William Makepeace Thackeray
16- The Eagle by Lord Alfred Tennyson
17- Dream Variations by Langston Hughes
18- Be Glad your Nose Is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky
19- Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by Eugene Field
20- The Duel by Eugene Field
21-The Purple Cow by Gelett Burgess
22- I felt a Funeral in My Brain By Emily Dickenson
23- Fishmonger by Marsden Hartley
24- The End by Mark Strand

Introduction

Conlon 3

Good poetry is hard to quantify. Within the pages of this anthology, I

have found several qualities of what I believe make good poetry. I believe
that if a poem is trying to be funny and achieve a higher brow of humor for
an adult audience, it should involve some form of clever wordplay. Good
childrens poetry should evoke clear and imaginative imagery which will
establish a rapport with the reader. Good poetry should have a certain
musicality to it. A good childrens poem will have a rhyme and reason to it
unless it is purposefully put into blank verse or some other form of nonrhyming poetry. The rhyme should be mixed and not simply a repeating
pattern but have some non-sing-song-y style to it as well as having a
variation on the rhyming theme. A good poem presents its subject matter in
whatever way the poet viewed as appropriate in tone and imagery. Exciting
and unique language can also make a good poem, especially if the words are
nonsense words.
The Jabberwocky by Lewis Caroll is an example of a good poem. The
Jabberwocky uses nonsense words, but the language is unique and engaging.
In The Jabberwocky, the imagery is very vivid. The reader can clearly picture
the sword going snicker-snack and the head of the titular monster falling off.
Easily pictured as well are the made-up plant life that Lewis Caroll makes up
from the nonsense words. The rhyme scheme varies from line to line and
produces a sense of highly cultivated musicality and rhythm. Caroll
masterfully presents its subject matter with a tone of grave importance and
imagery which has a tinge of the great epics of ancient times. The

Conlon 4

Jabberwocky also has surprising depth on the analytical side, as the

whimsically grim poem presents a fascinating look into Lewis Carolls
creative process and imaginative tone.

A selection from The Raven

By Edgar Allen Poe, (1845)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I
pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious
volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping,
rapping at my chamber door.
Tis some visitor, I muttered,
tapping at my chamber door
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in
the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember
wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow
sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Lenore
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain

rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled mefilled me with fantastic
terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of
my heart, I stood repeating
Tis some visitor entreating
entrance at my chamber door
Some late visitor entreating entrance
at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more.
Presently my soul grew stronger;
hesitating then no longer,
Sir, said I, or Madam, truly your
forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and
so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping,
tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you
here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there and nothing
more.

Conlon 5

Deep into that darkness peering,

long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no
mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and
the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken
was the whispered word, Lenore?
This I whispered, and an echo
murmured back the word, Lenore

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all
my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping
somewhat louder than before.
Surely, said I, surely that is
something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is,
and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and
this mystery explore;
Tis the wind and nothing
more

Open here I flung the shutter,

when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of
the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he;
not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady,
perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just
above my chamber door
Perched, and sat, and nothing
more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my
sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of
the countenance it wore,
Though thy crest be shorn and
shaven, thou, I said, art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
wandering from the Nightly shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on
the Nights Plutonian shore
Quoth the Raven
Nevermore.

Conlon 6

The Jabberwocky
By Lewis Caroll (1871), The Random House Book of Poetry for Children
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch

Conlon 7

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought
-So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came
One, two One, two And through and
through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy
O frabjous day Callooh Callay
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Tyger
By William Blake (1794)
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

Conlon 8

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp
When the stars threw down their spears
And waterd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Where the Sidewalk Ends

By Shel Silverstein (1974), Where The Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes well walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And well go where the chalk-white arrows go,

Conlon 9

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
the place where the sidewalk ends

I am Nobody who are You

By Emily Dickenson, (1891) Poems, Series 2
Im Nobody! Who are you?
Are you Nobody too?
Then theres a pair of us!
Dont tell! Theyd advertise you know!
How dreary to be Somebody!
How public like a Frog
To tell ones name the livelong June
To an admiring Bog!

Conlon 10

Dirty Face
By Shel Silverstein
Where did you get such a dirty face,
My darling dirty-faced child?
I got it from crawling along in the dirt
And biting two buttons off Jeremys shirt.
I got it from chewing the roots of a rose
And digging for clams in the yard with my nose.
I got it from peeking into a dark cave
And painting myself like a Navajo brave.
I got it from playing with coal in the bin
And signing my name in cement with my chin.
I got if from rolling around on the rug
And giving the horrible dog a big hug.
I got it from finding a lost silver mine
And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.
I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears
And from having more fun than youve had in years.

Conlon 11

Now We are Six

By A.A. Milne (1927), Now We Are Six
When I was one,
I had just begun.
When I was two,
I was nearly new.
When I was three,
I was hardly me.
When I was four,
I was not much more.
When I was five,
I was just alive.
But now I am six,
Im as clever as clever.
So I think Ill be six
now and forever.

Conlon 12

Id Love to be a Fairys Child

By Robert Graves (1918), Fairies and Fusiliers
Children born of fairy stock
Never need for shirt or frock,
Never want for food or fire,
Always get their hearts desire:
Jingle pockets full of gold,
Marry when theyre seven years old.
Every fairy child may keep
Two strong ponies and ten sheep;
All have houses, each his own,
Built of brick or granite stone;
They live on cherries, they run wild-Id love to be a Fairys child.

Conlon 13

Paul Reveres Ride

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1860), Tales of a Wayside Inn
Listen my children and you shall
alarm
hear
Through every Middlesex village
Of the midnight ride of Paul
and farm,
Revere,
For the country folk to be up and to
On the eighteenth of April, in
arm.
Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Then he said Good-night! and
Who remembers that famous day
with muffled oar
and year.
Silently rowed to the Charlestown
shore,
He said to his friend, If the British
Just as the moon rose over the
march
bay,
By land or sea from the town toWhere swinging wide at her
night,
moorings lay
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
arch
A phantom ship, with each mast
Of the North Church tower as a
and spar
signal light,Across the moon like a prison bar,
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And a huge black hulk, that was
And I on the opposite shore will be,
magnified
Ready to ride and spread the
By its own reflection in the tide.

Conlon 14

Meanwhile, his friend through alley

and street
Wanders and watches, with eager
ears,
Till in the silence around him he
hears
The muster of men at the barrack
door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp
of feet,
And the measured tread of the
grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on
the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the
Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy
tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their
perch
On the Romber rafters, that round
him made
Masses and moving shapes of
shade,By the trembling ladder, steep and
tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look
down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the
dead,
In their night encampment on the
hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and
still
That he could hear, like a sentinels
tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, All is

well!
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the
secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are
bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the
bay,A line of black that bends and
floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of
boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and
ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy
stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul
Revere.
Now he patted his horses side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far
and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the
earth,
And turned and tightened his
saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager
search
The belfry tower of the Old North
Church,
As it rose above the graves on the
hill,
Lonely and spectral and Romber
and still.
And lo! As he looks, on the belfrys
height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of
light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle
he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his
sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

Conlon 15

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in
the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in
passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying
fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the
gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that
night;
And the spark struck out by that
steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its
heat.
He has left the village and mounted
the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and
broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean
tides;
And under the alders that skirt its
edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on
the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as
he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into
Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmers
dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he
passed,
And the meeting-house windows,
black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look

upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in
Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the
trees,
And felt the breath of the morning
breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his
bed
Who at the bridge would be first to
fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you
have read
How the British Regulars fired and
fled,-How the farmers gave them ball for
ball,
From behind each fence and
farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the
lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge
again
Under the trees at the turn of the
road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul
Revere;
And so through the night went his
cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and
farm,-A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at
the door,
And a word that shall echo for
evermore!

Conlon 16

For, borne on the night-wind of the

Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril
and need,
The people will waken and listen to

hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that
steed,
And the midnight message of Paul
Revere

At the Zoo
By William Makepeace Thackeray
First I saw the white bear, then I saw the black;
Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back;
Then I saw the grey wolf, with mutton in his maw;
Then I saw the wombat waddle in the straw;
Then I saw the elephant a-waving of his trunk;
Then I saw the monkeysmercy, how unpleasantly they smelt!

Conlon 17

The Eagle
By Lord Alfred Tennyson (
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Conlon 18

Dream Variations
By Langston Hughes
To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me
That is my dream!
To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

Conlon 19

Be Glad Your Nose is On Your Face

By Jack Prelutsky (1984), New Kid on the Block
Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.
Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for youd be forced to smell your feet.
Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.
Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.
Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place
be glad your nose is on your face!

Conlon 20

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

By Eugene Field
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one
And some folk thought twas a
night
dream
theyd dreamed
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
Sailed on a river of crystal light
But I shall name you the
Into a sea of dew.
fishermen three:
Where are you going, and what do
Wynken,
you wish?
Blynken,
The old moon asked the three.
And Nod.
We have come to fish for the
Wynken and Blynken are two little
herring-fish
eyes,
That live in this beautiful sea;
And Nod is a little head,
Nets of silver and gold have we,
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a
song,
As they rocked in the wooden
shoe;
And the wind that sped them all
night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
Now cast your nets wherever you
wish,
Never afraid are we!
So cried the stars to the
fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,

Then down from the skies came the

wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;

Conlon 21

And the wooden shoe that sailed

the skies
Is a wee ones trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother
sings
Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful

things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the
fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The Duel
By Eugene Field
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I was nt there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)
The gingham dog went Bow-wow-wow!
And the calico cat replied Mee-ow!
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(Now mind: Im only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)
The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, Oh, dear! What shall we do!
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw
And, oh! How the gingham and calico flew!
(Dont fancy I exaggerate
I got my news from the Chinese plate!)
Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
(The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)

The Purple Cow

By Gelett Burgess

I never saw a Purple Cow,

I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you, anyhow,
Id rather see than be one!

I felt a Funeral in my Brain

By Emily Dickenson
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading treading till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum
Kept beating beating till I thought
My Mind was going numb
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here
And
And
And
And

then a Plank in Reason, broke,

I dropped down, and down
hit a World, at every plunge,
Finished knowing then

The End
By Mark Strand (1990), The Continuous Life
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When hes held by the seas roar, motionless, there at the end,

Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that hell never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what hell discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.

Bibliography
Shmoop Editorial Team. "The Raven Poem Text." Shmoop. Shmoop University,
Inc., 11 Nov. 2008. Web. 29 Feb. 2016.
Prelutsky, Jack, and Arnold Lobel. The Random House Book of Poetry for
Children. New York, NY: Random House, 1983. Print.

Shmoop Editorial Team. "The Tyger Poem Text." Shmoop. Shmoop University,
Inc., 11 Nov. 2008. Web. 1 Mar. 2016.
Silverstein, Shel. Where the Sidewalk Ends: The Poems & Drawings of Shel
Silverstein. New York: Harper and Row, 1974. Print.
Milne, A. A., and Ernest H. Shepard. Now We Are Six. New York: Dutton, 1961.
Print.
Shmoop Editorial Team. "The Eagle Poem Text." Shmoop. Shmoop University,
Inc., 11 Nov. 2008. Web. 1 Mar. 2016.