Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A SUMMER'S DAY, by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: The summer's put the idy in Last Line: The dreams that never comes ag'in. Alternate Author Name(s): Johnson Of Boone, Benj. F. Subject(s): Children; Summer; Youth; Childhood | ||||||||
THE summer's put the idy in My head that I'm a boy ag'in; And all around's so bright and gay I want to put my team away, And jest git out whare I can lay And soak my hide full of the day! But work is work, and must be done -- Yit, as I work, I have my fun, Jest fancyin' these furries here Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear: -- And so I walk through medder-lands, And country lanes, and swampy trails Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands; And, titled on the ridered rails Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White" Whissels his name in high delight, And whirs away. I wunder still, Whichever way a boy's feet will -- Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth, Heerin' the acorn as it drops -- H'istin' my chin up still as deth, And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes, The tree whare Mr. Squirrel tries To hide hisse'f above the limb, But lets his own tale tell on him. I wunder on in deeper glooms -- Git hungry, hearin' female cries From old farmhouses, whare perfumes Of harvest dinners seems to rise And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane, With memories he can't explane. I wunder through the underbresh, Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick, Is picked and printed in the fresh Black bottom-lands, like wimmern pick Theyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way, When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day. I wunder on and on and on, Tel my gray hair and beard is gone, And ev'ry wrinkle on my brow Is rubbed clean out and shaddered now With curls as brown and fare and fine As tenderls of the wild grape-vine That ust to climb the highest tree To keep the ripest ones fer me. I wunder still, and here I am Wadin' the ford below the dam -- The worter chucklin' round my knee At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch, And me a-slippin' 'crost to see Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size The old man's wortermelon-patch, With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes. Then, after sich a day of mirth And happiness as worlds is wurth -- So tired that Heaven seems nigh about, -- The sweetest tiredness on earth Is to git home and flatten out -- So tired you can't lay flat enugh, And sorto' wish that you could spred Out like molasses on the bed, And jest drip off the aidges in The dreams that never comes ag'in. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE THREE CHILDREN by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN CHILDREN SELECTING BOOKS IN A LIBRARY by RANDALL JARRELL COME TO THE STONE ... by RANDALL JARRELL THE LOST WORLD by RANDALL JARRELL A SICK CHILD by RANDALL JARRELL CONTINENT'S END by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON THE DEATH OF FRIENDS IN CHILDHOOD by DONALD JUSTICE THE POET AT SEVEN by DONALD JUSTICE A BOY'S MOTHER by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY |
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