12 Eugene Field Poems

Enjoy these Eugene Field poems full of wisdom and wit. He was born in St Louis, Missouri, on September 2, 1850. When seven years old he was taken to Amherst, Massachusetts, where he remained for thirteen years under the charge of his foster-mother. Miss Mary Field French.

He attended Williams College, 1868; Knox College, Galesburg, Illinois, 1869; and the University of Missouri, 1871. In 1872 he visited Europe, and on his return became a reporter for the St. Louis Journal, He married Miss Julia Comstock, of St. Joseph, Missouri, on October 6, 1873. In 1875-6 he was city editor of St. Joseph (Mo.) Gazette; later editorial writer on the St. Louis Journal, In 1880, he was on the staff of the Kansas City Times but left that paper in 1881 to become managing editor of the Denver Tribune, August 13, 1883, he accepted a position on the editorial staff of the Chicago Morning News (now the Record), and remained In connection with that paper until his death, November 4, 1895.

Eugene Field

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Famous Poems Eugene Field Poems:

  1. Clover-Top And Thistle-Down
    Poet: Eugene Field

    Clover-top sighed when the wind sang sweet,
    Dropping the thistle-down at her feet;
    "Oh, dear me, never a day
    Can I roam at my will, but ever, alway.
    In this tiresome meadow must ever stay!"

    Thistle-down floated, then sunk into rest,
    Only to rise at the breezes' behest,
    Hither and yon, on the wings of the air.
    Tired little sprite, so dainty and fair,
    "Oh, to just stop," she sighed, "anywhere."

    Honey-bees swarmed to thistle and clover,
    Sweet little toiling ones, over and over
    A work-a-day song they cheerily sin:
    "Look up, dear hearts, and what the days bring,
    Bless God for it all - yes- everything! "

    Christian Poems
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  2. Thirty-Nine
    Poet: Eugene Field

    O Hapless day! O wretched day!
    I hoped you'd pass me by-
    Alas, the years have sneaked away
    And all is changed but I!
    Had I the power, I would remand
    You to a gloom condign.
    But here you've crept upon me and
    I - I am thirty-nine!

    Now, were I thirty-five, I could
    Assume a flippant guise;
    Or, were I forty years, I should
    Undoubtedly look wise;
    For forty years are said to bring
    Sedateness superfine;
    But thirty-nine don't mean a thing -
    A bas with thirty-nine!

    You healthy, hulking girls and boys, -
    What makes you grow so fast?
    Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise -
    I'm tough and bound to last!
    No, no - I'm old and withered too -
    I feel my powers decline,
    (Yet none believes this can be true
    Of one at thirty-nine.)

    And you, dear girl with velvet eyes
    I wonder what you mean
    Through all our keen anxieties
    By keeping sweet sixteen.
    With your dear love to warm my heart,
    Wretch were I to repine;
    I was but jesting at the start -
    I'm glad I m thirty-nine!

    So, little children, roar and race
    As blithely as you can,
    And, sweetheart, let your tender grace
    Exalt the Day and Man;
    For then these factors (I'll engage)
    All subtly shall combine
    To make both juvenile and sage
    The one who's thirty-nine!

    Yes, after all, I'm free to say
    I would much rather be
    Standing as I do stand to-day,
    'Twixt devil and deep sea;
    For though my face be dark with care
    Or with a grimace shine,
    Each haply falls unto my share,
    For I am thirty-nine!

    'Tis passing meet to make good cheer
    And lord it like a king.
    Since only once we catch the year
    That doesn't mean a thing.
    O happy day! O gracious day!
    I pledge thee in this wine -
    Come, let us journey on our way
    A year, good Thirty-Nine!

    Birthday Poems
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  3. Paradise Regained
    Poet: Eugene Field

    Once on a time a man did die,
    And bursting forth, his soul flew straight.
    Up to the pearly realms on high
    Where good St. Peter kept the gate.

    The sainted Peter shook his head
    And would not lend a pitying ear,
    "Such worthless folks as you," he said,
    "Need make no application here! "

    In vain the hapless soul implored,
    The warden bade him go to grass,
    In vain he begged and mourned and roared,
    St. Peter would not let him pass.

    Till, goaded on by misery's stings.
    And tortured by revenge and spite
    That soul drew back and flapped its wings.
    And crowed three times with all its might.

    St. Peter blushed a scarlet blush,
    "Pass in," he cried, " I'll check your hat,
    Don't be so personal, but hush
    In future all such sounds as that!"

    Your soul may be as white as snow.
    Your life be full of good intent,
    'Twill matter not, someone will know
    The record to your detriment.

    Poems About Life
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  4. Old Times, Old Friends, Old Love
    Poet: Eugene Field

    There are no days like the good old days, -
    The days when we were youthful!
    When humankind were pure of mind,
    And speech and deeds were truthful;
    Before a love for sordid gold
    Became man's ruling passion,
    And before each dame and maid became
    Slave to the tyrant fashion!

    There are no girls like the good old girls, -
    Against the world I'd stake 'em!
    As buxom and smart and clean of heart
    As the Lord knew how to make 'em!
    They were rich in spirit and common-sense,
    And piety all supportin;
    They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too,
    And they made such likely courtin'!

    There are no boys like the good old boys, —
    When we were boys together!
    When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet
    That dimpled the laughing heather;
    When the pewee sung to the summer dawn
    Of the bee in the billowy clover,
    Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will
    Echoed his night song over.

    There is no love like the good old love, -
    The love that mother gave us!
    We are old, old men, yet we pine again
    For that precious grace, - God save us!
    So we dream and dream of the good old times.
    And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder.
    As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams
    Of heaven away off yonder.

    Friendship Poems
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  5. Christmas Hymn
    Poet: Eugene Field

    Sing, Christmas bells!
    Say to the earth this is the morn
    Whereon our Saviour-King is born;
    Sing to all men, - the bond, the free,
    The rich, the poor, the high, the low,
    The little child that sports in glee,
    The aged folk that tottering go, -
    Proclaim the morn
    That Christ is born.
    That saveth them and saveth me!

    Sing, angel host!
    Sing of the star that God has placed
    Above the manger in the east;
    Sing of the glories of the night.
    The virgin's sweet humility.
    The Babe with kingly robes bedight, -
    Sing to all men where'er they be
    This Christmas morn;
    For Christ is born.
    That saveth them and saveth me!

    Sing, sons of earth!
    O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!
    God liveth, and we have a king!
    The curse is gone, the bond are free,-
    By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed.
    By all the heavenly signs that be,
    We know that Israel is redeemed;
    That on this morn
    The Christ is born
    That saveth you and saveth me!

    Sing, O my heart!
    Sing thou in rapture this dear mom
    Whereon the blessed Prince is born!
    And as thy songs shall be of love.
    So let my deeds be charity, -
    By the dear Lord that reigns above,
    By Him that died upon the tree,
    By this fair morn
    Whereon is born
    The Christ that saveth all and me!

    Christmas Poems
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  6. Thanksgiving Day
    Poet: Eugene Field

    Pies of pumpkin, apple, mince.
    Jams and jellies, peach and quince.
    Purple grapes and apples red.
    Cakes and nuts and gingerbread —
    That's Thanksgiving.

    Turkey! Oh, a great big fellow!
    Fruits all ripe and rich and mellow.
    Everything that's nice to eat,
    More than I can now repeat —
    That's Thanksgiving.

    Lots and lots of jolly fun,
    Games to play and races run,
    All as happy as can be —
    For this happiness you can see
    Makes Thanksgiving.

    We must thank the One who gave
    All the good things that we have;
    That is why we keep the day
    Set aside, our mothers say.
    For Thanksgiving.

    Thanksgiving Poems
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  7. Good-By- God Bless You!
    Poet: Eugene Field

    I like the Anglo-Saxon speech
    With its direct revealings;
    It takes a hold, and seems to reach
    Way down into your feelings;
    That some folk deem it rude, I know,
    And therefore they abuse it;
    But I have never found it so, -
    Before all else I choose it.
    I don't object that men should air
    The Gallic they have paid for.
    With " Au revoir," "Adieu, ma chere,"
    For that's what French was made for.
    But when a crony takes your hand
    At parting, to address you.
    He drops all foreign lingo and
    He says, "Good-by - God bless you!"

    This seems to me a sacred phrase,
    With reverence impassioned, -
    A thing come down from righteous days,
    Quaintly but nobly fashioned;
    It well becomes an honest face,
    A voice that's round and cheerful;
    It stays the sturdy in his place,
    And soothes the weak and fearful.
    Into the porches of the ears
    It steals with subtle unction,
    And in your heart of hearts appears
    To work its gracious function;
    And all day long with pleasing song
    It lingers to caress you, -
    I'm sure no human heart goes wrong
    That's told "Good-by — God bless you!"

    I love the words, - perhaps because,
    When I was leaving Mother,
    Standing at last in solemn pause
    We looked at one another.
    And I - I saw in Mother's eyes
    The love she could not tell me, -
    A love eternal as the skies.
    Whatever fate befell me;
    She put her arms about my neck
    And soothed the pain of leaving,
    And though her heart was like to break,
    She spoke no word of grieving;
    She let no tear bedim her eye,
    For fear that might distress me,
    But, kissing me, she said good-by,
    And asked our God to bless me.

    Goodbye Poems
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  8. St. Valentines Day
    Poet: Eugene Field

    Though the bird flies far
    And the fair flower goes,
    The sweet of the year
    Is set in the snows.

    The wind o' the winter
    It breaks into bloom,
    And suddenly songs
    Are sung in the gloom.

    And winging hearts cross
    And whisper together,
    And a night and a day
    It is perfect weather.

    Valentines Day Poems
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  9. Easter
    Poet: Eugene Field

    Arouse, O birds, the time is nigh
    For omelettes and for poaches,
    Lift up your anthem to the sky,
    For Easter day approaches!

    Awake, O Shanghais, slim and tall,
    And Bantams short and squatty.
    And Cochins towering over all,
    And Games so fierce and haughty!

    Awake, O Brama Pootrah bird.
    And rend the wintry shackles,
    And let your kittycaws be heard.
    Your crowings and your cackles!

    Give us, O birds, a new-made lay.
    Appropriate to the minute.
    With nothing else, the shell away.
    But what there should be in it!

    Give us, O birds, so fair a lay
    No groceryman may cozen,
    A modest lay, once every day.
    At living rates per dozen.

    Easter Poems
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  10. A Funny Little Boy
    Poet: Eugene Field

    A funny little chin,
    A funny little nose,
    A funny little grin.
    Ten funny little toes.
    Two funny little eyes,
    And funny little hands,
    How funnily he tries
    To give his wee commands

    A funny little chat
    With funny little bees,
    A funny little cat
    And funny toads and trees,
    A funny little dress,
    A funny laugh of joy.
    May heaven ever bless
    My funny little boy,

    A funny little sigh,
    A funny little head,
    That funnily will try
    To miss the time for bed.
    A funny little peep
    From funny eyes that gleam,
    A funny little sleep,
    A funny little dream.

    Baby Poems
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  11. The Wanderer
    Poet: Eugene Field

    Upon a mountain height, far from the sea,
    I found a shell,
    And to my listening ear the lonely thing
    Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing,
    Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

    How came the shell upon that mountain height?
    Ah, who can say
    Whether there dropped by some too careless hand,
    Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land,
    Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day?

    Strange, was it not Far from its native deep,
    One song it sang, -
    Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide.
    Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide, -
    Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.

    And as the shell upon the mountain height
    Sings of the sea.
    So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, -
    So do I ever, wandering where I may, -
    Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.

  12. The Same Dear Hand
    Poet: Eugene Field

    The bells ring out a happy sound,
    The earth is mantled o'er with white,
    It is the merry Christmas night.
    And love, and mirth, and joy abound.
    And here sit you and here sit I -
    I should be happiest in the land.
    For oh! I hold the same dear hand
    I've held for many a year gone by . . .
    Read the entire poem The Same Dear Hand

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