The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

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 forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled 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.

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, "are sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind of nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
--Edgar Allan Poe

OK! Here's the one you've all been waiting for. The quintessential Halloween poem...THE RAVEN. I've been resisting posting this one for months, just so I could have it to post today. I hope you appreciate it.

There is good reason for this poem to be almost universally highly regarded, and one of the most famous American poems ever. Poe uses nearly all of the poetic devices I've been talking about with the finesse of an expert.

• The rhythm and meter of the poem is nigh on perfect--with not a syllable out of place except once or twice to produce a jarring effect. The way he alternates between ending the lines on a stressed or unstressed syllable helps with the feelings of empty darkness and suspense--there's a void at the end of some lines that makes you want to hurry and read the next.
  
• The rhyme scheme is ABCBBB, but there's lots of internal rhyme as well. My favorite example is in the lines "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;/ Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
  
• He uses alliteration frequently as well, carefully choosing the sound to be repeated for maximum effect. Sought, Surcease and Sorrow make a ghostly whispering while Grim, unGainly, Ghastly, Gaunt makes a gagging revulsion.
  
• He has plenty of classical allusions which pack more connotations of meaning into the relatively small space he has to work with than mere description alone. By having the bird perch on the pallid bust of Pallas, he implies that the bird is associated with classical wisdom, but wisdom offers no life or health or hope to this man.
  
• The visual imagery is striking with its contrasts--The black bird on the white bust, or the December tempest outside compared to the plush comfort inside. At the same time, these opposites are equated to each other--he constantly asks the raven for wisdom, and the velvet cushion just makes him remember how lonely he is.

These examples and many others that I don't have room to list are not there by accident. Poe wrote a whole essay on the hard work involved in composing poetry with The Raven as his case in point. Though he may have exaggerated just how calculated every step was, he certainly thought about all these things during the composition and editing of the poem.

I also think it's interesting that in that essay (The Philosophy of Composition), he says that "the death... of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world." I thought that matched nicely with my poem, Farewell My Love, written because having one's fiance die was the most tragic thing I could think of.

One more thing that not many people point out, that stood out to me in today's re-reading are the questions the man asks the Raven. He has already decided that it only knows the one word, but then asks questions like, "Will I ever see her again?" and is outraged at the expected answer. This man is making himself miserable on purpose.

This poem is perfectly suited as a read-aloud, and many people have done so to great effect. Poe himself did it--At one literary salon, a guest noted, "to hear [Poe] repeat the Raven... is an event in one's life." It was recalled, "He would turn down the lamps till the room was almost dark, then standing in the center of the apartment he would recite... in the most melodious of voices... So marvelous was his power as a reader that the auditors would be afraid to draw breath lest the enchanted spell be broken."

Finally, I thought it was appropriate that last night's Simpson's Treehouse of Horror was the episode had this clip in it.

Hallowe'en by Joel Benton

Hallowe'en

Pixie, kobold, elf, and sprite
All are on their rounds to-night,-
In the wan moon's silver ray
Thrives their helter-skelter play.

Fond of cellar, barn,or stack,
True unto the almanac,
They present to credulous eyes
Strange hobgoblin mysteries.

Cabbage-stomps-straws wet with dew-
Apple-skins, and chestnuts too,
And a mirror for some lass,
Show what wonders come to pass.

Doors they move, and gates they hide,
Mischiefs that on moon-beams ride
Are their deeds, and, by their spells,
Love records its oracles.

Don't we all, of long ago,
By the ruddy fireplace glow,
In the kitchen and the hall,
Those queer, coofllke pranks recall?

Eery shadows were they then-
But to-night they come again;
Were we once more but sixteen,
Precious would be Halloween.
-Joel Benton

There's a couple of reasons why I picked this poem today. The first is to remind you of "the reason for the season." Halloween is All Hallows Eve. November 1 is All Saint's Day when we theoretically honor all the saints for the good work they did in defeating the forces of evil. Therefore, the forces of evil are particularly weak on that day and a while after. Since they know it's their last chance to snare souls before they're severely weakened, all the Bad Things out there make a last ditch effort to get people.

In order to keep them at bay, Mummers and Morris Dancers used to go around putting on performances which theoretically scared the Bad Things away. Then people gave them food in payment for their services. If someone didn't pay, the performers would withdraw their protection, and Bad Things would happen on that person's property. As time went on, these customs gradually lost some of their original meanings, and through various stages came to be what we celebrate today.

This poem talks about some of the Bad Things and the mischief they'd cause, which relates back to my reason number one for posting it. The second reason appears in the last two lines of the poem: Were we once more but sixteen, Precious would be Halloween. I would personally put the ideal Halloween age a little younger, but I certainly agree that certain holidays are a lot more fun when you're a little kid.

I love Halloween. The activities around it like Hayrides and Apple Picking, and Walks through the autumn woods and fallen leaves at night till you come upon a hillside full of flickering Jack-O-Lanterns. I like how it's a little bit scary and mysterious and magical--but not too much. I like having an excuse to get more varieties of candy than I generally treat myself to. And I especially like having an excuse to dress up in costume.

This year though, the weather is in the 80's, there are no woods, fallen leaves, or hayrides. I might convince Peter to carve a Jack-O-Lantern tonight if I'm lucky. I got to dress up for one church party, but got there late and there were far too many kids there to get a good look at any of them. I really don't need any more candy, and the whole thing is generally disappointing. Ah well...maybe in a few years when I have kids of my own it'll be fun again.

Lady Button-Eyes by Eugene Field

Lady Button-Eyes

When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh gently to and fro;
When the night winds softly blow,
And the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
When upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen -
Then from yonder misty skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Through the murk and mist and gloam
To our quiet, cozy home,
Where to singing, sweet and low,
Rocks a cradle to and fro;
Where the clock's dull monotone
Telleth of the day that's done;
Where the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Where my weary wee one lies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Cometh like a fleeting ghost
From some distant eerie coast;
Never footfall can you hear
As that spirit fareth near -
Never whisper, never word
From that shadow-queen is heard.
In ethereal raiment dight,
From the realm of fay and sprite
In the depth of yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Layeth she her hands upon
My dear weary little one,
And those white hands overspread
Like a veil the curly head,
Seem to fondle and caress
Every little silken tress;
Then she smooths the eyelids down
Over those two eyes of brown -
In such soothing, tender wise
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Dearest, feel upon your brow
That caressing magic now;
For the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again,
While upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen,
And the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes!
--Eugene Field

I find this poem vaguely disturbing. It's a nice poem about the magic that happens as a child falls asleep and the fairy queen comes and gives her dreams. That sort of poem should make a nice little lullaby, and not a spooky Halloween offering. But the fairy queen has button eyes. Why? She's got all sorts of ethereal loveliness, and white hands, and a floaty dress, and then something as incongruent as button eyes. Maybe the child for whom it was written had a fairy queen doll with button eyes. Maybe the buttons are more elegant than the flat thing with four holes and an X of thread that I'm envisioning. I don't know. It just throws the whole thing slightly off kilter for me. Lady Button-Eyes is a slightly sinister character, and the child is falling into that sort of deep sleep where you can't move, and you can't scream, and there's nothing you can do but watch in horror as this freakish woman with button eyes comes and caresses your face and hair and sends images into your brain. It's the stuff of nightmares.

I'm not sure if you will find this poem as disturbing as I did. I think that a large part of my reaction comes from reading Neil Gaiman's book Coraline. Here's a complete review, but I'll sum up what's in this very creepy book. A little girl moves into a new apartment, and stumbles into a parallel shadow world where her parents have white hands and buttons sewn over their eyes. They want her to stay with them forever and pay more attention to her than her real parents, but they want to sew buttons over her eyes too. As she tries to resist, things get very weird. I didn't really like the book as much as several reviewers, and wouldn't necessarily recommend it unless you like to be weirded out and left vaguely uneasy ever after.

Because I Could Not Stop for Death by Emily Dickinson

Because I Could Not Stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ’t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
--Emily Dickinson

I often read what other people have to say about a poem before deciding what to write about it. I've found that I don't always know what it is about the poem that I like--only that I like it. Reading analysis helps me to decide whether it's the things that other people mention, or something else entirely that drew me to the poem that day. I also find that reading analysis helps me to see things in other poems (for instance--my comments on the meter in the Shakespeare poem the other day were all from my own head rather than rephrasing what I had found other people saying).

As I was looking for something to say about this poem, I stumbled on a site with an interesting way of showing some of the poetic devices visually using different font effects. It's something that you may want to look at if you're more visually oriented.

I had often read this poem, and liked its feel of calm acceptance of Death, but I really didn't ever pay much attention to the symbols she uses other than the obvious one of Death as a gentlemen caller taking her on a carriage ride that turns out to be much longer than she expected. She's also got a stanza where she shows all of life (childhood -- in the schoolyard, maturity--the grain, and old age--the setting sun). For a time, she's uncomfortable, feeling the cold and damp in what seems more appropriate clothing for a wedding than a funeral, but then she comes to see the grave (mound) as a homey place.

I've liked Emily Dickinson's work on principle ever since I found out she was from Amherst (even if it is the wrong one), but it's only since I've been paying attention to the mechanics and analysis of poetry that I really see what makes her work so enduring.

Farewell My Love by Karen Stay Ahlstrom

Farewell My Love

"Farewell my love, but return soon
And meet me here beneath the moon
By the garrison gate, and come what may
That morn shall bring our wedding day.

"For our leige lord hath called to war
And thou must ride for him once more.
His summons will not brook delay
To wait until our wedding day.

"Not one month hence we were to wed
And could have shared our marriage bed,
But as thou now must go away
We must postpone our wedding day.

"Each night I’ll come. I will be true
Beneath this tree I’ll wait for you.
And in thy care, my heart will stay
Till thou dost come back home to stay.

"The trumpets blow the captains call.
Fight well my love, and do not fall.
As thou dost go the foe to slay
Swear thou’lt return to me one day."

He swore the oath that he’d not fail.
He kissed her hand. He donned his mail.
She whispered as he rode away,
"I will await our wedding day."

Each night she stood by garden gate--
Nearly a month till cruel fate
Did send her news the first of May
Which would have been her wedding day.

A messenger sent from the king
Arrived that day tidings to bring.
Her knight was lost and none could say
If her true love yet lived that day.

When she was told, the maid did weep
And yet resolved her vow to keep.
"I told my love," the lass did say,
"I would await our wedding day."

So still each night she waited there.
Each passing day she grew more fair.
Though suitors thronged, she told them nay
She would await her wedding day.

One night the moon shone up above.
She saw the shape of her true love,
Ran to his arms and there did say,
"This morn shall bring our wedding day"

He spoke no word, but held her tight
And there they stayed till the first light
Of dawn did shine with golden ray
And heralded the break of day.

Yet as he felt the golden glow
He kissed her once, then turned to go
And with a cry of deep dismay
She saw her true love fade away.

"I’ll follow you where’ere you go
To heaven’s gate, or down below!"
And with conviction she did say,
"This day shall be our wedding day."

The spectre shook his weary head.
"The living can but mourn the dead.
Thy oath hath been fulfilled this day
And thou must learn to live I say."

Then he was gone. The lady cried.
When she arose, her eyes had dried.
Just as the night gives way to day
Her grief at last had passed away.
--Karen Stay Ahlstrom

Here's a poem that I wrote myself. It's the first one I've posted on my blog. The rest can be found by following the link in the sidebar. If you want to sing this as a sad song, it's written to fit to the tune of "Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie."

I'm posting it today because it's a ghost story--though not really a scary one. Originally, the lady did follow her true love by dying of a broken heart after the ghost left. If you look at my state of mind when I wrote it, you can probably understand why. It was 1999, while I was engaged to Peter the first time, and if you recall, that was about when I really hit rock bottom with my depression and anxiety for the first time as well. I wrote this poem because I liked how very sad the tune sounded, and I wanted to write about the saddest thing I could think of. After I got treatment and began to recover, I rewrote the poem to have a happier ending.

I've also been noticing the rhythm of poems lately, especially since someone I know asked me to critique a poem they wrote. If you're just starting out writing poetry, and want to make sure you have decent rhythm and scansion, you might consider picking a tune that has the same feeling as the poem you're hoping to write, and then fit the words to the tune. It really helped me to know where accented syllables belonged or didn't, and when I could fudge by adding an extra syllable at the beginning or end of a line without throwing the rhythm off.

The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service

The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
‘Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way
That “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he,
“I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you
Won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold
Till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
“You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you
To cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry,
“Is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—
Such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
“I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;”
...Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear
You’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee
--Robert W. Service

People don't really associate the Yukon with Halloween, but I thought that this poem had enough of a ghost story feel that it'd do. This is one of Mom's favorite poems--I'm pretty sure she has at least parts of it memorized.

This is a pretty popular poem, and I found several recordings of it being read aloud. There's the author Robert Service reading it, or perhaps you'd rather hear it in the deep sonorous tones of Johnny Cash. Or, if you're an NPR fan, how about Scott Simon and Daniel Pinkwater reading the poem and discussing the book with illustrations by Ted Harrison?

One thing I didn't realize was that Robert Service actually lived in the Yukon for a while. A friend, Dr. Sugden, told him the story of cremating a frozen corpse in the boiler of a derelict steamboat (called Olive May) because he had no way to bury him. The name Sam McGee belonged to a real person. Service saw his name on a form at the bank where he (Service) was working, and asked the man if he could use it in his poem. McGee agreed, but regretted it ever after because of the teasing he got from the prospectors. It's said that he eventually took to selling urns containing "the ashes of Sam McGee."

Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley

Little Orphant Annie

Inscribed with all faith and affection
To all the little children: - The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones - Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun,
A-listenin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef
     You
          Don't
               Watch
                    Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, -
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: -
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef
     You
          Don't
               Watch
                    Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'for she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef
     You
          Don't
               Watch
                    Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'bugs in dew is all squenched away, -
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef
     You
          Don't
               Watch
                    Out!
--James Whitcomb Riley

It always annoyed me that this poem has nothing whatsoever to do with a little red haired girl that sings about tomorrow (though it's generally accepted that this poem is where the comic strip got its name).

It also annoys me that the poem is so packed with "morality." If a little orphan girl ends up somewhere, working hard to earn her keep, she may very well tell the other children stories (Sara Crewe did). Yet I doubt that those stories would be about how you ought to be respectful to your elders and say your prayers or else Bad Things will happen. By that sort of reckoning, the orphan girl must have done something horrible to deserve her fate. No, her stories would be about how Bad Things happen to even the most virtuous children, but that if you play your cards right, you might prevail.

I think it's interesting that many of the sites that quote this poem only post the first stanza. It's got the "Little Orphant Annie" bit, which is one reason people remember it. It's also got the main idea of the poem -- kids sit around and listen to this girl tell ghost stories. Finally it's got the fun "An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef You Don't Watch Out!" part which is the other reason people remember this poem. When you get past that fun scene that reminds you of campfire tales, the actual ghost stories are a real let down.

I heard an interesting quote yesterday. I've found various versions online, and can't tell which is the accurate quotation, since none of the quotes sites give sources other than the supposed author. Anyway, the gist of it is that G.K. Chesterton said: "Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed."

Take a look at poetry and literature. Lots of stuff has been written from both of these philosophies. But what has survived? Which stories do children ask to be told again and again? What books do parents fondly remember and buy for their children? It's certainly not the ones with heavy handed moralizing like we've got in this poem.

Children instinctively know, or quickly learn that those stories are false. Parents or nannies may tell them to scare the children into obedience, but when the child does something bad, and nothing bad happens, or when somebody else does something bad to the child, and they aren't instantly devoured by Gobble-uns, then the child feels betrayed and lied to, which indeed he was. If stuff happened that way, then we'd be living in Satan's world of forced obedience. Nobody would do bad things if they were instantly punished for them. I think it's interesting that one of the most common arguments against religion is "How could a loving, all-powerful God allow (bad thing x) to happen?" Satan has gotten people to blame God for allowing free will to exist.