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Poems Every Child Should Know

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<h3>Krinken.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"Krinken" is the dearest of poems. <blockquote> "Krinken was a little child. It was summer when he smiled!" </blockquote> Eugene Field, above all other poets, paid the finest tribute to children. This poet only, could make the whole ocean warm because a child's heart was there to warm it. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> Krinken was a little child,— It was summer when he smiled. Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling, "Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!" But the child heard not the sea Calling, yearning evermore For the summer on the shore. </div> <div class="stanza"> Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play; On the pebbly beach she played In the summer Krinken made. Fair, and very fair, was she, Just a little child was he. "Krinken," said the maiden Nis, "Let me have a little kiss,— Just a kiss, and go with me To the summer-lands that be Down within the silver sea." </div> <div class="stanza"> Krinken was a little child— By the maiden Nis beguiled, Hand in hand with her went he And 'twas summer in the sea. And the hoary sea and grim To its bosom folded him— Clasped and kissed the little form, And the ocean's heart was warm. </div> <div class="stanza"> Now the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,— Winter where that little child Made sweet summer when he smiled; Though 'tis summer on the sea Where with maiden Nis went he,— It is winter on the shore, Winter, winter evermore. </div> <div class="stanza"> Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep; His fair face lifts from the sea, His dear voice calls out to me,— These my dreams of summer be. </div> <div class="stanza"> Krinken was a little child, By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Crying, "Sim-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!" But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,— Winter, cold and dark and wild. </div> <div class="stanza"> Krinken was a little child,— It was summer when he smiled; Down he went into the sea, And the winter bides with me, Just a little child was he. </div> </td></tr></table> Eugene Field. <h3>Stevenson's Birthday.</h3> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> "How I should like a birthday!" said the child, "I have so few, and they so far apart." She spoke to Stevenson—the Master smiled— "Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart That it were yours; too many years have I! Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly" </div> <div class="stanza"> So by a formal deed he there conveyed All right and title in his natal day, To have and hold, to sell or give away,— Then signed, and gave it to the little maid. </div> <div class="stanza"> Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much, She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold. Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch All common things shine with transmuted gold! A day of Stevenson's will prove to be Not part of Time, but Immortality. </div> </td></tr></table> Katherine Miller. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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