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random poetry for children kids poems

Can't make up you mind whether you want a funny or sad - long or short - pink or violet poem? Here are a few from our vast poetry collection.



Collection : Poems for Children - 548

 

Epitaph by Edward Lear

From The Complete Nonsense Book,
edited by Lady Strachey, 1912.

Beneath these high Cathedral stairs
Lie the remains of Susan Pares.
Her name was Wiggs, it was not Pares,
But Pares was put to rhyme with stairs.





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The Monk and His Cat Pangur by Eighth Century Irish Monk

Written in the margins of an illuminated manuscript at the Abbey of St. Paul at Reichenau, Corinthia. The poem inspired a book telling of the adventures of the cat Pangur Ban who finally ends his travels at Cashel Castle in Eire, keeping it rodent-free and where he was greatly loved. Pangur Ban is Gaelic for 'white Pangur' or 'little white cat.'


I and my white Pangur
have each his special art:
His mind is set on hunting mice,
mine is upon my special craft.

I love to rest - better than any fame!
With close study at my little book;
White Pangur does not envy me:
He loves his childish play.

When in our house we two are all alone...
A tale without tedium.
We have - sport never-ending!
Something to exercise our wit.

At times by feats of derring-do
a mouse sticks in his net,
while into my net there drops
a difficult problem of hard meaning.

He points his full shining eye
against the fence of the wall:
I point my clear though feeble eye
against the keenness of science.

He rejoices with quick leaps
when in his sharp claw sticks a mouse;
I, too, rejoice when I have grasped
a problem difficult and dearly loved.

Though we are thus at all time,
neither hinders the other,
each of us pleased with his own art
amuses himself alone.

He is master of the work
which every day he does:
While I am at my own work
to bring difficulty to clearness.




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There was an old person of Dover by Edward Lear

There was an old person of Dover,
Who rushed through a field of blue Clover;
But some very large bees,
Stung his nose and his knees,
So he very soon went back to Dover.


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Mr. Mistoffelees by T S Eliot

You ought to know Mr. Mistoffelees!
The Original Conjuring Cat--
(There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don't scoff. All his
Inventions are off his own bat.
There's no such Cat in the metropolis;
He holds all the patent monopolies
For performing suprising illusions
And creating eccentric confusions.
At prestidigitation
And at legerdemain
He'll defy examination
And deceive you again.
The greatest magicians have something to learn
From Mr. Mistoffelees' Conjuring Turn.
Presto!
Away we go!
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!

He is quiet and small, he is black
From his ears to the tip of his tail;
He can creep through the tiniest crack,
He can walk on the narrowest rail.
He can pick any card from a pack,
He is equally cunning with dice;
He is always deceiving you into believing
That he's only hunting for mice.
He can play any trick with a cork
Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste;
If you look for a knife or a fork
And you think it is merely misplaced--
You have seen it one moment, and then it is gawn!
But you'll find it next week lying out on the lawn.

And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!

His manner is vague and aloof,
You would think there was nobody shyer--
But his voice has been heard on the roof
When he was curled up by the fire.
And he's sometimes been heard by the fire
When he was about on the roof--
(At least we all heard that somebody purred)
Which is incontestable proof
Of his singular magical powers:
And I have known the family to call
Him in from the garden for hours,
While he was asleep in the hall.
And not long ago this phenomenal Cat
Produced seven kittens right out of a hat!
And we all said: OH!
Well I never!
Did you ever
Know a Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!



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The Cat With Wings by Robert William Service

You never saw a cat with wings,
I'll bet a dollar -- well, I did;
'Twas one of those fantastic things
One runs across in old Madrid.
A walloping big tom it was,
(Maybe of the Angora line),
With silken ears and velvet paws,
And silver hair, superbly fine.

It sprawled upon a crimson mat,
Yet though crowds came to gaze on it,
It was a supercilious cat,
And didn't seem to mind a bit.
It looked at us with dim disdain,
And indolently seemed to sigh:
'There's not another cat in Spain
One half so marvelous as I.'

Its owner gently stroked its head,
And tickled it with fingers light.
'Ah no, it cannot fly,' he said;
'But see - it has the wings all right.'
Then tenderly from off its back
He raised, despite its feline fears,
Appendages that seemed to lack
Vitality - like rabbit's ears.

And then the vision that I had
Of Tabbie soaring through the night,
Quick vanished, and I felt so sad
For that poor pussy's piteous plight.
For though frustration has it stings,
Its mockeries in Hope's despite,
The hell of hells is to have wings
Yet be denied the bliss of flight.



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