Top 20 Most Popular Poems of Lewis Carroll

These are the top twenty (20) most popular poems of Lewis Carroll.

From A Boat Beneath A Sunny Sky to Echoes.

If you want to know his greatest poems of all time, then this poetry collection is for you.

Keep reading!.

A Boat Beneath A Sunny Sky


A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July,


Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear,


Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.


Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.


Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.


In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:


Ever drifting down the stream,
Lingering in the golden dream,
Life, what is it but a dream?

Lewis Carroll

Jabberwocky


‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”


He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought,
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!


One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.


“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.


‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll

Dreamland


When midnight mists are creeping,
And all the land is sleeping,
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
Lo, warriors, saints, and sages,
From out the vanished ages,
With solemn pace and reverend face
Appear and pass away.
The blaze of noonday splendour,
The twilight soft and tender,
May charm the eye: yet they shall die,
Shall die and pass away.
But here, in Dreamland’s centre,
No spoiler’s hand may enter,
These visions fair, this radiance rare,
Shall never pass away.
I see the shadows falling,
The forms of old recalling;
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.

Lewis Carroll

The Sea


There are certain things, a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three,
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the Sea.


Pour some salt water over the floor,
Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
That’s very like the Sea.


Beat a dog till it howls outright,
Cruel, but all very well for a spree;
Suppose that one did so day and night,
That would be like the Sea.


I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me,
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the Sea.


Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could,
Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With thoughts as boundless, and souls as free;
But suppose you are very unwell in a boat,
How do you like the Sea.


There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb `to flee’)
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the Sea.

If you like coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs,
By all means choose the Sea.


And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then, I recommend the Sea.


For I have friends who dwell by the coast,
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I’m with them I wonder most
That anyone likes the Sea.


They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
To climb the heights I madly agree:
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the Sea.


I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool,
That skirts the cold, cold Sea.

Lewis Carroll

All In The Golden Afternoon


All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretense
Our wanderings to guide.


Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?


Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict to “begin it”–
In gentler tones Secunda hopes
“There will be nonsense in it”–
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not more than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast–
And half believe it true.


And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
“The rest next time”–“It is next time!”
The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out–
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.


Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where Childhood’s dreams are twined
In Memory’s mystic band,
Like pilgrim’s withered wreath of flowers
Plucked in a far-off land.

Lewis Carroll

The Walrus And The Carpenter


The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright,
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.


The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done,
‘It’s very rude of him.’ she said,
‘To come and spoil the fun!’


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead,
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
‘If this were only cleared away,’
They said, ‘it would be grand.’

‘If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,
‘That they could get it clear?’
‘l doubt it,’ said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!
The Walrus did beseech.
‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.’

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head,
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


Out four young Oysters hurried up.
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat,
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more,
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,
‘To talk of many things:
Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax,
Of cabbages, and kings,
And why the sea is boiling hot,
And whether pigs have wings.’


‘But wait a bit,’ the Oysters cried,
‘Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!’
‘No hurry!’ said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


‘A loaf of bread,’ the Walrus said,
‘Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed,
Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.’


‘But not on us!’ the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
‘After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!’
‘The night is fine,’ the Walrus said,
‘Do you admire the view?’


‘It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!’
The Carpenter said nothing but
‘Cut us another slice-
I wish you were not quite so deaf-
I’ve had to ask you twice!’


‘It seems a shame,’ the Walrus said,
‘To play them such a trick.
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!’
The Carpenter said nothing but
‘The butter’s spread too thick!’


‘I weep for you,’the Walrus said:
‘I deeply sympathize.’
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.


‘O Oysters,’ said the Carpenter,
‘You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none,
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll

A Strange Wild Song


He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
The bitterness of Life!’


He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece.
‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said,
“I’ll send for the Police!’


He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
‘The one thing I regret,’ he said,
‘Is that it cannot speak!’

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus .
‘If this should stay to dine,’ he said,
‘There won’t be much for us!’


He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,
‘I should be very ill!’


He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!
It’s waiting to be fed!’


He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postag e Stamp.
‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:
‘The nights are very damp!’


He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’

He thought he saw a Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’

Lewis Carroll

The Mad Hatter’s Song


” — — it was at the great concert given by the
Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing
`Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!’You know the song, perhaps?” “I’ve heard something like it,” said Alice. “It goes on, you know,” the Hatter continued,
“in this way: — —
`Up above the world you fly,
Like a teatray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle —'”

Lewis Carroll

A Nursery Darling


A Mother’s breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
see how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm, an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King
In Love: for Love is Rest.


A Darling’s kiss:
Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, the message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.

Lewis Carroll

Alice And The White Knight


Alice was walking beside the White Knight in Looking Glass Land.


“You are sad.” the Knight said in an anxious tone: “let me sing you a song to comfort you.”


“Is it very long?” Alice asked, for she had heard a good deal of poetry that day.


“It’s long.” said the Knight, “but it’s very, very beautiful. Everybody that hears me sing it,
either it brings tears to their eyes, or else,”

“Or else what?” said Alice, for the Knight had made a sudden pause.


“Or else it doesn’t, you know. The name of the song is called ‘Haddocks’ Eyes.'”


“Oh, that’s the name of the song, is it?” Alice said, trying to feel interested.


“No, you don’t understand,” the Knight said, looking a little vexed. “That’s what the name
is called. The name really is ‘The Aged, Aged Man.'”


“Then I ought to have said ‘That’s what the song is called’?” Alice corrected herself.


“No you oughtn’t: that’s another thing. The song is called ‘Ways and Means’ but that’s only
what it’s called, you know!”

“Well, what is the song then?” said Alice, who was by this time completely bewildered.


“I was coming to that,” the Knight said. “The song really is ‘A-sitting On a Gate’: and the
tune’s my own invention.”


So saying, he stopped his horse and let the reins fall on its neck: then slowly beating time
with one hand, and with a faint smile lighting up his gentle, foolish face, he began:


I’ll tell thee everything I can;
There’s little to relate.
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
“Who are you, aged man?” I said,
” And how is it you live?”
And his answer trickled through my head
like water through a sieve.


He said “I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,” he said,
“Who sail on stormy seas;
And that’s the way I get my bread,
A trifle if you please.”


But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one’s whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, “Come tell me how you live!”
And thumped him on the head.


His accents mild took up the tale:
He said, “I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland’s Macassar Oil,
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil.”


But I was thinking of a way
To feed one’s self on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side
Until his face was blue:
“Come tell me how you live,” I cried,
“And what it is you do!”


He said “I hunt for haddocks’ eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.


“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search for grassy knolls
For wheels of hansom-cabs.
And that’s the way” (he gave a wink)
“By which I get my wealth,
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour’s noble health.”

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai Bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for the wish that he
Might drink my noble health.


And now if e’er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know,
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo,
That summer evening long ago
A-sitting on a gate.


As the Knight sang the last words of the ballad, he gathered up the reins, and turned his horse’s head along the road by which they had come.

Lewis Carroll

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Bat


Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a teatray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle

Lewis Carroll

Little Birds


Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters,
I’ve a Tale to tell.


Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters,
That is what I am.


Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle,
Mouth a semicircle,
That’s the proper style!


Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases,
So the Tale begins.


Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted,
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.

Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
“Thanks!” they cry. “‘Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!”


Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting,
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!

Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter,
Merely for the fun.


Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten,
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.

Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled,
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.

Lewis Carroll

Acrostic


Little maidens, when you look
On this little story-book,
Reading with attentive eye
Its enticing history,
Never think that hours of play
Are your only holiday,
And that in a house of joy
Lessons serve but to annoy:
If in any house you find
Children of a gentle mind,
Each the others pleasing ever,
Each the others vexing never,
Daily work and pastime daily
In their order taking gaily,
Then be very sure that they
Have a life of holiday.

Lewis Carroll

Punctuality


Man Naturally loves delay,
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done too late.


Let every hour be in its place
Firm fixed, nor loosely shift,
And well enjoy the vacant space,
As though a birthday gift.


And when the hour arrives, be there,
Where’er that “there” may be;
Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair
Let no one ever see.


If dinner at “half-past” be placed,
At “half-past” then be dressed.
If at a “quarter-past” make haste
To be down with the rest


Better to be before your time,
Than e’re to be behind;
To open the door while strikes the chime,
That shows a punctual mind.


Moral:


Let punctuality and care
Seize every flitting hour,
So shalt thou cull a floweret fair,
E’en from a fading flower

Lewis Carroll

My Fairy


I have a fairy by my side
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said “You must not weep”
If, full of mirth, I smile and grin,
It says “You must not laugh”
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said “You must not quaff”.


When once a meal I wished to taste
It said “You must not bite”
When to the wars I went in haste
It said “You must not fight”.


“What may I do?” at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said “You must not ask”.


Moral: “You mustn’t.”

Lewis Carroll

How Doth The Little Crocodile


How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!

Lewis Carroll

Four Riddles


I


There was an ancient City, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.


I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,
And then you’ll see it all.”


Yet what are all such gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?


x*x + 7x + 53 = 11/3


But something whispered “It will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while!”


A change came o’er my Vision, it was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.


Within a marble hall a river ran
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;


And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.


There comes a happy pause, for human strength
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.

At such a moment ladies learn to give,
To partners who would urge them over-much,
A flat and yet decided negative
Photographers love such.


There comes a welcome summons, hope revives,
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.


Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.


And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.


And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.


How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last
“Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?”


The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It MAY mean much, but how is one to know?
He opens his mouth – yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.


II


Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!


O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?


And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!

But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,
“Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”


A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?


Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.


III.


The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there’s an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day


Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!


O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
“Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray.
“We cannot let thee pass away!”
Ah, well-a-day!


IV.


My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralist
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!


My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.


My First to get at wisdom tries
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.


My First is aging day by day:
My Second’s age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.


My Whole? I need a poet’s pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes


A flashing light, a fleeting shade
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek HER aid,
If you would read my riddle!

Lewis Carroll

A Valentine


Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn’t seem to miss him if he stayed away.


And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?


And must I then, at Friendship’s call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?


And think you that I should be dumb,
And full Dolorum Omnium,
Excepting when you choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?


Must he then only live to weep,
Who’d prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?


The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.


And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.


Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find your heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.

Lewis Carroll

A Game Of Fives


Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.


Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons, no more time for tricks.

Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!


Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which you mean!”


Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:
But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?


Five showy girls, but thirty is an age
When girls may be engaging, but they somehow don’t ENGAGE.


Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:
So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!


Five passe girls, Their age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes”!

Lewis Carroll

Echoes


Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.


She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her
down.


“Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.”


“Kind words are more than coronets,”
She said, and wondering looked at me:
“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”

Lewis Carroll

That was indeed the greatest compilation of his poems!

No wonder he was regarded for his ability with wordplay, logic, and fantasy through his written works. He created such classics out of his poems.

Well, I wouldn’t ever forget—Punctuality, my all-time favored poem. It also comes with its moral. 

What about you? What’s your most favorite poem of Lewis Carroll?

Do you still want to add another of his poem to this list? Let me know in the comment section below! 😉

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