Top 20 Most Popular Poems of Eugene Field

These are the top twenty (20) most popular poems of Eugene Field.

From The Dreams to Mortality..

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

Keep reading!.

The Dreams


Two dreams came down to earth one night
From the realm of mist and dew;
One was a dream of the old, old days,
And one was a dream of the new.

One was a dream of a shady lane
That led to the pickerel pond
Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves
To the brown old hills beyond.


And the people that peopled the old-time dream
Were pleasant and fair to see,
And the dreamer he walked with them again
As often of old walked he.


Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane
That tangled his curly hair!
Oh, sweet was the music the robins made
To the springtime everywhere!


Was it the dew the dream had brought
From yonder midnight skies,
Or was it tears from the dear, dead years
That lay in the dreamer’s eyes?


The other dream ran fast and free,
As the moon benignly shed
Her golden grace on the smiling face
In the little trundle-bed.

For ‘t was a dream of times to come–
Of the glorious noon of day–
Of the summer that follows the careless spring
When the child is done with play.


And ‘t was a dream of the busy world
Where valorous deeds are done;
Of battles fought in the cause of right,
And of victories nobly won.

It breathed no breath of the dear old home
And the quiet joys of youth;
It gave no glimpse of the good old friends
Or the old-time faith and truth.


But ‘t was a dream of youthful hopes,
And fast and free it ran,
And it told to a little sleeping child
Of a boy become a man!

These were the dreams that came one night
To earth from yonder sky;
These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed–
My little boy and I.


And in our hearts my boy and I
Were glad that it was so;
He loved to dream of days to come,
And I of long ago.


So from our dreams my boy and I
Unwillingly awoke,
But neither of his precious dream
Unto the other spoke.

Yet of the love we bore those dreams
Gave each his tender sign;
For there was triumph in his eyes–
And there were tears in mine!

Eugene Field

The Fate Of The Flimflam


A flimflam flopped from a fillamaloo,
Where the pollywog pinkled so pale,
And the pipkin piped a petulant “pooh”
To the garrulous gawp of the gale.
“Oh, woe to the swap of the sweeping swipe
That booms on the hobbling bay!”
Snickered the snark to the snoozing snipe
That lurked where the lamprey lay.


The gluglug glinked in the glimmering gloam,
Where the buzbuz bumbled his bee–
When the flimflam flitted, all flecked with foam,
From the sozzling and succulent sea.
“Oh, swither the swipe, with its sweltering sweep!”
She swore as she swayed in a swoon,
And a doleful dank dumped over the deep,
To the lay of the limpid loon!

Eugene Field

A Lullaby


The stars are twinkling in the skies,
The earth is lost in slumbers deep;
So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes,
And let me lull thy soul to sleep.
Compose thy dimpled hands to rest,
And like a little birdling lie
Secure within thy cozy nest
Upon my loving mother breast,
And slumber to my lullaby,
So hushaby–O hushaby.


The moon is singing to a star
The little song I sing to you;
The father sun has strayed afar,
As baby’s sire is straying too.
And so the loving mother moon
Sings to the little star on high;
And as she sings, her gentle tune
Is borne to me, and thus I croon
For thee, my sweet, that lullaby
Of hushaby–O hushaby.


There is a little one asleep
That does not hear his mother’s song;
But angel watchers–as I weep–
Surround his grave the night-tide long.
And as I sing, my sweet, to you,
Oh, would the lullaby I sing–
The same sweet lullaby he knew
While slumb’ring on this bosom too–
Were borne to him on angel’s wing!
So hushaby–O hushaby.

Eugene Field

A Fairy Lullaby


There are two stars in yonder steeps
That watch the baby while he sleeps.
But while the baby is awake
And singing gayly all day long,
The little stars their slumbers take
Lulled by the music of his song.
So sleep, dear tired baby, sleep
While little stars their vigils keep.


Beside his loving mother-sheep
A little lambkin is asleep;
What does he know of midnight gloom—
He sleeps, and in his quiet dreams
He thinks he plucks the clover bloom
And drinks at cooling, purling streams.
And those same stars the baby knows
Sing softly to the lamb’s repose.


Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child–
The stars are dim–the night is wild;
But o’er the cot and o’er the lea
A sleepless eye forever beams–
A shepherd watches over thee
In all thy little baby dreams;
The shepherd loves his tiny sheep–
Sleep, precious little lambkin, sleep!

Eugene Field

Little Boy Blue


The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamed of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue,–
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.


Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.

Eugene Field

Morning Song


The eastern sky is streaked with red,
The weary night is done,
And from his distant ocean bed
Rolls up the morning sun.
The dew, like tiny silver beads
Bespread o’er velvet green,
Is scattered on the wakeful meads
By angel hands unseen.
“Good-morrow, robin in the trees!”
The star-eyed daisy cries;
“Good-morrow,” sings the morning breeze
Unto the ruddy skies;
“Good-morrow, every living thing!”
Kind Nature seems to say,
And all her works devoutly sing
A hymn to birth of day,
So, haste, without delay,
Haste, fairy friends, on silver wing,
And to your homes away!

Eugene Field

Summer Heat.


Nay, why discuss this summer heat,
Of which vain people tell?
Oh, sinner, rather were it meet
To fix thy thoughts on hell!


The punishment ordained for you
In that infernal spot
Is het by Satan’s impish crew
And kept forever hot.


Sumatra might be reckoned nice,
And Tophet passing cool,
And Sodom were a cake of ice
Beside that sulphur pool.

An awful stench and dismal wail
Come from the broiling souls,
Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail
Stirs up the brimstone coals.


Oh, sinner, on this end ’tis meet
That thou shouldst ponder well,
For what, oh, what, is worldly heat
Unto the heat of hell?

Eugene Field

Contentment


Once on a time an old red hen
Went strutting ’round with pompous clucks,
For she had little babies ten,
A part of which were tiny ducks.
“‘T is very rare that hens,” said she,
“Have baby ducks as well as chicks–
But I possess, as you can see,
Of chickens four and ducklings six!”


A season later, this old hen
Appeared, still cackling of her luck,
For, though she boasted babies ten,
Not one among them was a duck!
“‘T is well,” she murmured, brooding o’er
The little chicks of fleecy down–
“My babies now will stay ashore,
And, consequently, cannot drown!”


The following spring the old red hen
Clucked just as proudly as of yore–
But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,
Instead of chickens, as before!
“‘T is better,” said the old red hen,
As she surveyed her waddling brood;
“A little water now and then
Will surely do my darlings good!”


But oh! alas, how very sad!
When gentle spring rolled round again
The eggs eventuated bad,
And childless was the old red hen!
Yet patiently she bore her woe,
And still she wore a cheerful air,
And said: “‘T is best these things are so,
For babies are a dreadful care!”


I half suspect that many men,
And many, many women, too,
Could learn a lesson from the hen
With foliage of vermilion hue;
She ne’er presumed to take offence
At any fate that might befall,
But meekly bowed to Providence–
She was contented–that was all!

Eugene Field

A Dream Of Sunshine


I’m weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase–
The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie
And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by,
Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird’s call
Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn’t one at all;
And by my side should be a friend–a trusty, genial friend,
With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend;
Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring–
For then I’m going a-fishing with John Lyle King!


How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float
Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat–
Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be,
As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee;
Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs,
And the devil’s darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs;
The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair
(This latter metaphoric–we’ve no fimbriae to spare!);
And I–transported by the bliss–shan’t do a plaguey thing
But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King!


Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like,
While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike;
I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim–
But it’s worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him
In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks,
And hear him tell of things he’s seen or read of in his books–
To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out
The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about;
A fountain-head refreshing–a clear, perennial spring
Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King!


Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite–
In other words, should we return all bootless home at night,
I’d back him up in anything he had a mind to say
Of mighty bass he’d left behind or lost upon the way;
I’d nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game–
I’d cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same;
For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out–
And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about!
Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would fling
O’er perjuries committed for John Lyle King.


At night, when as the camp-fire cast a ruddy, genial flame,
He’d bring his tuneful fiddle out and play upon the same;
No diabolic engine this–no instrument of sin–
No relative at all to that lewd toy, the violin!
But a godly hoosier fiddle–a quaint archaic thing
Full of all the proper melodies our grandmas used to sing;
With “Bonnie Doon,” and “Nellie Gray,” and “Sitting on the Stile,”
“The Heart Bowed Down,” the “White Cockade,” and “Charming Annie Lisle”
Our hearts would echo and the sombre empyrean ring
Beneath the wizard sorcery of John Lyle King.


The subsequent proceedings should interest me no more–
Wrapped in a woolen blanket should I calmly dream and snore;
The finny game that swims by day is my supreme delight–
And not the scaly game that flies in darkness of the night!
Let those who are so minded pursue this latter game
But not repine if they should lose a boodle in the same;
For an example to you all one paragon should serve–
He towers a very monument to valor and to nerve;
No bob-tail flush, no nine-spot high, no measly pair can wring
A groan of desperation from John Lyle King!


A truce to badinage–I hope far distant is the day
When from these scenes terrestrial our friend shall pass away!
We like to hear his cheery voice uplifted in the land,
To see his calm, benignant face, to grasp his honest hand;
We like him for his learning, his sincerity, his truth,
His gallantry to woman and his kindliness to youth,
For the lenience of his nature, for the vigor of his mind,
For the fulness of that charity he bears to all mankind–
That’s why we folks who know him best so reverently cling
(And that is why I pen these lines) to John Lyle King.


And now adieu, a fond adieu to thee, O muse of rhyme–
I do remand thee to the shades until that happier time
When fields are green, and posies gay are budding everywhere,
And there’s a smell of clover bloom upon the vernal air;
When by the pond out yonder the redwing blackbird calls,
And distant hills are wed to Spring in veils of water-falls;
When from his aqueous element the famished pickerel springs
Two hundred feet into the air for butterflies and things–
Then come again, O gracious muse, and teach me how to sing
The glory of a fishing cruise with John Lyle King!

Eugene Field

Child And Mother


O mother-my-love, if you’ll give me your hand,
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land,–
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder.
We’ll walk in a sweet posie-garden out there,
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.


There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you,
There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you;
For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream
And sing you asleep when you’re weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.


And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head
In the bosom that’s soothed me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing, in my stead,
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So, Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we’ll wander,–
Away through the mist to the beautiful land,–
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder.

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

An Invitation To Sleep


Little eyelids, cease your winking;
Little orbs, forget to beam;
Little soul, to slumber sinking,
Let the fairies rule your dream.
Breezes, through the lattice sweeping,
Sing their lullabies the while–
And a star-ray, softly creeping
To thy bedside, woos thy smile.
But no song nor ray entrancing
Can allure thee from the spell
Of the tiny fairies dancing
O’er the eyes they love so well.
See, we come in countless number–
I, their queen, and all my court–
Haste, my precious one, to slumber
Which invites our fairy sport.

Eugene Field

The Wanderer


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.

Eugene Field

Fiddle-Dee-Dee


There once was a bird that lived up in a tree,
And all he could whistle was “Fiddle-dee-dee” –
A very provoking, unmusical song
For one to be whistling the summer day long!
Yet always contented and busy was he
With that vocal recurrence of “Fiddle-dee-dee.”


Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four,
That weird iteration repented him sore;
“I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun,
For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done
That shall presently rid all creation and me
Of that ominous bird and his ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”


Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son
His awfully truculent little red gun;
The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin,
The “bang” it came out where the bullet went in –
The right kind of weapon I think you’ll agree
For slaying all fowl that go “Fiddle-dee-dee”!


The brave little soldier quoth never a word,
But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird;
And, while that vain creature provokingly sang,
The gun it went off with a terrible bang!
Then loud laughed the youth – “By my Bottle,” cried he,
I’ve put a quietus on ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”


Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: “My son,
Right well have you wrought with your little red gun!
Hereafter no evil at all need I fear,
With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!”
She kissed the dear boy.
(The bird in the tree
Continued to whistle his “Fiddle-dee-dee”)

Eugene Field

The Fly-Away Horse


Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse –
Perhaps you have seen him before;
Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept


Through the moonlight that floats on the floor.
For it’s only at night, when the stars twinkle bright,
That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh
And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane,
Is up on his heels and away!
The Moon in the sky,
As he gallopeth by,
Cries: “Oh! what a marvelous sight!”
And the Stars in dismay
Hide their faces away
In the lap of old Grandmother Night.


It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse
Speedeth ever and ever away –
Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains,
Over streamlets that sing at their play;
And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he,
While the ships they go sailing below,
And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast
Adjudge him some portent of woe.
“What ho there!” they cry,
As he flourishes by
With a whisk of his beautiful tail;
And the fish in the sea
Are as scared as can be,
From the nautilus up to the whale!


And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those faraway lands
You little folk dream of at night –
Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow,
And corn-fields with popcorn are white;
And the beasts in the wood are ever so good
To children who visit them there –
What glory astride of a lion to ride,
Or to wrestle around with a bear!
The monkeys, they say:
“Come on, let us play,”
And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees:
While the parrots, that cling
To the peanut-vines, sing
Or converse with comparative ease!


Off! scamper to bed – you shall ride him tonight!
For, as soon as you’ve fallen asleep,
With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away
Over forest and hillside and deep!
But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear
In those beautiful lands over there,
Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his faraway course
With the wee one consigned to his care.
Then grandma will cry
In amazement: “Oh, my!”
And she’ll think it could never be so;
And only we two
Shall know it is true –
You and I, little precious! shall know!

Eugene Field

Mary Smith


Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,
There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith;
And though it’s many years since last I saw that pretty girl,
And though I feel I’m sadly worn by Western strife and whirl;
Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place,
Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary’s pretty face,
And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow
I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary’s beau.


I saw her home from singing school–she warbled like a bird.
A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard.
She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass,
And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place;
The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance,
For Mary’s upper register made every heart-string dance;
And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I’d have you know
I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary’s beau.


On Friday nights I’d drop around to make my weekly call,
And though I came to visit her, I’d have to see ’em all.
With Mary’s mother sitting here and Mary’s father there,
The conversation never flagged so far as I’m aware;
Sometimes I’d hold her worsted, sometimes we’d play at games,
Sometimes dissect the apples which we’d named each other’s names.
Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me when to go–
‘Twas ten o’clock at half-past eight when I was Mary’s beau.


Now there was Luther Baker–because he’d come of age
And thought himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage–
He fancied he could cut me out; but Mary was my friend–
Elsewise I’m sure the issue had had a tragic end.
For Luther Baker was a man I never could abide,
And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died.
I merely cite this instance incidentally to show
That I was quite in earnest when I was Mary’s beau.


How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again:
The little township that was all the world I knew of then–
The meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond,
Old deacon Packard’s general store, the sawmill by the pond,
The village elms I vainly sought to conquer in my quest
Of that surpassing trophy, the golden oriole’s nest.
And, last of all those visions that come back from long ago,
The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary’s beau.


Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart–
‘T is many years since fate ordained that she and I should part;
To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet
It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget.
And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy
That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy?
I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack, ‘t would show
That it had predilections when I was Mary’s beau.


And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place,
God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face–
God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day,
With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray;
But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee
As we were in the olden times–as you shall always be.
Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know
When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary’s beau.


Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes
Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies;
For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see
God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me;
And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days,
When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant ways–
Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago,
Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary’s beau.

Eugene Field

The Dream-Ship


When the world is fast asleep,
Along the midnight skies–
As though it were a wandering cloud–
The ghostly dream-ship flies.
An angel stands at the dream-ship’s helm,
An angel stands at the prow,
And an angel stands at the dream-ship’s side
With a rue-wreath on her brow.


The other angels, silver-crowned,
Pilot and helmsman are,
And the angel with the wreath of rue
Tosseth the dreams afar.
The dreams they fall on rich and poor;
They fall on young and old;
And some are dreams of poverty,
And some are dreams of gold.


And some are dreams that thrill with joy,
And some that melt to tears;
Some are dreams of the dawn of love,
And some of the old dead years.
On rich and poor alike they fall,
Alike on young and old,
Bringing to slumbering earth their joys
And sorrows manifold.


The friendless youth in them shall do
The deeds of mighty men,
And drooping age shall feel the grace
Of buoyant youth again.


The king shall be a beggarman–
The pauper be a king–
In that revenge or recompense
The dream-ship dreams do bring.


So ever downward float the dreams
That are for all and me,
And there is never mortal man
Can solve that mystery.


But ever onward in its course
Along the haunted skies–
As though it were a cloud astray–
The ghostly dream-ship flies.


Two angels with their silver crowns
Pilot and helmsman are,
And an angel with a wreath of rue
Tosseth the dreams afar.

Eugene Field

Mother And Child


One night a tiny dewdrop fell
Into the bosom of a rose,–
“Dear little one, I love thee well,
Be ever here thy sweet repose!”


Seeing the rose with love bedight,
The envious sky frowned dark, and then
Sent forth a messenger of light
And caught the dewdrop up again.


“Oh, give me back my heavenly child,–
My love!” the rose in anguish cried;
Alas! the sky triumphant smiled,
And so the flower, heart-broken, died.

Eugene Field

A Heine Love Song


The image of the moon at night
All trembling in the ocean lies,
But she, with calm and steadfast light,
Moves proudly through the radiant skies,


How like the tranquil moon thou art–
Thou fairest flower of womankind!
And, look, within my fluttering heart
Thy image trembling is enshrined!

Eugene Field

Mortality.


O Nicias, not for us alone
Was laughing Eros born,
Nor shines alone for us the moon,
Nor burns the ruddy morn;
Alas! to-morrow lies not in the ken
Of us who are, O Nicias, mortal men!

Eugene Field

Really, this collection delights my heart. It’s more humorous. Compared to other poetry collections, this collection tackles mostly childhood and is for children. No doubt, he was known as the “poet of childhood.”.

I was already expecting that―The Dreams would be on top. Based on my interpretation of this poem; it tackles the dreams of an old man to be young once again and a boy who wants to grow up immediately. This is true since everybody has their own dream. It will always depend on how a person looks at life, but no matter what happens, it will pass quickly. All of our dreams will be alike at some point at one end.

What about you? What’s your most favorite poem of Eugene Field?

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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2 thoughts on “Top 20 Most Popular Poems of Eugene Field

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