Category Archives: Poem

‘Twas the Night before Christmas by Clement C. Moore


‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, _Dasher!_ now, _Dancer!_ now, _Prancer_ and _Vixen!_
On, _Comet!_ on, _Cupid!_ on, _Donder_ and _Blitzen!_
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes–how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

Published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912

Source: Project Gutenberg


A Night of Frogs by Kristin Martin


A frog lives in our garden
in a pond beneath the tree.
I hear it croak at bedtime
as it says ‘goodnight’ to me.

A frog lives by our back door
on a post below the light.
I sneak outside to say ‘hello’
because it’s only there at night.

A frog lives in our laundry
in the corner of the wall.
I check when I come back inside
to make sure it didn’t fall.

A frog lives in our kitchen
in the space behind the sink.
It freezes in the torchlight
when I get myself a drink.

A frog lives in our bathroom
and I don’t know what to do
because it isn’t where it should be.
Yuk! It’s swimming in the loo!

My mum comes in the bathroom,
plants a kiss upon my head.
‘The frogs are fine just where they are
but you should be in bed!’

Source: Funny Poems for Kids

Spring Awakening by Miriam Green


Spring is the joy
Of the birds singing,
Raindrops trickling down the gum trees.
When spring is here I am alive,
Everything is rushing to hatch,
All animals,
All flowers,
Now fresh and fragrant.
Everything about spring is airy and new,
Flowing freely, fragile, but strong.
Nothing can break the happiness in spring,
The energy, the laughter, the joy.
Spring is the inspiration for artists,
Fine colours of the rainbow are
The most beautiful to me.
I love spring, the flowers and the rainbow,
the long green grass swaying gently
With the wind , the wind.

Source: these poems were written by Australian children in masterclasses on The Four Seasons using The Hathorn Technique led by Libby Hathorn.

Spring Awakening by Hannah Biber



Thinking and linking
Raking and baking
Tall and small
Take and make
Puffing and huffing
Pushing and pulling
Feeding and breeding
Needing and leaning
Walking and talking
Ranting and panting
Roughing and buffing
This is life in the park.

Source: these poems were written by Australian children in masterclasses on The Four Seasons using The Hathorn Technique led by Libby Hathorn.

Spring Awakening by Lily Baker


Spring is the magical time

When the rainbow lorikeets hum and the honey suckles


When I actively bounce down the sand dunes

And onto the pea green grass,

The waratahs and the wattles bloom,

And my heart opens to the riot of spring.

I love this time when everything comes to life,

Nature triumphs in the trees, swaying freely in the wind,

Stealing my train of thought

And making my imagination run wild.

I am inspired by this heavenly kingdom,

The tranquillity of dew droplets falling,


The mastery of the rain.

I feel connected.

Tree sap trickles down the bark of native gum trees

I examine this , calmly, curiously.

Sometimes the wind whispers to me at dusk

Giving me confidence within my body

I promise

I will always make the most of springtime.


Source: these poems were written by Australian children in masterclasses on The Four Seasons using The Hathorn Technique led by Libby Hathorn.

Spring Awakening by Maddy Van Dam


Spring is a fresh beginning,
New growth,
Flowers open up,
Colours bloom,
Spring is when the wattle goes
On its travels.
It is natural when the trickling water
Can sometimes carry the flower petals.
Spring is when the breeze brings the
buzz and the brightness,
The smell of natural winds is all
Sun glitters on the water.

Source: these poems were written by Australian children in masterclasses on The Four Seasons using The Hathorn Technique led by Libby Hathorn.

Remembrance of things past by Libby Hathorn


Maroubra Cycle


Remembrance of things past


Left the old car spangled with raindrops,

stationary, marbilized with dust

and vapours on the wet dark tar,

and walking through the mist

of day long rain thought of her,

the dead friend. A flash to the past.

Vivid, shocking.

Her face.

And then to a time she did not share.

To the flat concrete road of a suburb

she did not know. The place

of my childhood rising up again.


The sameness, brick neat rows

red tiled, brown walled houses

with their dreary oblong gardens,

soil too sandy for much variety.

Two dark pencil pines like

a child’s drawing, placed either side,

straggly fuschias bravely flowering,

dumpy pomegranates, the wonder fruits

split for touching but not for eating.

and a line of heavy lemon dahlias

crazed on their leaning stakes.

Fat hydrangea escaping corners

with their stolid pom-poms pale blue.

(My mother loved them, showed us how

you singed their stems to blackness

to make the flowers last and last

in the squat, cut-glass vase she favoured

before the coming, to Maroubra,

of the new Venetian glass.)

The bulging rosemary bush,

centrally placed, of cool green,

with its surprising silvery underside

and rosemary sharp smell.

(For remembrance, they told us at school,

you wear a sprig, for remembrance,

for a war we did not remember,

for remembrance of things past.)


The squat, brick front fences

that we lay on to take the trapped

late afternoon warmth of a dying sun

inhaling the sweet, faint, reassuring smell,

constant by the gasbox in those tiny gardens

of the past. Or that we sat on

in a noisy companionable row

legs swinging, watching others play

on grass verges between untidy oleanders.

(If you sucked the thin bitter leaves

of an oleander bush, you’d be killed

stone dead we believed, plucking at

the lethal leaves, tempting one another).

But death seemed so remote an act

for all of us who played so hard

among the poisonous oleanders.


In the flash of her eyes,

My past.

Her presence.

Then the lack of her presence.

Her face.

Memory locks into memory.

Her face.

The rain.

Her face.

Her face, an affirmation

Of my past.


Source: Heard Singing – the cycle of poems “Maroubra Cycle” by Libby Hathorn.  Out of India Press, 1998