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Corn Poems

Poems about corn, cornfields, popcorn, and all manner of corny subjects.

Table of Contents

  1. Popping Corn by Anonymous
  2. Cornfields by Mary Howitt
  3. Joy In the Corn Belt by C. L. Edson
  4. The Growing Corn by Frederick J. Atwood
  5. Walls of Corn by Ellen P. Allerton
  6. A Ballad of the Corn by S. H. M. Byers
  7. The Corn by Kate Cleary
  8. The Song of King Corn by Clarence Albert Murch
  9. Corn Is King by Bernhardt Paul Holst
  10. The Path Through the Corn by Dinah Maria [Mulock] Craik
  11. The Cornfield by Elizabeth Madox Roberts
  12. Amid the Corn by Hattie Howard

  1. Popping Corn

    Indian Corn and Mexican Vase
    by Cordelia Wilson
    by Anonymous

    One autumn night, when the wind was high,
    And the rain fell in heavy plashes,
    A little boy sat by the kitchen fire,
    A-popping corn in the ashes;
    And his sister, a curly-haired child of three,
    Sat looking on, just close to his knee....

    Pop! pop! and the kernels, one by one,
    Came out of the embers flying;
    The boy held a long pine stick in his hand,
    And kept it busily plying;
    He stirred the corn, and it snapped the more,
    And faster jumped to the clean-swept floor.

    Part of the kernels flew one way,
    And a part hopped out the other;
    Some flew plump into the sister's lap,
    Some under the stool of the brother;
    The little girl gathered them into a heap,
    And called them a flock of milk-white sheep.

  2. Cornfields

    by Mary Howitt

    When on the breath of Autumn's breeze,
    From pastures dry and brown,
    Goes floating, like an idle thought,
    The fair, white thistle-down,—
    Oh, then what joy to walk at will
    Upon the golden harvest-hill!

    What joy in dreaming ease to lie
    Amid a field new shorn;
    And see all round, on sunlit slopes,
    The piled-up shocks of corn;
    And send the fancy wandering o'er
    All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!

    I feel the day; I see the field;
    The quivering of the leaves;
    And good old Jacob, and his house,—
    Binding the yellow sheaves!
    And at this very hour I seem
    To be with Joseph in his dream!

    I see the fields of Bethlehem,
    And reapers many a one
    Bending unto their sickles' stroke,
    And Boaz looking on;
    And Ruth, the Moabitess fair,
    Among the gleaners stooping there!

    Again, I see a little child,
    His mother's sole delight,—
    God's living gift of love unto
    The kind, good Shunammite;
    To mortal pangs I see him yield,
    And the lad bear him from the field.

    The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,
    The fields of Galilee,
    That eighteen hundred years ago
    Were full of corn, I see;
    And the dear Saviour take his way
    'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.

    Oh, golden fields of bending corn,
    How beautiful they seem!
    The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,
    To me are like a dream;
    The sunshine, and the very air
    Seem of old time, and take me there!

  3. Joy In the Corn Belt

    by C. L. Edson

    The seed is in the clover,
    The ear is in the shuck,
    The melons shout, "Come out, come out,
    And eat this garden-truck."

    The yellow ears are for the steers,
    The white are for the swine;
    Their hair and hides and bacon sides
    Are all for me and mine.

    The cider mug is by its jug,
    The sweet potatoes fry;
    And ma is shovin in the oven
    Pumpkin custard pie!

  4. The Growing Corn

    by Frederick J. Atwood

    Upon a thousand hills the corn
    Stands tall and rank and glossy green;
    Its broad leaves stir at early morn,
    And dewy diamonds drop between.

    A myriad banners wave o'erhead,
    And countless silken pennons fly;
    The tasseled plumes bend low, 't is said,
    And only silken ears know why.

    Those bending plumes—those upturned ears—
    Methinks it is the old, old story!
    Dame Nature still, with rapture hears
    The song she heard in Eden's glory.

    And so is wrought this miracle
    Of life and growth unto perfection,—
    A mystery that none may tell,
    Save that God gives to it direction.

  5. Walls of Corn

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    Smiling and beautiful, heaven's dome,
    Bends softly over our prairie home.

    But the wide, wide lands that stretched away
    Before my eyes in the days of May,

    The rolling prairies' billowy swell,
    Breezy upland and timbered dell,

    Stately mansion and hut forlorn,
    All are hidden by walls of corn.

    All wide the world is narrowed down,
    To the walls of corn, now sere and brown.

    What do they hold—these walls of corn,
    Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn?

    He who questions may soon be told;
    A great state s wealth these walls enfold.

    No sentinels guard these walls of corn,
    Never is sounded the warder's horn.

    Yet the pillars are hung with gleaming gold,
    Left all unbarred, though thieves are bold.

    Clothes and food for the toiling poor,
    Wealth to heap at the rich man's door;

    Meat for the healthy and balm for him
    Who moans and tosses in chamber dim;

    Shoes for the barefooted, pearls to twine
    In the scented tresses of ladies fine;

    Things of use for the lowly cot.
    Where (bless the corn!) want cometh not;

    Luxuries rare for the mansion grand,
    Gifts of a rich and fertile land;—

    All these things and so many more
    It would fill a book to name them o'er,

    Are hid and held in these walls of corn,
    Whose banners toss in the breeze of morn.

    Open the atlas, conned by rule,
    In the olden days of the district school.

    Point to the rich and bounteous land,
    That yields such fruit to the toiler's hand.

    "Treeless desert," they called it then,
    Haunted by beasts, forsaken by men.

    Little they knew what wealth untold,
    Lay hid where the desolate prairies rolled.

    Who would have dared, with brush or pen,
    As this land is now, to paint it then?

    And how would the wise ones have laughed in scorn,
    Had prophet foretold these walls of corn,
    Whose banners toss in the breeze of morn!

  6. A Ballad of the Corn

    by S. H. M. Byers

    Oh, the undulating prairies,
    And the fields of yellow corn,
    Like a million soldiers waiting for the fray.
    Oh, the rustling of the corn leaves
    Like a distant fairy's horn
    And the notes the fairy bugles seem to play.

    "We have risen from the bosom
    Of the beauteous mother earth,
    Where the farmer plowed his furrow straight and long.
    There was gladness and rejoicing
    When the summer gave us birth,
    In the tumult and the dancing and the song.

    "When the sumach turns to scarlet,
    And the vines along the lane
    Are garmented in autumn's golden wine—
    Then the land shall smile for plenty,
    And the toiler for his pain,
    When the soldiers of our army stand in line.

    "With our shining blades before us,
    And our banners flaming far,
    Want and hunger shall be slain forevermore.
    And the cornfield's lord of plenty
    In his golden-covered car
    Then shall stop at every happy toiler's door."

    Oh, the sunshine and the beauty
    On the fields of ripened corn,
    And the wigwams and the corn-rows where they stand.
    In the lanes I hear the music
    Of the faintly blowing horn
    And the blessed Indian summer's on the land.

  7. The Corn

    by Kate Cleary

    When the merry April morn
    Laughed the mad March winds to scorn,
    In the swirl of sun and showers,
    Were a million legions born;
    Ranked in rippled rows of green,
    With a dusky ridge between,
    O’er the western world was seen,
    The great army of the corn.

    And when in May-time days,
    The buttercups’ gold blaze
    Firefly-like flashed o’er hill and hollow
    And the pleasant prairie ways;
    Each battalion from the sod.
    Flags a-flutter and a-nod,
    Nearer heaven, nearer God,
    Crept to proffer perfect praise.

    And when the June-time heat
    Over all the land did fleet,
    The melody of meadow larks
    In mellow music beat
    Martial measures, to beguile
    The royal rank and file,
    That kept growing all the while
    To the sounds serene and sweet.

    When the fierce sun of July
    Rode relentlessly on high,
    And in the creeks the water bright
    All drop by drop ran dry;
    And, as from a furnace mouth,
    The hot winds of the south,
    Racked the corn with cruel drouth,
    It seemed that it would die.

    But the nights benign and blue
    Brought the blessed balm of dew,
    And baptized the corn in beauty
    Ever fresh and ever new;
    Till in amber August light,
    'Twas so golden that you might
    Fancy Midas touched the bright,
    Tender tassels it out-threw.

    Now the sweet September’s here,
    And the plover pipeth clear,
    And each shattered sheath of satin
    Holds a guerdon of good cheer;
    And the corn all ripe and high,
    Taller far than you or I,
    Standeth spear-like to the sky,
    In the sunset of the year!

  8. The Song of King Corn

    by Clarence Albert Murch

    The dews of heaven,
    The rains that fall,
    The fatness of earth,
    I claim them all.
    O’er mountain and plain
    My praises ring,
    O’er ocean and land
    I am King! I am King!

    O’er the green hills
    Flash my shining blades;
    Past dancing rills,
    Through sun-kissed glades
    Spread my serried ranks
    With a sweep and a swing,
    Till the eye is aweary,
    I am King! I am King!

    Cities and states
    Arise at my call.
    Bright gold bursts out
    Where my footsteps fall.
    Where my russet plumes
    In the breezes swing
    The glad earth laughs,
    For I am King! I’m King!

    I girdle the earth
    With shining bands,
    The groaning trains
    That sweep the sands,
    And ships that brave
    Old Ocean’s swing
    Are mine, all mine—
    I am King! I am King!

    Would you dethrone me?
    Not so, not so.
    Still the golden tide
    Shall swell and flow;
    The earth yield riches,
    The toilers sing,
    In the golden land
    Where Corn is King.

  9. Corn Is King

    by Bernhardt Paul Holst

    Hail to the golden corn,
    Whose stalks our fields adorn,
    Hail it as king;
    Plant it in fertile field,
    No grain will richer yield,
    Nor greater blessings wield,
    Its praises sing.

    Corn is the best of food,
    For man and beast is good,
    The nation's pride;
    Let all the people know,
    As seasons come and go,
    How best this grain to grow
    And health betide.

    Sweet is the tassel-bloom,
    Sweeter than rare perfume,
    And richer still;
    Soft are the yellow hair,
    As they the pollen bear,
    Down where the kernels are,
    Life to instill.

    Rich is the yellow grain,
    Nurtured by dew and rain,
    In summer time;
    Soon will the reapers come,
    Singing the harvest song,
    Joyous the harvest home,
    In every clime.

    We praise our God who gave
    This plant our land to save
    From famine dire;
    Let heartfelt thanks abound,
    Let hills and vales resound,
    Let all the plains rebound,
    To God aspire.

  10. The Path Through the Corn

    by Dinah Maria [Mulock] Craik

    Wavy and bright in the summer air,
    Like a pleasant sea when the wind blows fair,
    And its roughest breath has scarcely curled
    The green highway to a distant world,
    Soft whispers passing from shore to shore,
    As from hearts content, yet desiring more,
    Who feels forlorn,
    Wandering thus down the path through the corn?

    A short space since, and the dead leaves lay
    Moldering under the hedgerow grey,
    Nor hum of insect, nor voice of bird,
    O'er the desolate field was ever heard;
    Only at eve the pallid snow
    Blushed rose-red in the red sun-glow;
    Till, one blest morn,
    Shot up into life the young green corn.

    Small and feeble, slender and pale,
    It bent its head to the winter gale,
    Harkened the wren's soft note of cheer,
    Hardly believing spring was near:
    Saw chestnuts bud out and campions blow,
    And daisies mimic the vanished snow
    Where it was born,
    On either side of the path through the corn.

    The corn, the corn, the beautiful corn,
    Rising wonderful, morn by morn:
    First, scarce as high as a fairy's wand,
    Then, just in reach of a child's wee hand;
    Then growing, growing, tall, brave, and strong:
    With the voice of new harvests in its song;
    While in fond scorn
    The lark out-carols the whispering corn.

    A strange, sweet path, formed day by day,
    How, when, and wherefore, we cannot say,
    No more than of our life-paths we know,
    Whether our eyes shall ever see
    The wheat in the ear or the fruit on the tree;
    Yet, who's forlorn?
    He who watered the furrows can ripen the corn.

  11. The Cornfield

    by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

    I went across the pasture lot
    When not a one was watching me.
    Away beyond the cattle barns
    I climbed a little crooked tree.

    And I could look down on the field
    And see the corn and how it grows.
    Across the world and up and down
    In very straight and even rows.

    And far away and far away-
    I wonder if the farmer man
    Knows all about the corn and how
    It comes together like a fan.

  12. Amid the Corn

    by Hattie Howard

    When roasting ears are peeping through
    Their silken tassel curls,
    When corn leaves glisten in the dew
    Like ribbons strewn with pearls;
    When Phoebus' splendor is revealed
    And gilds the summer morn,
    I love to walk the furrowed field
    Among the rows of corn.

    It brings to mind those vanished days
    In adolescence sweet,
    When through familiar seas of maze
    With ardent, childish feet
    That never tired, the glebe I trod
    The "hired man" to warn
    Where grew the tares, or where a clod
    Obstructed hills of corn.

    A happy home upon the farm
    In memory holds a place,
    That city life with all its charm
    Can never quite efface.
    O give me back the days of yore!
    When I, a farmer born,
    In pantalet and pinafore
    Grew up amid the corn.

    O that I could to nature true
    From etiquette relax,
    And follow, as I used to do,
    Papa's unerring tracks!
    A scholar, who could wield the pen,
    Whose honors well were borne,
    Was he—this noblest, best of men—
    Who plowed and hoed the corn.

    I'd rather be, though dumb and droll,
    An effigy to-day,
    A man of straw upon a pole
    To scare the crows away,
    Than like a figure fashion-spun
    A palace to adorn,
    Disdainfully look down on one
    Who works amid the corn.

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