To Our Readers

Here's to our Readers, Health! good Looks!
And Joy ad infinitum
And may they live to read our Books
As long as we may write 'em.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

Saint Paul

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To The Maid With Fancy Free

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Dolphin

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Cerberus

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To The Typewriter

Here's to the Typewriter!
Health to her type!
Whether blond or brunette
Or budding or ripe.
If she be the right type
Be she buxom or slight,
When she doesn't type wrong
She is sure to typewrite.

Oliver Herford

To Our Sweethearts

To our Sweethearts and Wives,
The joy of our lives!
May our Wives be our Sweethearts--
Our Sweethearts, our Wives.

Oliver Herford

To The Waiter

We drink your health, O Waiter!
And may you be preserved
From old age, gout, or sudden death!--
At least till supper's served.

Oliver Herford

To Music

Here's to Music,
Joy of joys!
One man's music's
Another man's noise.

Oliver Herford

To The Publisher

To The Publisher! - Drink!
Let his virtue be shown
In the Good Works of others
If not in his own.

Oliver Herford

Our Indian Summer

1856

You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise,
With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes;
To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone
Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown.

Were I gray as the grayest old rat in the wall,
My locks would turn brown at the sight of you all;
If my heart were as dry as the shell on the sand,
It would fill like the goblet I hold in my hand.

There are noontides of autumn when summer returns.
Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in their urns,
And the bird on his perch, that was silent so long,
Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song.

We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June;
Their plumes are still bright and their voices in tune;
One moment ...

Oliver Wendell Holmes