Explore "The Old Trundle-Bed" by James Whitcomb Riley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy?
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine, / Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine: / The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light, / But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head, / Was the queer little, clear little, old trundle-bed!
O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw / The stars through the window, and listened with awe / To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept / Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept: / Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren, / And the katydid listlessly chirrup again, / Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led / Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.
O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread; / Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above, / Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love; / The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep / With the old fairy-stories my memories keep / Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head / Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle-bed.