Poetry for Children: Nine Classic Children’s Poems by Great Poets

Nursery rhymes nourish the imagination of the little ones thanks to the musicality of their rhymes. It is a not so popular genre, but very suitable for children that allows them to play with words and brings them closer to a world with infinite possibilities.

Today Poetry Day is celebrated and we bring you nine classic children’s poems by great poets to awaken sensitivity and a taste for letters in tender and colorful verses.

How to draw a child. Gloria Fuertes

To draw a child you have to do it with love.
Paint him a lot of bangs,
that he is eating a waffle;
many freckles on his face that show he is a rogue;

Let’s continue the drawing: round cheese face.
Since he is a fashionable boy, he drinks syrup with soda.
He wears jeans with a beautiful hole;
American T-shirt and a corduroy beanie.

The football boots, because kicking is an artist.
He’s always laughing because he’s very intelligent.
Under the arm a story that is why he is so happy.
To draw a child you have to do it with love.

The rats. Lope de Vega

The mice gathered
to get rid of the cat;
and after a long time
of disputes and opinions, they
said that they would be right
in putting a bell on it,
that by walking the cat with it, they
could better get rid of it.

A barbican mouse came out
, long-tailed, hociquirromo
and curling its thick back,
said to the Roman Senate,
after speaking cultured for a while:
– Who of all has to be
the one who dares to put
that bell on the cat?

The square has a tower. Antonio Machado

The square has a tower,
the tower has a balcony,
the balcony has a lady,
the lady a white flower.
A gentleman has passed –
who knows why he happened! –
and has taken the square,
with its tower and its balcony,
with its balcony and its lady,
its lady and its white flower.

Manuelita the turtle. Maria Elena Walsh

Manuelita lived in Pehuajó
but one day it was marked.
No one really knew why
she went to Paris
a little on foot
and a little on foot.

Manuelita, Manuelita,
Manuelita, where are you going with your malachite suit
and your bold step?

Manuelita once fell
in love with a passing turtle.
He said: What can I do?
Old woman will not love me,
in Europe and with patience
they can beautify me.

At the Paris dry-cleaner they
painted it with varnish.
They ironed it in French,
right and wrong.

They put a wig
and booties on her feet. She took so many years to cross
the sea that there she wrinkled again
and that is why she returned old as she left
to look for her turtle who waits for her in Pehuajó

The fairies. Little children’s poem by Rubén Darío

Fairies, beautiful fairies,
exist, my sweet girl,
Joan of Arc saw them winged,
in the countryside.

He saw them when he left the mirab, a
long time ago, Muhammad.
Smaller than a dove,
Shakespeare saw Queen Mab.

Fairies said things
in the cradle
of ancient princesses:
that if they were going to be happy
or beautiful like the moon;
or strange and ambiguous phrases.

With their tiaras and wings,
small as lilies,
there were fairies who were good
and there were fairies who were bad.

And there was a hunchback,
the one with a hateful prophecy:
the so-called
Carabosa.

If she reached the cradle
of the soft little princesses,
none
of her cursed words would be spared.

And that fairy was very ugly,
as
all bad ideas
and all bad hearts are ugly .

When you were born, precious,
you did not have pagan fairies,
neither the horrible Carabosa
nor her funny sisters.

Neither Mab, who walks in dreams,
nor those who celebrate a party
in the magical forest
of Brocelianda.

And do you know, my child,
why there were no fairies?
Because there it
was close to you
who your birth blessed:
Queen more than all of them:
the Queen of the Stars,
the sweet Virgin Mary.
May she bless your path,
like your Mother and your friend;
with its divine consolations
do not fear infernal war;
Let your longings perfume
her name that evil banishes,
for she smells heaven
and earth.

Butterfly of the air. Federico Garcia Lorca

Butterfly of the air,
how beautiful you are,
butterfly of the
golden and green air .
Light of the lamp,
butterfly of the air,
stay there, there, there!
You don’t want to stop,
you don’t want to stop.

Green and gold air butterfly .
Candlelight,
butterfly of the air,
stay there, there, there!
Stay here!
Butterfly, are you there?

Sonnet suddenly. Lope de Vega

A sonnet tells me to do Violante;
In my life I have been in such a predicament,
fourteen verses say it is a sonnet,
mockery , the three go ahead.

I thought I couldn’t find a consonant
and I’m in the middle of another quartet;
but if I see myself in the first triplet,
there is nothing in the quartets that scares me.

For the first triplet I am entering,
and it still seems that I entered with the right foot,
because I am giving the end to this verse.

I’m already in the second, and I still suspect
that the thirteen lines are ending:
count if there are fourteen, and it’s done.

The princess is sad. Ruben Dario

The princess is sad … What will the princess have?
Sighs escape from her strawberry mouth,
which has lost its laughter, which has lost its color.
The princess is pale in her golden chair,
the keyboard of her sonorous clef is silent;
and in a forgotten glass a flower faints.

The garden populates the triumph of the peacocks.
Talkative, the owner says banal things,
and, dressed in red, pirouettes the jester.
The princess does not laugh, the princess does not feel;
The princess chases
the wandering dragonfly of a vague illusion across the eastern sky .

Are you thinking of the prince of Golconda or of China,
or of the one who has stopped his Argentine carriage
to see the sweetness of light from his eyes?
Or in the king of the Isles of fragrant Roses,
or in the sovereign of the clear diamonds,
or in the proud owner of the pearls of Hormuz?

Oh! The poor princess with the pink mouth
wants to be a swallow, wants to be a butterfly,
have light wings, fly under the sky,
go to the sun by the luminous scale of a ray,
greet the lilies with the verses of May,
or lose herself in the wind on the thunder of the sea.

He no longer wants the palace, nor the silver spinning wheel,
nor the enchanted hawk, nor the scarlet jester,
nor the unanimous swans on the azure lake.
And the flowers are sad for the flower of the court;
the jasmine of the East, the nelumbos of the North,
the dahlias and roses of the South from the West.

Poor little blue-eyed princess!
It is imprisoned in its golds, it is imprisoned in its tulles,
in the marble cage of the royal palace,
the superb palace guarded by the guards,
who guard a hundred blacks with their hundred halberds,
a greyhound that does not sleep and a colossal dragon.

Oh! Blessed is the hypsipyle which left the chrysalis.
(The princess is sad. The princess is pale)
O beloved vision of gold, rose and ivory!
Who will fly to the land where a prince exists
(The princess is pale. The princess is sad)
brighter than dawn, more beautiful than April!

“ Hush, hush, princess, ” says the fairy godmother, “
on a horse with wings, he is heading here,
his sword on his belt and his hawk in his hand,
the happy knight who adores you without seeing you,
and who comes from afar , conqueror of Death,
to light your lips with his kiss of love!

April. Juan Ramon Jimenez

The chamariz in the poplar.
-And what else?

The poplar in the blue sky.
– And what else?
The blue sky in the water.
– And what else?

The water in the new leaf.
– And what else?
The new leaf in the rose.
– And what else?
The rose in my heart.
– And what else?
My heart in yours!

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