Poems for younger children

I am attempting to daily work on poem memorization with the younger two (7 & 5). So far, they have memorized If I were an Apple. The author is anonymous.

If I were an apple and grew on a tree,
I think I'd drop down on a nice boy like me.
I wouldn't stay there, giving nobody joy;
I'd fall down at once and say, "Eat me, my boy".

Of course, since it's two little girls saying it, we had to get over the hurdle of "Eat me, my boy". But we all liked the poem enough that we decided they could ignore that part of it.

This morning, we started Rare September. Deputy Headmistress at The Common Room posted over the last year selections from Child's Calendar Beautiful, a book of poems arranged over a monthly calendar, divided up for different ages. This is from that book.

Rare September

'Tis the radiant rare September,
With the clusters ripe on the vine,
With scents that mingle in spicy tingle
On the hill slope's glimmering line.

And summer's a step behind us,
And autumn's a thought before,
And each fleet sweet day that we meet on the way
Is an angel at the door.~unknown

Both my 5 & 7 year olds will learn that one, probably in a couple of weeks. In our grammar book, First Language Lessons, today's lesson was the poem of Mr. Nobody. I decided my 7 year old could learn that one as well. She's pretty good at memorizing and the challenge is good for her.

Mr. Nobody [who is definitely alive and well at our house!]
anonymous

I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
in everybody's house!
There's no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.

'Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves the door ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pins afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
For, prithee, don't you see,
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the door
By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.
The ink we never spill; the boots
That lying 'round you see
Are not our boots - they all belong
To Mr. Nobody.