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    I have now found a rival to the magnificent talent of Emily Dickinson...
    Anne Reeve Aldrich, simply floors me with her magnificence imagry, flow and depth in her beautiful poems.. ...-Tyr



    Anne Reeve Aldrich: American Sappho

    Anne Reeve Aldrich was an American poet and novelist. She was born April 25, 1866, in New York and died June 22, 1892, also in New York. Her books include The Rose of Flame (1889), The Feet of Love (1890), Nadine and Other Poems (1893), A Village Ophelia and Other Stories (1899) and Songs about Life, Love, and Death (1892). She wrote a number of poems in which she seemed to prophesy an early death for herself, then died at the tender age of 26. According to the preface of Songs about Life, Love, and Death, which was published posthumously, at the time of her death she was so weak that she couldn’t lift her pen, and thus had to dictate her last poem, “Death at Daybreak.” Her grand-uncle was the poet James Aldrich. She published her first volume of poetry, The Rose of Flame in 1889; it was not well received (critics cited its "unrestrained expression"). She was also said to have written “erotic” poems. But she persevered, publishing a novel, The Feet of Love, in 1890, and it seems she was working on her final volume of poems even on her deathbed.

    SONGS ABOUT LIFE, LOVE, AND DEATH: “Passion and agony, the one because of the other, are the keys of Anne Reeve Aldrich's nature and verse. This woman is of the few who nearest share the moods of Sappho and her talents.”—Springfield Republican, circa 1892, as quoted in The Book Buyer, volume X, no. 3, April, 1893





    Souvenirs

    Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

    Where is the glove that I gave to him,
    Perfumed and warm from my arm that night?
    And where is the rose that another stole
    When the land was flooded with June moonlight,
    And the satin slipper I wore?—Alack,
    Some one had that—it was wrong, I fear.
    Where are these souvenirs today?
    But where are the snows of yesteryear?

    The glove was burned at his next love's prayer,
    And the rose was lost in the mire of the street;
    And the satin slipper he tossed away,
    For his jealous bride had not fairy feet.
    Give what you will, but know, mesdames,
    For a day alone are your favors dear.
    Be sure for the next fair woman's sake
    They will go—like the snows of yesteryear.



    A Little Parable

    I made the cross myself whose weight
    Was later laid on me.
    This thought is torture as I toil
    Up life’s steep Calvary.

    To think mine own hands drove the nails!
    I sang a merry song,
    And chose the heaviest wood I had
    To build it firm and strong.

    If I had guessed—if I had dreamed
    Its weight was meant for me,
    I should have made a lighter cross
    To bear up Calvary!



    My Guerdon

    I stood where gifts were showered on men from Heaven,
    And some had honors and the joy thereof;
    And some received with solemn, radiant faces
    The gift of love.

    The green I saw of bay-leaves, and of laurel,
    Of gold the gleam.
    A voice spoke to me, standing empty-handed,
    "For thee a dream."

    Forbear to pity, ye who richly laden
    Forth from the place of Heaven s bounty went;
    Who marvel that I smile, my hands still empty
    I am content.

    Ye cannot guess how dowered beyond the measure
    Of your receiving to myself I seem.
    Lonely and cold, I yet pass on enraptured—
    I have my dream.



    The Prayer of Dolores

    Madrid, 1888

    Beneath the grass, I hear them say,
    Live loathsome things that hate the day,—
    Strange crawling shapes with blinded eyes,
    Whose very image terrifies.
    I dread not these: make deep my bed
    With good black mold round heart and head.
    But oh! the fear a Thought may creep
    Down from the world to where I sleep,
    Pierce through the earth to heart and brain
    And coil there, in its home again!
    Father, thou hast the good God’s ear, —
    And when priests speak He bends to hear,—
    Say, " Lord, this woman of Madrid
    Begs, when herself in earth is hid,
    Her soul s guilt paid for, grain by grain,
    In throes of purgatorial pain,
    That Thou her soul wouldst clean destroy;
    She hath no wish for heavenly joy,

    But just to be dissolved to Naught,
    Beyond the reach of any thought.
    Some sinners dare to beg for bliss,
    I know my place, and ask but this:
    That He, who made will then unmake
    My soul, for His sweet mercy s sake!"



    Fraternity

    I ask not how thy suffering came,
    Or if by sin, or if by shame,
    Or if by Fate’s capricious rulings:
    To my large pity all’s the same.

    Come close and lean against a heart
    Eaten by pain and stung by smart;
    It is enough if thou hast suffered,—
    Brother or sister then thou art.

    We will not speak of what we know,
    Rehearse the pang, nor count the throe,
    Nor ask what agony admitted
    Thee to the Brotherhood of Woe.

    But in our anguish-darkened land
    Let us draw close, and clasp the hand;
    Our whispered password holds assuagement,—
    The solemn “Yea, I understand!”



    Separation

    If it were land, oh, weary feet could travel,
    If it were sea, a ship might cleave the wave,
    If it were Death, sad Love could look to heaven.
    And see through tears the sunlight on the grave.
    Not land, or sea. or death keeps us apart
    But only thou, oh unforgiving Heart.

    If it were land, through piercing thorns I'd travel.
    If it were sea, I'd cross to thee, or die.
    If it were Death, I'd tear Life's veil asunder
    That I might see thee with a clearer eye.
    Ah none of these could keep our souls apart —
    Forget, forgive, oh unforgiving Heart.



    The End

    Do you recall that little room
    Close blinded from the searching sun,
    So dim, my blossoms dreamed of dusk?
    And shut their petals one by one.
    And then a certain crimson eve,
    The death of day upon the tide;
    How all its blood spread on the waves,
    And stained the waters far and wide.
    Ah, you forget;
    But I remember yet.

    When I awake in middle night,
    And stretch warm hands to touch your face,
    There is no chance that I shall find
    Aught but your chill and empty place.
    I have no bitter word to say,
    The Past is worth this anguish sore,
    —But mouth to mouth, and heart to heart,
    No more on earth, O God, no more!
    For Love is dead;
    Would 't were I, instead.



    In Extremis

    The sacred tapers flickered fair,
    The priest has gone with Host and prayer;
    I heard the "Nunc Dimittis" said,
    Not with the heart, but with the head.

    Though I, the while, lay dying near,
    This was all my heart could hear:
    "I love thee, lay thy lips on mine,
    Thy kisses turn my head like wine."

    And this was all my heart could see,
    Instead of the cross held out to me,
    That well-known small and scented room,
    Made sweetly dusk by curtain's gloom.

    And this was all my heart could feel,
    Spite of these pains like stabbing steel,
    The throbbing pulses of thy breast,
    Where, weary, I was wont to rest.

    O what shall come to me, alas!
    Whose soul so soon in death must pass
    The soul too wholly thine to dwell
    On hope of heaven, or dread of hell.

    If heaven, that awful glassy sea,
    May still reflect some memory.
    If hell, not all eternal fire,
    Can quite burn out the old desire.

    Instead of name of pitying saint
    Breathed as the passing soul's last plaint,
    Thy name will be my latest breath.
    Who wast my life, who art my death.



    Love, the Destroyer

    Love is a Fire;
    Nor Shame, nor Pride can well withstand Desire.
    "For what are they," we cry, "that they should dare
    To keep, O Love, the haughty look they wear?
    Nay, burn the victims, O thou sacred Fire,
    That with their death thou mayst but flame the higher.
    Let them feel once the fierceness of thy breath,
    And make thee still more beauteous with their death."

    Love is a Fire;
    But ah, how short-lived is the flame Desire!
    Love, having burnt whatever once we cherished,
    And blackened all things else, itself hath perished.
    And now alone in gathering night we stand,
    Ashes and ruin stretch on either hand.
    Yet while we mourn, our sad hearts whisper low:
    "We served the mightiest God that man can know."



    Outer Darkness

    Where shall I look for help? Our gracious God
    Pities all those who weep for sin ingrain,
    And potent is the Kingly Victim's blood
    To wash repented guilt, and leave no stain.

    But ah, what hope for me in Heaven above,
    What consolation left beneath the sun,
    In those black hours when my lost soul laments
    Because it left that one sweet sin undone?



    A Return to the Valley

    Behold me at thy feet. Alone I climbed
    And wandered through the mountain land of Art
    Amid God's awful snows; the keen thin air
    Pierced through my brain, and chilled me at the heart.

    Behold me at thy feet. A famished heart
    Does ill to travel by such paths as these.
    Better for me to seek this vale once more,
    Better for me to crouch here at thy knees.

    Behold me at thy feet. And thou dost stretch
    No tender hand to raise me to thy breast.
    Ah, 't is a foolish bird that hopes to find
    Untouched, in leafless hedge, its last year's nest.

    I will depart, and seek again the heights,
    Above hot love, or wholesome hate of foes.
    But from this day my pilgrim feet must leave
    A track of blood across the awful snows.



    A Song About Singing

    O nightingale, the poet's bird,
    A kinsman dear thou art,
    Who never sings so well as when
    The rose-thorns bruise his heart.

    But since thy agony can make
    A listening world so blest,
    Be sure it cares but little for
    Thy wounded, bleeding breast!



    April—and Dying

    Green blood fresh pulsing through the trees,
    Blacks buds, that sun and shower distend;
    All other things begin anew,
    But I must end.

    Warm sunlight on faint-colored sward,
    Warm fragrance in the breezes’ breath;
    For other things art heat and life,
    For me is death.



    Death at Daybreak

    I shall go out when the light comes in—
    There lie my cast-off form and face;
    I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth,
    As I seek for a path through space.

    I shall go out when the light comes in;
    Would I might take one ray with me!
    It is blackest night between the worlds,
    And how is a soul to see?



    In Conclusion

    O Love, take these my songs, made for thy joy,
    And speak one tender word of them to me.
    And other praise or blame that word will drown
    As voice of brook is drowned by sounding sea.

    Like all my joys and woes, my garnered verse
    To lay at thy dear feet I haste to bring.
    Be gracious. Love, remembering that the mouth
    Touched by thine own, could scarcely fail to sing!



    A Draught

    A bitter cup you offer me,
    Though roses hide its brim with red.
    Yet since your strong hand proffers it,
    I shall not spurn, but drink instead.

    And when the draught has done its work.
    And I lie low, who now stand high.
    You, who encompassed this, will pass
    With loathing and averted eye.

    Yet none the less I humbly bow.
    And drain the cup on bended knee.
    That holds within its hollow gold
    Your pleasure, and your scorn of me.



    Recollection

    How can it be that I forget
    The way he phrased my doom,
    When I recall the arabesques
    That carpeted the room?

    How can it be that I forget
    His look and mein that hour,
    When I recall I wore a rose,
    And still can smell the flower?

    How can it be that I forget
    Those words that were his last,
    When I recall the tune a man
    Was whistling as he passed?

    These things are what we keep from life's
    Supremest joy or pain;
    For memory locks her chaff in bins
    And throws away the grain.



    Suppose

    How sad if, by some strange new law,
    All kisses scarred!
    For she who is most beautiful
    Would be most marred.

    And we might be surprised to see
    Some lovely wife
    Smooth-visaged, while a seeming prude
    Was marked for life.



    In November

    Brown earth-line meets gray heaven,
    And all the land looks sad;
    But Love’s the little leaven
    That works the whole world glad.
    Sigh, bitter win; lower, frore clouds of gray:
    My Love and I are living now in May!



    Love's Change

    I went to dig a grave for Love,
    But the earth was so stiff and cold
    That, though I stove through the bitter night,
    I could not break the mould.

    And I said: 'Must he lie in my house in state,
    And stay in his wonted place?
    Must I have him with me another day,
    With that awful change in his face?'



    Music Of Hungary

    My body answers you, my blood
    Leaps at your maddening, piercing call
    The fierce notes startle, and the veil
    Of this dull present seems to fall.
    My soul responds to that long cry;
    It wants its country, Hungary!
    Not mine by birth. Yet have I not
    Some strain of that old Magyar race?
    Else why the secret stir of sense
    At sight of swarthy Tzigane face,
    That warns me: 'Lo, thy kinsmen nigh.'
    All's dear that tastes of Hungary.

    Once more, O let me hear once more
    The passion and barbaric rage!
    Let me forget my exile here
    In this mild land, in this mild age;
    Once more that unrestrained wild cry
    That takes me to my Hungary!

    They listen with approving smile,
    But I, O God, I want my home!
    I want the Tzigane tongue, the dance,
    The nights in tents, the days to roam,
    O music, O fierce life and free
    God made my soul for Hungary!



    The Rose of Flame

    Look at this tangled snare of undergrowth,
    These low-branched trees that darken all below;
    Drink in the hot scent of this noontide air,
    And hear, far off, some distant river flow,
    Lamenting ever till it finds the sea.
    New Life, new World, what's Shame to thee and me ?

    Let us slay Shame; we shall forget his grave
    Locked in the rapture of our lone embrace.
    Yet what if there should rise, as once of old,
    New wonder of this new, yet ancient place:
    An angel, with a whirling sword of flame,
    To drive us forth forever in God's name!



    A Wanderer

    The snows lie thick around his door,
    That door made fast by bar and lock.
    He will not heed thee, trembling, chilled;
    He will not hear thy piteous knock.

    Poor wandering Heart, canst thou not see
    There is no welcome here for thee?
    The air is numb with frost and night.
    O wait no longer in the snow,

    For lo, from yonder latticed pane
    Faint music and the fire-light's glow;
    He hath another guest in state,
    And thou, poor Heart, thou art too late!



    Lent

    Ah, the road is a weary road
    That leads one on to God,
    And all too swift the eager race
    To suit a lagging pace,
    And far, far distant looks the goal
    To the most patient soul.
    So I forsook the sharp set road,
    And walked where pleasant herbs were sowed.
    I flung the sandals from tired feet,
    And strayed where honeyed flowers grew sweet,
    Nor strained tense nerves, nor onward pressed,
    But made the goal his breast.
    His circling arms my Heaven I made,
    And, save to him, no more I prayed.
    So for my sin I paid the price
    Of endless joys of Paradise.
    Good fellow-pilgrims, go your way.
    For me 't is all in vain to pray.
    I weep, when o'er the windy track
    Your victors' hymns float echoing back,
    But still I know, with eyelids wet,
    I could return, but not forget.



    Dreams

    So still I lay within his arms
    He dreamed I was asleep,
    Across my lips I felt his breath
    Like burning breezes creep.

    I felt his watchful, searching gaze
    Though closed eyes cannot see;
    I felt his warm and tender grasp
    More closely prison me.

    The waking dream was all too sweet
    For me to wish to sleep.
    I was too far beyond Earth's woes
    To speak, or smile, or weep.

    How after this, could I endure
    The troublous times of Age and Tears,
    To sit and wait for Death to dawn
    Across the midnight of my years!

    Love will not stay, though we entreat;
    Death will not come at call.
    Ah, to return to life and grief!
    Ah, having risen to fall!

    I felt his mouth burn on my own;
    I raised my eyes to his eyes' deep.
    He thought his kiss had wakened me,
    —He dreamed I was asleep!



    Under the Rose

    He moved with trembling fingers
    From my throat, the band of red,
    And a band of burning kisses
    His lips set there instead.

    Then he tied again the ribbon.
    "I will hide them, Love," said he,
    "And the secret of thy necklace
    None shall know, save thee and me."

    It was just a foolish fancy,
    But from that day to this,
    I wore the crimson ribbon
    To hide my lover's kiss.

    He has gone, and love is over,
    But this blade within my hand,
    Still shall hide our secret kisses
    With another crimson band.



    Immolation

    Take her, and lay her head upon thy breast,
    And be thou blest beyond thy heart's desire;
    And as the star that ushers in the dawn
    Fades from the sight in morning's glow and fire,

    So, having heralded thy break of day,
    'T is Nature's law that I no longer stay.
    A path was I that led thee to thy goal;
    Forget the path, since now the goal is won.

    That was its proper place in all the land,
    And it was made to set thy feet upon.
    Its blessing is that all its course did tend
    To bring thee to thy journey's happy end.



    Arcadia

    Sunlight on us, Love;
    Not a shadow comes between.
    Midway of the field we stand,
    Heart in heart and hand in hand
    And all the land is green.

    Look around thee, Love,
    Naught but meadows shining fair,
    Save, as far as eye can see,
    Long, low hills, clothed tenderly
    By the veils of mist they wear.

    But below us, Love,
    Hidden by the meadow's rise,
    Whispers brokenly a stream
    Like a voice heard in a dream;
    Clear its current as thine eyes.

    Thou must linger, Love,
    For a little on this side;
    Both its banks are soft with moss.
    Grieve not, Dear, that I shall cross,
    For but shallow is its tide.

    Canst not see it, Love?
    Nay, Heart's Dearest, nor can I;
    But in pauses to mine ear
    Comes the sound thou canst not hear,
    Filling silence with a sigh.

    Smile again, dear Love,
    Brighter day was never seen.
    Pull these blossoms for thy hair;
    Spring-time's joy is in the air,
    And all the land is green.



    Two Partings

    He said good-bye with laughing eyes,
    Too careless of me to be wise
    And see I grieved, since he must go.
    With weary tears, through night and day,
    In thought, I follow on his way,
    For he must go, and I must stay.
    —I dread the bitter winds that blow.

    Now time, at last, brings near a day
    When I must go, and he must stay,
    And I, like him, shall smile to go.
    And when he says good-bye to me,
    Although he weep, I shall not see,
    But if in thoughts he follow me,
    —He need not dread the winds that blow.



    Rose Song

    Plant, above my lifeless heart
    Crimson roses, red as blood.
    As if the love, pent there so long
    Were pouring forth its flood.

    Then, through them, my heart may tell,
    Its Past of Love and Grief,
    And I shall feel them grow from it,
    And know a vague relief.

    Through rotting shroud shall feel their roots,
    And unto them myself shall grow,
    And when I blossom at her feet,
    She, on that day, shall know!



    A New Year

    THY bride is waiting in the kirk,
    The wedding wine waits in thy hall.
    Adieu.
    For me, the stream's cold tide to drink,
    Where once we lingered at its brink,
    The kirk-yard waits thy Summer's work.
    Adieu.

    For her, the sweetest flowers that grow,
    For me, the faded Autumn grass,
    Adieu.
    For me, the dead leaves' tarnished gold.
    Ah, linger not, for once of old,
    Love, thou did'st stay when I said "Go!"
    Adieu.

    For her, the pearl wrought marriage-dress,
    The choir, the Mass, the ring of gold.
    Adieu.
    For me, the chants that night-birds sing.
    My hand in thine, I asked no ring,
    Nor blessed by love, the Church to bless.
    Adieu.

    For her, the wedding sheets are spread,
    For her, the cup of Love and Life.
    Adieu.
    For me, the cup of Love and Death.
    Then earth to earth, as the priest saith,
    My bed of love, and my last bed.
    Adieu.



    A Fete-Day

    They brought me snowy roses,
    A picture of my Saint,
    A little dove, whose tender note
    Was like a virgin's plaint.

    But you? You brought fierce kisses
    That caught my heart in snare,
    They crushed the snowy roses,
    That decked my throat and hair.

    The pictured Saint, in anguish,
    Gazed down from carven frame,
    And prayed, perhaps in heaven,
    For her who bears her name.

    The frightened dove moaned softly,
    With ruffled wing and crest.
    And never since will nestle
    As once, within my breast!


    In Exculpation

    You seared both eyes with kisses,
    And then bade me, blinded, go.
    Nor leave betraying foot-prints
    Upon your life's pure snow.

    Ah, Love, you should remember
    Ere you set blind captives free
    They cannot find the by-paths
    Who can no longer see!

    Ah, Love, 't was your cruel folly
    That set me journeying so,
    And hoped to find, thereafter,
    No foot-prints on the snow.



    The Rose of Flame

    God-like ignorance have they
    Who the voyage dare undertake.
    Yet men venture every day
    For the mystic Blossom's sake.
    Smile and weep for such as they,
    If perchance ye know the way.
    Smile for foe, and weep for friend,
    Strange the journey, sure its end.

    Through wide, twilight seas the course.
    He may start from any port.
    Fate alone stands at the helm,
    Be the sailing long or short.
    Night or day or weary week,
    Still she guides, and does not speak.
    No wild gale, or tempest's wrath
    Dares to cross his vessel's path.

    And what place of dreams is this,
    Where the keel slides in the sand?
    Never mortal's eyes but once
    Gaze on such a magic strand.
    The shore is veiled by mists of Shame
    Where grows the luring Rose of Flame.
    Bare sand, without a shrub or tree,
    And vapor white, and whispering sea.

    And now Fate holds him by the hand,
    And leads him inland, till no more
    The mist of Shame cleaves to the sand,
    And distant grows the sea and shore.
    Out of the desert, stretching bare,
    Come dizzy scents that load the air.
    Blindly and unfatigued he goes;
    He breathes the perfume of the Rose.

    Nearer—he feels the burning heat.
    Can desert hold a flower like this?
    He sees, is blinded by its glow;
    The scent is like a clinging kiss.
    The perfume deepens to a pang,
    And in his brain strange music sang,
    Such as lost Spirits sing in Hell.
    Then,—days,—or years; he best can tell.

    Withered, sere, and scorched at heart,
    He must seek the world once more.
    Never shall he sail again
    Through such seas, to touch such shore,
    And the memory of that strand
    Makes him loathe all other land,
    And no flower seems worth the name,
    Since he saw the Rose of Flame.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Poems by Elinor Wylie

    Address to My Soul
    Atavism
    Cold Blooded Creatures
    A Crowded Trolley Car
    Epitaph


    Wild Peaches
    ---------- By Elinor Wylie
    1

    When the world turns completely upside down
    You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
    Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
    We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town,
    You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
    Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color.
    Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
    We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

    The winter will be short, the summer long,
    The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
    Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
    All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
    The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
    Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.


    2

    The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass
    Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
    The misted early mornings will be cold;
    The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
    The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
    Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold
    Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold
    Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.

    Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;
    A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
    The spring begins before the winter’s over.
    By February you may find the skins
    Of garter snakes and water moccasins
    Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.


    3

    When April pours the colors of a shell
    Upon the hills, when every little creek
    Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
    In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,
    When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
    Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak,
    We shall live well — we shall live very well.

    The months between the cherries and the peaches
    Are brimming cornucopias which spill
    Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black;
    Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches
    We’ll trample bright persimmons, while you kill
    Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.


    4

    Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
    There’s something in this richness that I hate.
    I love the look, austere, immaculate,
    Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
    There’s something in my very blood that owns
    Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
    A thread of water, churned to milky spate
    Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.

    I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,
    Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves;
    That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath,
    Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,
    Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,
    And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

    ************************************************** ***

    Speed the Parting—

    --------- By Elinor Wylie
    I shall not sprinkle with dust
    A creature so clearly lunar;
    You must die—but of course you must—
    And better later than sooner.
    But if it should be in a year
    That year itself must perish;
    How dingy a thing is fear,
    And sorrow, how dull to cherish!
    And if it should be in a day
    That day would be dark by evening,
    But the morning might still be gay
    And the moon have golden leavening.
    And beauty’s a moonlight grist
    That comes to the mills of dying;
    The silver grain may be missed
    But there’s no great good in crying.
    Though luminous things are mould
    They survive in a glance that crossed them,
    And it’s not very kind to scold
    The empty air that has lost them.
    The limpid blossom of youth
    Turns into a poison berry;
    Having perceived this truth
    I shall not weep but be merry.
    Therefore die when you please;
    It’s not very wise to worry;
    I shall not shiver and freeze;
    I shall not even be sorry.
    Beautiful things are wild;
    They are gone, and you go after;
    Therefore I mean, my child,
    To charm your going with laughter.
    Love and pity are strong,
    But wisdom is happily greater;
    You will die, I suppose, before long,
    Oh, worser sooner than later!

    Elinor Wylie, “Speed the Parting—” from Selected Works of Elinor Wylie, edited by Evelyn Helmick Hively. Used with the permission of The Kent State University Press, http://upress.kent.edu/books/Hively2.htm.
    Source: Selected Works of Elinor Wylie (Kent State University Press, 2005)

    ************************************************** ****

    Elinor Wylie
    Poet Details
    1885–1928
    The Kent State University Press

    Extravagantly praised in her lifetime, the poet and novelist Elinor Wylie suffered a posthumous reversal in her reputation but has experienced something of a revival of interest among feminist critics since the 1980s.

    Wylie was born in Somerville, New Jersey to a socially prominent family, and grew up in Rosemont, Pennsylvania, and Washington D.C. As the daughter of a lawyer who later became solicitor general of the United States, she was trained for the life of a debutante and a society wife, but she rebelled against that destiny and became notorious, in her time, for her multiple marriages and affairs. Her childhood was unhappy, according to Edward Kelly in the Dictionary of Literary Biography; her father had a mistress, her mother was a chronic hypochondriac, and at least one of her siblings, a brother, committed suicide. Another brother was rescued after jumping off a ship, and a sister died under equivocal circumstances. Wylie herself, although known for her beauty, suffered from dangerously high blood pressure all her adult life; it caused unbearable migraines, and would kill her by means of a stroke at the age of forty-three.

    Wylie's first marriage, to Philip Hichborn in 1905, occurred "on the rebound" from another romance, according to Karen F. Stein in Dictionary of Literary Biography. Hichborn, a would-be poet, was emotionally unstable, and it was during this period that Wylie's headaches began. In 1910, she left her husband and their son to escape to England with a married lawyer, Horace Wylie, under the assumed name of Waring; this event caused a scandal in the Washington, D.C., social circles Elinor Wylie had frequented. Encouraged by Horace Wylie, Elinor published privately, and anonymously, a small book of poems she had written since 1902, Incidental Numbers (1912). The couple returned to the United States at the outbreak of World War I, and lived in Boston, Augusta, Georgia, and Washington, D.C., under the stress of social ostracism and Elinor's illness. Wishing for a second child, she suffered several miscarriages between 1914 and 1916, as well as a stillbirth and the live birth of a premature child who died after one week.

    The Wylies did not officially marry until 1916, after Elinor's first husband had committed suicide and Horace's first wife had divorced him. By that time, however, the couple were drawing apart. Elinor Wylie began to move in literary circles in New York; her friends there numbered John Peale Bishop, Edmund Wilson, John Dos Passos, Sinclair Lewis, Carl Van Vechten, and her future third husband, William Rose Benet. Encouraged by her friends, she submitted poems to Poetry magazine despite her own self-doubts; four were published by Harriet Monroe in the May, 1920, edition, including her most widely anthologized poem, "Velvet Shoes."

    Benet had begun to act as informal literary agent for Wylie, and feeling the increasing pull of the literary world, she separated from Horace Wylie in 1921. Commented Stein in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, "She captivated the literary world with her slender, tawny-haired beauty, personal elegance, acid wit, and technical virtuosity." However, Wylie was no salon dilettante; working hard, she published four volumes of poetry and four novels between 1921 and her death in 1928, in addition to writing some essays and reviews and working as a literary editor of prominent magazines such as Vanity Fair.

    In 1921, Wylie's volume Nets to Catch the Wind, which many critics still consider to contain her best poems, was issued. In addition to "Velvet Shoes," it contains the notable poems "August," "Wild Peaches," "A Proud Lady," "The Eagle and the Mole," "Sanctuary," "Winter Sleep," "Madman's Song," "The Church-Bell," and "A Crowded Trolley Car." Her poems were miniature in scope, displaying what Wylie in an essay called her "small clean technique." Stanzas and lines were quite short, and the effect of her images was of a highly detailed, polished surface. Often, her poems expressed a dissatisfaction with the realities of life on the part of a speaker who aspired to a more gratifying world of art and beauty. Nets to Catch the Wind "conveys a deep knowledge of life and evidences a mature talent," in the view of a Twentieth-Century Literary Criticism contributor; in its own time, it attracted the praise of poets such as Edna St. Vincent Millay and Louis Untermeyer.

    Nets to Catch the Wind was followed in 1923 by another successful volume of verse, Black Armour, which Stein in the Dictionary of Literary Biography viewed as exemplifying, and confessing, the limitations of Wylie's miniaturist method. An admirer of the British Romantic poets, and particularly of Shelley, to a degree that some critics have seen as abnormal, Wylie seemed to realize, nevertheless, that she was a genius of a lesser rank, one who could only create a "gilded bird" as opposed to Shelley's gloriously alive skylark. Stein, commenting that most of the personae in Black Armour are outcasts from society, interprets the work as self-pitying rather than maturely self-aware.

    In the same year as Black Armour, Wylie's first novel, Jennifer Lorn: A Sedate Extravaganza, was published to considerable acclaim: famously, the critic Carl Van Vechten organized a torchlight parade in Manhattan to celebrate its publication. The novel is a romantic pastiche set in Britain and India in the late 1700s; it encompasses the love and marriage of handsome, wealthy Gerald Poynyard and the fragile, beautiful Jennifer. Van Vechten hailed it as "the only successfully sustained satire in English." Modern critics, such as Kelly in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, are more prone to admire its lapidary passages of prose description and to express misgivings about its melodramatic plot and shaky structure; Alice R. Bensen, in the Reference Guide to American Literature, called it "a long catalogue of lovely, delicate objects."

    Wylie's second novel, The Venetian Glass Nephew (1925) is considered her best by Kelly for its unity of theme; however, many critics would assign that honor to her fourth novel, the 1928 Mr. Hodge and Mr. Hazard, of which Stein asserted, "Critics agree that this book is her best novel." In The Venetian Glass Nephew, a Roman Catholic cardinal seeks a nephew to whom he can bequeath his generosity. He is drawn to the lair of a glassblower who makes a handsome nephew for the cardinal out of glass. When a beautiful young woman falls in love with the artificial nephew and finds him unable to love in return, she volunteers to be turned into glass herself, in what Kelly terms "one of modern literature's rare reversals of the Pygmalion theme."

    Wylie's two later novels both express her idolatry of Shelley. In The Orphan Angel (1926), the great young poet is rescued from drowning off an Italian cape and travels to America, where he encounters the dangers of the frontier. Although the novel was a Book-of-the-Month selection in 1926, its critical and popular reception both were mixed. In retrospect, Kelly in the Dictionary of Literary Biography identified it as "her only failure," and Stein explained, "Its chief difficulty is that it fails to achieve Wylie's purpose, that of kindling admiration for the heroic poet. Instead, the novel becomes a picaresque exploration with minimal plot interest."

    Much more successful, says the consensus of critics, was Mr. Hodge and Mr. Hazard, which portrays the decline of a fictitious late-Romantic poet in an England clouded by the beginnings of Victorianism. Despite its historical setting, the novel contains characters and scenes that were recognizable to Wylie's friends. According to a Twentieth-Century Literary Criticism contributor, this novel "is a sensitive allegory of the poet's tragedy in a world indifferent to the artist's needs."

    Wylie's third volume of verse, Trivial Breath (1928), was dedicated to Shelley. It appeared at a time of personal upheaval. She had married Benet in 1923, but the marriage became strained, and the two agreed to live apart, Wylie moving to London. By 1927, she had already written to her second husband, Horace Wylie, of her enduring love for him. In 1928, she met a married man, Henry de Clifford Woodhouse, with whom she fell in love. This love inspired a series of nineteen sonnets, One Person, which she later included as the first section of Angels and Earthly Creatures (1928).

    These love poems seem, at times, to express an understanding that she had previously lacked genuine passion, and therefore to claim that she has achieved such a state; for this reason, some critics consider it her most mature poetry. This view is countered, however, by Thomas A. Gray in his 1969 study Elinor Wylie, who stated that "Wylie's later work . . . represents a reversal of the normal direction of development of a writer's art, in which his unique way of using language seems ever more the 'necessary and inevitable' expression of his individual way of seeing and feeling. . . . The 'new' way of speaking in One Person does not suggest any new way of feeling." It must be added, however, that Stein in the Dictionary of Literary Biography considered Gray's study "unsympathetic."

    A very different view was proposed in 1979 by Wylie's biographer Stanley Olson, who called the One Person sonnets "perhaps, her finest achievement. They are testimony to the power of her emotions, distilled and purified. . . . The love in these lyrics is not a private love, not a variety of confession, but an abstracted one, free of the protection of subjectivity. . . . The nineteen sonnets are paced with strength, energy and undeniable feeling, sustained as a group by shifting through the complexities and vicissitudes of love."

    It was while going over a typescript of Angels and Earthly Creatures, on a Christmas visit to Benet in New York in 1928, that Wylie died. Picking up a volume of John Donne's poems, she asked Benet for a glass of water; when he returned with it, as Stein recounted in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, "she walked toward him, murmured, 'Is that all it is?,' and fell to the floor, dead of a stroke." Her reputation was kept high for a while by her surviving champions, but after the 1950s, both attention and esteem flagged. Assessing her poetry, Gray in 1969 wrote that it "is largely a portrayal of the stratagems by which a fragile sensibility shields itself from the threats and shocks of existence in a world too rough for it. . . . She forever draws attention away from what she is saying by the way in which she insists on saying it. This characteristic explains the thinness of her themes and the fragility of her style: in place of fresh perceptions, she very often gives an artificially posed personality and, in place of style, stylishness."

    Stein, in contrast, pointed respectfully to more than one passage of Wylie's verse in which the poet calls realistic attention to the disappointments of marriage and the contradictions and constrictions of traditional womanhood. Calling Wylie's gifts "notable, but problematic," Stein in the Dictionary of Literary Biography averred, "Inclusion of Wylie's poetry in recently published anthologies testifies to a continuing interest, and may hopefully lead to further examination of her poetry and prose." Kelly, appreciating Wylie's prose as "always clear and undigressive," reserved his greater admiration for her verse, and concluded, "Without doubt the poems and novels of Elinor Wylie can stand on their own, even if we do not know the tortured woman beneath the silver-cool facade of physical beauty."
    Bibliography
    POETRY

    (As anonymous) Incidental Numbers, privately printed (London), 1912.
    Nets to Catch the Wind, Harcourt, Brace (New York, NY), 1921.
    Black Armour, Doran (New York, NY), 1923.
    Trivial Breath, Knopf (New York City and London), 1928.
    Angels and Earthly Creatures: A Sequence of Sonnets (also known as One Person), privately printed, Borough Press (Henley on Thames, England), 1928.
    Angels and Earthly Creatures (includes Angels and Earthly Creatures: A Sequence of Sonnets), Knopf (New York City and London), 1929.
    Birthday Sonnet, Random House (New York, NY), 1929.
    Last Poems of Elinor Wylie, transcribed by Jane D. Wise, foreword by William Rose Benet, tribute by Edith Olivier, Knopf (New York City), 1943, Academy Chicago (Chicago), 1982.

    NOVELS

    Jennifer Lorn: A Sedate Extravaganza, Doran (New York, NY), 1923, Richards (London), 1924.
    The Venetian Glass Nephew, Doran, 1925, Academy Chicago, 1984.
    The Orphan Angel, Knopf (New York, NY), 1926, published as Mortal Image, Heinemann, 1927.
    Mr. Hodge & Mr. Hazard, Knopf (New York City) and Heinemann (London), 1928, Academy Chicago, 1984.

    COLLECTIONS

    Elinor Wylie, edited by Laurence Jordan, Simon & Schuster (New York City), 1926.
    Collected Poems of Elinor Wylie, Knopf (New York, NY), 1932.
    Collected Prose of Elinor Wylie, Knopf (New York, NY), 1933.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Mildred Plew Meigs (born Mildred Plew) was an American poet, author of poems. Born to Chicago financier James E. Plew and Nettie Plew (nee Raymond), Mildred spent her adult life in Valparaiso, Florida. Mildred is most famous for her poem, "The Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee", which she published in Child Life Magazine in a 1923 issue.

    Her first published book, The Road To Raffydiddle is dated 1913, and features illustrations by Frank Aloise.[3]

    She contributed dozens of poems to Child Life Magazine, Harper's, Motion Picture,[4] Poetry, and other lifestyle magazines, and is credited as the author of six children's books.[5]

    Mildred Plew Meigs died 1944, February 22, in her home in Valparaiso, Florida.[2]


    Silver Ships
    by Mildred Plew Merryman



    There are trails that a lad may follow

    When the years of his boyhood slip,



    But I shall soar like a swallow

    On the wings of a silver ship,



    Guiding my bird of metal,



    One with her throbbing frame,

    Floating down like a petal,



    Roaring up like a flame;

    Winding the wind that scatters



    Smoke from the chimney's lip,

    Tearing the clouds to tatters



    With the wings of a silver ship;



    Grazing the broad blue sky light



    Up where the falcons fare,

    Riding the realms of twilight,



    Brushed by a comet's hair;

    Snug in my coat of leather,



    Watching the skyline swing,

    Shedding the world like a feather



    From the tip of a tilted wing.

    *********************************


    Moon Song

    by Mildred Plew Merryman




    Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon —



    Over the crinkling sea,

    The moon man flings him a silvered net



    Fashioned of moonbeams three.



    And some folk say when the net lies long

    And the midnight hour is ripe;



    The moon man fishes for some old song

    That fell from a sailor's pipe.



    And some folk say that he fishes the bars

    Down where the dead ships lie,



    Looking for lost little baby stars

    That slid from the slippery sky.



    And the waves roll out and the waves roll in

    And the nodding night wind blows,



    But why the moon man fishes the sea

    Only the moon man knows.



    Zoon, zoon, net of the moon



    Rides on the wrinkling sea;

    Bright is the fret and shining wet,



    Fashioned of moonbeams three.



    And some folk say when the great net gleams

    And the waves are dusky blue,



    The moon man fishes for two little dreams

    He lost when the world was new.



    And some folk say in the late night hours

    While the long fin'shadows slide,



    The moon man fishes for cold sea flowers

    Under the tumbling tide.



    And the waves roll out and the waves roll in

    And the gray gulls dip and dose,



    But why the moon man fishes the sea

    Only the moon man knows.



    Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon —



    Over the crinkling sea,

    The moon man flings him a silvered net



    Fashioned of moonbeams three.



    And some folk say that he follows the flecks

    Down where the last light flows,



    Fishing for two round gold'rimmed "specs"

    That blew from his button4ike nose.



    And some folk say while the salt sea foams



    And the silver net lines snare,

    The moon man fishes for carven combs



    That float from the mermaids' hair.



    And the waves roll out and the waves roll in

    And the nodding night wind blows,



    But why the moon man fishes the sea

    Only the moon man knows.

    *********************************

    Another great poet I recently discovered.
    One that deserves much greater recognition imho..-Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 03-14-2021 at 12:48 PM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Adelaide Anne Procter (30 October 1825 – 2 February 1864 / London)


    Biography of Adelaide Anne Procter
    Adelaide Anne Procter poet

    She was the eldest daughter of the poet Bryan Waller Procter ("Barry Cornwall") and Anne Benson Skepper. As a child Adelaide showed precocious intelligence. She attained considerable proficiency in French, German, and Italian, as well as in music and drawing, and she was a great reader. Brought up in surroundings favourable to the development of literary leanings, she began to write verses at an early age, and at eighteen contributed to the "Book of Beauty".

    In 1851, she and two of her sisters became Catholics without, apparently, any disturbance of the harmonious relations of the domestic circle. In 1853, under the pseudonym of "Mary Berwick", she sent to "Household Words" a short poem, which so pleased the editor, Charles Dickens that he not only accepted it but also invited further contributions. It was not till late in the following year that Dickens learned that his unknown correspondent was the daughter of his old friend, Barry Cornwall. To "Household Words" and "All the Year Round" nearly all her poetry was in the first instance contributed. In 1858-60 her poems were collected and published in two series under the title of "Legends and Lyrics". They had a great success, reaching the tenth edition in 1866. In that year a new issue, with introduction by Dickens, was printed, and there have been several reprints since.

    Miss Procter was of a charitable disposition: she visited the sick, befriended the destitute and home- less, taught the ignorant, and endeavored to raise up the fallen ones of her own sex. She was generous yet practical with the income derived from her works. In 1859 she served on a committee to consider fresh ways and means of providing employment for women; in 1861 she edited a miscellany, entitled "Victoria Regis", which had some of the leading litterateurs of the time as contributors and which was set up in type by women compositors; and in 1862 she published a slender volume of her own poems, "A Chaplet of Verses", mostly of a religious turn, for the benefit of the Providence Row night refuge for homeless women and children, which, as the first Catholic Refuge in the United Kingdom, had been opened on 7 October, 1860, and placed under the care of the Sisters of Mercy. In her charitable zeal she appears to have unduly taxed her strength, and her health, never robust, gave way under the strain. The cure at Malvern was tried in vain; and, after an illness of fifteen months, she died calmly, and was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery.

    Adelaide Anne Procter's Works:

    A House to Let, co-written with Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell and Wilkie Collins (1858)
    Legends and Lyrics, first series (1858)
    Legends and Lyrics, second series (1861)
    A Chaplet of Verses (1862)
    The Haunted House, co-written with Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell, Wilkie Collins, George Sala and Hesba Stretton (1859)

    This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Adelaide Anne Procter; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.



    ************************************

    A Lost Chord

    SEATED one day at the Organ,
    I was weary and ill at ease,
    And my fingers wandered idly
    Over the noisy keys.

    I do not know what I was playing,
    Or what I was dreaming then ;
    But I struck one chord of music,
    Like the sound of a great Amen.

    It flooded the crimson twilight,
    Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
    And it lay on my fevered spirit
    With a touch of infinite calm.

    It quieted pain and sorrow,
    Like love overcoming strife ;
    It seemed the harmonious echo
    From our discordant life.

    It linked all perplexéd meanings
    Into one perfect peace,
    And trembled away into silence
    As if it were loth to cease.

    I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
    That one lost chord divine,
    Which came from the soul of the Organ,
    And entered into mine.

    It may be that Death's bright angel
    Will speak in that chord again,
    It may be that only in Heaven
    I shall hear that grand Amen.
    Adelaide Anne Procter



    **************************************

    One By One The Sands Are Flowing


    One by one the sands are flowing,
    One by one the moments fall:
    Some are coming, some are going;
    Do not strive to grasp them all.

    One by one thy duties wait thee;
    Let thy whole strength go to each;
    Let no future dreams elate thee;
    Learn thou first what these can teach.

    One by one,-bright gifts of heaven,-
    Joys are sent thee here below;
    Take them readily when given;
    Ready be to let them go.

    One by one thy griefs shall meet thee;
    Do not fear an armed band;
    One will fade as others greet thee,-
    Shadows passing through the land.

    Every hour that fleets so slowly
    Has its task to do our bear:
    Luminous the crown and holy,
    When each gem is set with care.

    Hours are golden links, God's token
    Reaching heaven; but one by one
    Take them, lest the chain be broken
    Ere the pilgrimage be done.

    Adelaide Anne Procter


    **********************************8
    Per Pacem Ad Lucem

    I DO not ask, O Lord, that life may be
    A pleasant road;
    I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me
    Aught of its load;

    I do not ask that flowers should always spring
    Beneath my feet;
    I know too well the poison and the sting
    Of things too sweet.

    For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead,
    Lead me aright—
    Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed—
    Through Peace to Light.

    I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shed
    Full radiance here;
    Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread
    Without a fear.

    I do not ask my cross to understand,
    My way to see;
    Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand
    And follow Thee.

    Joy is like restless day; but peace divine
    Like quiet night:
    Lead me, O Lord,—till perfect Day shall shine,
    Through Peace to Light.
    Adelaide Anne Procter
    A truly wonderful and deep poetess.
    No trivial subjects written about nor engaging in the writing of bubble gum, cotton candy , rainbow verses so foolishly and highly praised today by the idiots that call themselves - poetry critics/experts. -Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Isaac Rosenberg

    Isaac Rosenberg was born in 1890 in Bristol, the son of Lithuanian Jews who had moved to Britain a few years earlier. As a child, his teachers noticed his talent for drawing and writing poetry, but his parents couldn’t afford to keep him at school, and so he was apprenticed to an engraver’s company in 1905. In spite of this, Rosenberg attending evening classes in painting and drawing, and in the early 1910s a wealthy Jewish woman offered to pay his fees to attend art school. Before the war started he published two volumes of poems, one called Night and Day, and another Youth. Despite being resolutely pacifist, he enlisted for the war in 1915 – and wrote many poems while he was in the fighting until his death in 1918.


    In perhaps his best-known poem, ‘Returning, we hear the larks’, Rosenberg plays with the idea that the dread, foreboding and ultimate violent destruction of war has poisoned all of nature. The innocent song of larks in the dark is a pure, beautiful and strange comfort – but it is everywhere underlain with the threat that bullets, gas, and death might rain out of the night and onto the soldiers. The images of weightlessness and insubstantiality that pervade the final stanza: ‘a blind man’s dreams’ dropped on the sand by a violent sea, or the hair of a girl, are ultimately reversed, replaced in the final line by an image of a kiss that seems soft and light but conceals the poison of a snake:

    Returning, We Hear The Larks


    Sombre the night is.
    And though we have our lives, we know
    What sinister threat lurks there.

    Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know
    This poison-blasted track opens on our camp—
    On a little safe sleep.

    But hark! joy—joy—strange joy.
    Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks.
    Music showering on our upturned list’ning faces.

    Death could drop from the dark
    As easily as song—
    But song only dropped,
    Like a blind man’s dreams on the sand
    By dangerous tides,
    Like a girl’s dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there,
    Or her kisses where a serpent hides.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    On the Eclipse of the Moon of October, 1865

    One little noise of life remained--I heard
    The train pause in the distance, then rush by,
    Brawling and hushing, like some busy fly
    That murmurs and then settles; nothing stirred
    Beside. The shadow of our traveling earth
    Hung on the silver moon, which mutely went
    Through that grand process, without token sent,
    Or any sign to call a gazer forth,
    Had I not chanced to see; dumb was the vault
    Of heaven, and dumb the fields--no zephyr swept
    The forest walks, or through the coppice crept;
    Nor other sound the stillness did assault,
    Save that faint-brawling railway's move and halt;
    So perfect was the silence Nature kept.

    Charles Turner

    -------------------------------------------------------

    The Sonneteer to the Sea-Shell

    Fair ocean shell, the poet's art is weak
    To utter all thy rich variety!
    How thou dost shame him when he tries to speak,
    And tell his ear the rapture of his eye!
    I cannot paint as very truth requires
    The gold-green gleam that o'er thee breaks and roves,
    Nor follow up with words thy flying fires,
    Where'er the startled rose-light wakes and moves.
    Ah! why perplex with all thy countless hues
    The single-hearted sonnet? Fare thee well!
    I give thee up to some gay lyric muse,
    As fitful as thyself, thy tale to tell:
    The quick-spent sonnet cannot do thee right
    Nor in one flash deliver all thy light.

    Charles Turner

    --------------------------------------------------------

    We Cannot Keep Delight

    We cannot keep delight--we cannot tell
    One tale of steady bliss, unwarped, uncrost,
    The timid guest anticipates his farewell,
    And will not stay to hear it from his host!
    I saw a child upon a summer's day,
    A child upon the margin of a pond,
    Catch at the boughs that came within his way,
    >From a fair fruit-tree on the bank beyond;
    The gale that swayed them from him aye arose,
    And seldom sank into such kindly calm
    As gave his hand upon the bunch to close;
    Which then but left its fragrance on his palm;
    For the wind woke anew from its repose,
    And bore the fruit away, but wafted all its balm.

    Charles Turner

    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Charles Tennyson Turner
    From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

    Charles Tennyson Turner (4 July 1808 – 25 April 1879) was an English poet. Born in Somersby, Lincolnshire, he was an elder brother of Alfred Tennyson; his friendship and the "heart union" with his greater brother is revealed in Poems by Two Brothers (1829). Another poet brother was Frederick Tennyson.

    In 1833, Charles was ordained a priest in the Church of England. On 1 October 1835, he changed his surname to Turner after inheriting the estate of his great-uncle, the Reverend Samuel Turner of Caistor in Lincolnshire. On 24 May 1836, he married Louisa Sellwood, the younger sister of Alfred's future wife; she later suffered from mental illness and became an opium addict. Charles died on 25 April 1879, at the age of 70, at 6 Imperial Square in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire.[1]

    Turner was key in the construction of Grasby, a small village on the outskirts of Caistor. He helped construct part of the school (Grasby School) and was the reverend of Grasby Church for a while.
    Published works

    Sonnets (1864)
    Small Tableaux (1868)
    Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations (1873)
    Collected Poems (1880, 8 months after death), assembled by Alfred and Hallam Tennyson, and James Spedding

    References
    Wikisource has original works written by or about:
    Charles Tennyson Turner

    This article incorporates text from a publication now in the public domain: Wood, James, ed. (1907). "Turner, Charles Tennyson". The Nuttall Encyclopædia. London and New York: Frederick Warne.

    W. H. Auden - 'Family Ghosts' - Rev. Charles Turner [formerly Tennyson] (I10561)
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Catbird
    -- by Mary Oliver

    He picks his pond, and the soft thicket of his world.
    He bids his lady come, and she does,
    flirting with her tail.
    He begins early, and makes up his song as he goes.
    He does not enter a house at night, or when it rains.
    He is not afraid of the wind, though he is cautious.
    He watches the snake, that stripe of black fire,
    until it flows away.
    He watches the hawk with her sharpest shins, aloft
    in the high tree.
    He keeps his prayer under his tongue.
    In his whole life he has never missed the rising of the sun.
    He dislikes snow.
    But a few raisins give him the greatest delight.
    He sits in the forelock of the lilac, or he struts
    in its shadow.
    He is neither the rare plover or the brilliant bunting,
    but as common as the grass.
    His black cap gives him a jaunty look, for which
    we humans have learned to tilt our caps, in envy.
    When he is not singing, he is listening.
    Neither have I ever seen him with his eyes closed.
    Though he may be looking at nothing more than a cloud
    it brings to his mind several dozen new remarks.
    From one branch to another, or across the path,
    he dazzles with flight.
    Since I see him every morning, I have rewarded myself
    the pleasure of thinking that he knows me.
    Yet never once has he answered my nod.
    He seems, in fact, to find in me a kind of humor,
    I am so vast, uncertain and strange.
    I am the one who comes and goes,
    and who knows why.
    Will I ever understand him?
    Certainly he will never understand me, or the world
    I come from.
    For he will never sing for the kingdom of dollars.
    For he will never grow pockets in his gray wings.

    *********************

    Most definitely a true and very great poetess! -Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Emma Lazarus
    ---
    Emma Lazarus, 1849 - 1887

    From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
    Emma Lazarus
    Emma Lazarus.jpg
    Emma Lazarus, c. 1872
    Born July 22, 1849
    New York City, New York
    Died November 19, 1887 (aged 38)
    New York City, New York
    Genre Poetry
    Notable works The New Colossus

    Emma Lazarus (July 22, 1849 – November 19, 1887) was an American poet born in New York City.

    She is best known for "The New Colossus", a sonnet written in 1883; its lines appear inscribed on a bronze plaque in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty[1] installed in 1903, a decade and a half after Lazarus's death.[2]

    Contents

    1 Background
    2 Works
    3 References
    4 Further reading
    5 External links

    Background

    Lazarus was born into a large Sephardic-Ashkenazi Jewish family, the fourth of seven children of Moses Lazarus and Esther Nathan. [3] The Lazarus family was from Germany,[4] and the Nathan family was originally from Portugal and residents in New York long before the American Revolution. Lazarus's great-great grandmother on her mother's side, Grace Seixas Nathan (born in New York in 1752) was also a poet.[5] Lazarus was also related through her mother to Benjamin N. Cardozo, Associate Justice of the US Supreme Court.

    From an early age, she studied American and British literature, as well as several languages, including German, French, and Italian. Her writings attracted the attention of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

    She was also an early admirer of Henry George, and was a part of his Single Tax movement for a number of years.[6]

    Lazarus wrote her own important poems and edited many adaptations of German poems, notably those of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Heinrich Heine.[7] She also wrote a novel and two plays in five acts, The Spagnoletto, a tragic verse drama about the titular figure and The Dance to Death, a dramatization of a German short story about the burning of Jews in Nordhausen during the Black Death.[8]

    "The New Colossus"

    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
    With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
    Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
    A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
    Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
    Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
    Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
    The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
    "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
    With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
    Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
    The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
    Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
    I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
    Emma Lazarus, 1883

    Lazarus began to be more interested in her Jewish ancestry after reading the George Eliot novel Daniel Deronda, and as she heard of the Russian pogroms that followed the assassination of Tsar Alexander II in 1881. As a result of this anti-Semitic violence, thousands of destitute Ashkenazi Jews emigrated from the Russian Pale of Settlement to New York, leading Lazarus to write articles on the subject, as well as the book Songs of a Semite (1882). Lazarus began at this point to advocate on behalf of indigent Jewish refugees. She helped establish the Hebrew Technical Institute in New York to provide vocational training to assist destitute Jewish immigrants to become self-supporting.

    She is best known for the sonnet "The New Colossus"; its lines appear on a bronze plaque in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty placed in 1903.[1][2] The sonnet was written in 1883 and donated to an auction, conducted by the "Art Loan Fund Exhibition in Aid of the Bartholdi Pedestal Fund for the Statue of Liberty" in order to raise funds to build the pedestal.[9][10] Lazarus' close friend Rose Hawthorne Lathrop was inspired by "The New Colossus" to found the Dominican Sisters of Hawthorne.[11] Lazarus is also known for her sixteen-part cycle poem "Epochs".[12]

    She traveled twice to Europe, first in 1883 and again from 1885 to 1887.[13] On one of those trips, Georgiana Burne-Jones, the wife of the Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Burne-Jones, introduced her to William Morris at her home.[14] She returned to New York City seriously ill after her second trip and died two months later on November 19, 1887, most likely from Hodgkin's lymphoma.

    She is an important forerunner of the Zionist movement. She argued for the creation of a Jewish homeland thirteen years before Theodor Herzl began to use the term Zionism.[15] Lazarus is buried in Beth-Olom Cemetery in Brooklyn.

    Emma Lazarus was honored by the Office of the Manhattan Borough President in March, 2008, and her home on West 10th Street was included in a map of Women's Rights Historic Sites.[16] In 2009, she was honored by induction into the National Women's Hall of Fame.[17] The Museum of Jewish Heritage featured an exhibition about Emma Lazarus in 2012.
    Works

    Lazarus, Emma (1888). The Poems of Emma Lazarus. Houghton, Mifflin and Company. Retrieved 2008-12-12.
    "In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport"
    "In Exile"
    "The New Colossus"
    "By the Waters of Babylon"
    "1492"
    "The New Year"
    "The South"
    "Venus of the Louvre"

    References

    Watts, Emily Stipes. The Poetry of American Women from 1632 to 1945. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1977: 123. ISBN 0-292-76450-2
    Young, Bette Roth (1997). Emma Lazarus in Her World: Life and Letters. The Jewish Publication Society. ISBN 0-8276-0618-4. p. 3:
    "Jewish Women's Archive: Emma Lazarus". Retrieved 2008-01-10.
    "Four Founders: Emma Lazarus". Jewish Virtual Library.
    Schor, Esther. Emma Lazarus. Schocken, 2008.
    "Progress and Poverty". The New York Times. Jewish Women's Archive. 2 October 1881. p. 3. Retrieved 21 May 2013.
    The Poems of Emma Lazarus in Two Volumes, kindle ebooks ASIN B0082RVVJ2 & ASIN B0082RDHSA
    Sugarman, Yerra (2003). "Emma Lazarus". In Parini, Jay. The Oxford Encyclopedia of American Literature. Oxford University Press. p. 413. ISBN 978-0-19-515653-9.
    Young, Bette Roth (1997). Emma Lazarus in Her World: Life and Letters. The Jewish Publication Society. ISBN 0-8276-0618-4. p. 3: Auction event named as "Lowell says poem gave the statue "a raison e'tre;" fell into obscurity; not mentioned at statue opening; Georgina Schuyler's campaign for the plaque
    Felder, Deborah G.; Diana L Rosen (2003). Fifty Jewish Women Who Changed the World. Citadel Press. ISBN 0-8065-2443-X. p. 45: Solicited by "William Maxwell Evert" [sic; presumably William Maxwell Evarts] Lazarus refused initially; convinced by Constance Cary Harrison
    "Exhibit highlights connection between Jewish poet, Catholic nun". The Tidings. Archdiocese of Los Angeles. Catholic News Service. 17 September 2010. p. 16. Archived from the original on 21 September 2010. Retrieved 20 September 2010.
    Obituary in Century Magazine The Poems of Emma Lazarus in Two Volumes, kindle ebooks ASIN B0082RVVJ2 & ASIN B0082RDHSA
    Esther Schor, Emma Lazarus (2006)
    Judith Flanders, A Circle of Sisters (2001) page 186.
    Simon, Briana. "Zion in the Sources: Yearning for Zion". World Zionist Organization.
    "Manhattan Borough President - Home".

    "Lazarus, Emma". National Women's Hall of Fame. Retrieved 1 November 2016.

    Further reading

    Cavitch, Max. "Emma Lazarus and the Golem of Liberty," American Literary History 18.1 (2006), 1–28
    Eiselein, Gregory. Emma Lazarus: Selected Poems and Other Writings. USA: Broadview Press, 2002. ISBN 1-55111-285-X.
    Jacob, H. E. The World of Emma Lazarus. New York: Schocken, 1949; New York: Kessing Publishers, 2007, ISBN 1-4325-1416-4.
    Lazarus, Emma. Emma Lazarus: Selected Poems. USA: Library of America, 2005. ISBN 1-931082-77-4.
    Moore, H. S. Liberty's Poet: Emma Lazarus. USA: TurnKey Press, 2004. ISBN 0-9754803-4-0.
    Schor, Esther. Emma Lazurus. New York: Schocken, 2006. ISBN 0-8052-4216-3. Randomhouse.com
    Young, B. R. Emma Lazarus in Her World: Life and Letters. USA: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1997. ISBN 0-8276-0618-4.
    Vogel, Dan (1980). Emma Lazarus. Boston: Twayne Publishers. ISBN 0805772332.

    PD-icon.svg This article incorporates text from a publication now in the public domain: Gilman, D. C.; Thurston, H. T.; Colby, F. M., eds. (1905). "Lazarus, Emma". New International Encyclopedia (1st ed.). New York: Dodd, Mead.

    ************************************************** ******************





    The New Colossus

    -------------By Emma Lazarus
    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
    With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
    Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
    A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
    Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
    Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
    Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
    The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
    “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
    With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
    Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
    The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
    Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
    I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”


    Source: Emma Lazarus: Selected Poems and Other Writings (2002)

    ----------------------------------------
    By the Waters of Babylon [V. Currents]
    Emma Lazarus, 1849 - 1887

    Vast oceanic movements, the flux and reflux of immeasurable tides, oversweep our continent.
    From the far Caucasian steppes, from the squalid Ghettos of Europe,
    From Odessa and Bucharest, from Kief and Ekaterinoslav,
    Hark to the cry of the exiles of Babylon, the voice of Rachel mourning for her children, of Israel lamenting for Zion.
    And lo, like a turbid stream, the long-pent flood bursts the dykes of oppression and rushes hitherward.
    Unto her ample breast, the generous mother of nations welcomes them.
    The herdsman of Canaan and the seed of Jerusalem’s royal shepherd renew their youth
    amid the pastoral plains of Texas and the golden valleys of the Sierras.


    ------------------------------------------

    In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport
    Emma Lazarus, 1849 - 1887

    Here, where the noises of the busy town,
    The ocean’s plunge and roar can enter not,
    We stand and gaze around with tearful awe,
    And muse upon the consecrated spot.

    No signs of life are here: the very prayers
    Inscribed around are in a language dead;
    The light of the “perpetual lamp” is spent
    That an undying radiance was to shed.

    What prayers were in this temple offered up,
    Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth,
    By these lone exiles of a thousand years,
    From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!

    How as we gaze, in this new world of light,
    Upon this relic of the days of old,
    The present vanishes, and tropic bloom
    And Eastern towns and temples we behold.

    Again we see the patriarch with his flocks,
    The purple seas, the hot blue sky o’erhead,
    The slaves of Egypt, -- omens, mysteries, --
    Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.

    A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount,
    A man who reads Jehovah’s written law,
    ‘Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare,
    Unto a people prone with reverent awe.

    The pride of luxury’s barbaric pomp,
    In the rich court of royal Solomon --
    Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains, --
    The exiles by the streams of Babylon.

    Our softened voices send us back again
    But mournful echoes through the empty hall:
    Our footsteps have a strange unnatural sound,
    And with unwonted gentleness they fall.

    The weary ones, the sad, the suffering,
    All found their comfort in the holy place,
    And children’s gladness and men’s gratitude
    ‘Took voice and mingled in the chant of praise.

    The funeral and the marriage, now, alas!
    We know not which is sadder to recall;
    For youth and happiness have followed age,
    And green grass lieth gently over all.

    Nathless the sacred shrine is holy yet,
    With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod.
    Take off your shoes as by the burning bush,
    Before the mystery of death and God.

    ----------------------------------
    ----------------------------------
    year
    sort ascending
    title author
    1888 Age and Death Emma Lazarus
    1888 Chopin Emma Lazarus
    1888 1492 Emma Lazarus
    1888 Long Island Sound Emma Lazarus
    1888 Echoes Emma Lazarus
    1888 Critic and Poet Emma Lazarus
    1887 By the Waters of Babylon [V. Currents] Emma Lazarus
    1887 By the Waters of Babylon Emma Lazarus
    1885 Venus of the Louvre Emma Lazarus
    1884 To R.W.E. Emma Lazarus

    1883 The New Colossus Emma Lazarus
    1882 The Feast of Lights Emma Lazarus
    1882 The New Year Emma Lazarus
    1882 In Exile Emma Lazarus
    1878 The South Emma Lazarus
    1871 Work Emma Lazarus
    1867 In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport Emma Lazarus
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    St. Patrick’s Day: With an Irish Shamrock

    ----------------------By Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna
    From the region of zephyrs, the Emerald isle,
    The land of thy birth, in my freshness I come,
    To waken this long-cherished morn with a smile,
    And breathe o’er thy spirit the whispers of home.
    O welcome the stranger from Erin’s green sod;
    I sprang where the bones of thy fathers repose,
    I grew where thy free step in infancy trod,
    Ere the world threw around thee its wiles and its woes.
    But sprightlier themes
    Enliven the dreams,
    My dew-dropping leaflets unfold to impart:
    To loftiest emotion
    Of patriot devotion,
    I wake the full chord of an Irishman’s heart.

    The rose is expanding her petals of pride,
    And points to the laurels o’erarching her tree;
    And the hardy Bur-thistle stands rooted beside,
    And sternly demands;—Who dare meddle wi’ me?
    And bright are the garlands they jointly display,
    In death-fields of victory gallantly got;
    But let the fair sisters their trophies array,
    And show us the wreath where the shamrock is not!
    By sea and by land,
    With bullet and brand,
    My sons have directed the stormbolt of war;
    The banners ye boast,
    Ne’er waved o’er our host,
    Unfanned by the accents of Erin-go-bragh!

    Erin mavourneen! dark is thy night;
    Deep thy forebodings and gloomy thy fears;
    And O, there are bosoms with savage delight
    Who laugh at thy plainings and scoff at thy tears!
    But, Erin mavourneen, bright are the names
    Who twine with the heart-vein thy fate in their breast;
    And scorned be the lot of the dastard, who shames
    To plant, as a trophy, this leaf on his crest!
    Thrice trebled disgrace
    His honours deface,
    Who shrinks from proclaiming the isle of his birth!
    Though lowly its stem,
    This emerald gem
    Mates with the proudest that shadow the earth!

    Sandhurst, March 17, 1827

    ************************************************** *******************************
    Biography Poems, Articles & More
    Discover this author’s context.

    Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna
    Poet Details
    1790–1846
    Protestant evangelical activist, journalist, editor, novelist, children’s author, and poet Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna was born in Norwich, England. The daughter of an Anglican priest, she lost her hearing permanently at age ten and became a pioneer of deaf education. She married twice, to George Phelan and Lewis Hippolytus Joseph Tonna, taking their names in turn, though she published under the name, Charlotte Elizabeth.

    Elizabeth published dozens of books and tracts, including the once-banned children’s book The Simple Flower (1826), the novel Judah’s Lion (1843), Izram: A Mexican Tale; and Other Poems (1826), and Posthumous and other poems (1847); she also penned an autobiography, Personal Recollections (1841). Her nonfiction account of the working conditions English seamstresses faced, The Wrongs of Woman (1844), helped establish worker safety laws. Starting in 1834, she edited the Christian Lady’s Magazine, and from 1841 onward, she also edited The Protestant Magazine.

    Tonna died at the age of 55 in Ramsgate, England, where she is buried.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    June 13, 2017
    “Goya Could Have Painted This” by Douglas Blazek

    Douglas Blazek

    GOYA COULD HAVE PAINTED THIS

    Next door my neighbor
    massages his car with a mass
    of diapers and a fussy muscle.
    Fuels it spoon by spoon
    with wealthy gas to perfume its exhaust.
    Works his keyed-in personality
    to soothe a herd of ignition sparks.
    Drives his fantasies about his doubts
    as demons round a rosary.

    Trees in his hands are branchless pets.
    Roses succumb to the passion of fence.
    He pockets blocks of deadlocked stats.
    Calculates estates in a sea of distress.
    Stuck in logic to secure mere fact,
    his speech adds anchor to the ship he subtracts.

    I would rather eat hooks and electricity,
    chew a quarter mile of chrome,
    than live in this slum of prosperity,
    but wherever I am Mr. Everywhere goes.

    Goya could have painted this
    but not with a brush.
    Goya would have stretched our skull
    to the dull diode glow
    of a Sony canvas, then broadcast
    our monstrous success as Pavlovian
    reflex eating more resource
    to fill its abyss.

    —from Rattle #15, Summer 2001

    __________

    Douglas Blazek: “No matter how dramatic, facts require more than empathy to be relevant. Add them up and the sum is nothing the universe cannot rehash another way. Drop biography, and facts become more interesting. Poetry is the empathy that reveals the forces by plugging fact-flow into overview.”
    This modern poet writes verses I can feel, understand and acknowledge as having been born of great poetic talent.--Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Clinton Scollard
    Clinton Scollard [1860-1932] was a prolific American poet and sometime novelist. He was an excellent poet technically.
    His verse often feature the natural world and depict small incidents that are honed to perfection. He has been compared with Robert Fros

    ***

    Three poems by -- Clinton Scollard



    An Exile


    I can remember the plaint of the wind on the moor,
    Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the day,
    And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour,
    And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.

    I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre,
    And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells,
    And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire,
    And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.

    And I long for it all though the roses around me are red,
    And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure,
    And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but tread
    The path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

    © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

    ********

    Dawn, The Harvester

    The purple sky has blanched to blue
    With freaks and streaks of rose and fawn,
    While on the rolling meads of sea
    Gleam the gold footsteps of the Dawn.

    What harvest, think you, will he find
    Whither he sets his feet to roam?
    Upon that boundless beryl plain
    Only the lilies of the foam!

    © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

    **********

    Khamsin


    Oh, the wind from the desert blew in! — Khamsin

    The wind from the desert blew in!
    It blew from the heart of the fiery south,
    From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth,
    And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth;
    The wind from the desert blew in!

    It blasted the buds on the almond bough,
    And shriveled the fruit on the orange tree;
    The wizened dervish breathed no vow
    So weary and parched was he.
    The lean muezzin could not cry;
    The dogs ran mad, and bayed at the sky;
    The hot sun shone like a copper disk,
    And prone in the shade of an obelisk
    The water-carrier sank with a sigh,
    For limp and dry was his water-skin;
    And the wind from the desert blew in.

    The camel crouched by the crumbling wall,
    And, oh, the pitiful moan it made!
    The minarets, taper and slim and tall,
    Reeled and swam in the brazen light;
    And prayers went up by day and night,
    But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed.
    The river writhed in its slimy bed,
    Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread;
    The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind;
    And still the wind, the ruthless wind, Khamsin,
    The wind from the desert, blew in!

    Into the cool of the mosque it crept,
    Where the poor sought rest at the prophet's shrine;
    Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine;
    It fevered the brow of the maid who slept,
    And men grew haggard with revel of wine.

    The tiny fledgling died in the nest;
    The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast.
    Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread
    From a tremulous whisper faint and vague,
    Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread.
    The plague! the plague! the plague!
    Oh, the wind, Khamsin,
    The scourge of the desert, blew in!

    © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Lola Ridge
    From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
    Lola Ridge
    Lola Ridge.jpg
    Born Rose Emily Ridge
    12 December 1873
    Dublin
    Died 19 May 1941 (aged 67)
    Nationality American
    Ethnicity Irish
    Genre Poetry
    Literary movement Greenwich Village
    Notable awards Guggenheim Fellowship,
    Shelley Memorial Award

    Lola Ridge, born Rose Emily Ridge (12 December 1873 Dublin – 19 May 1941 Brooklyn) was an Irish-American anarchist poet and an influential editor of avant-garde, feminist, and Marxist publications. She is best remembered for her long poems and poetic sequences, published in numerous magazines and collected in five books of poetry.[1] Along with other political poets of the early Modernist period, Ridge has received renewed critical attention since the beginning of the 21st century and is praised for making poetry directly from harsh urban life.[2] A new selection of her poetry was published in 2007 and a biography in 2016.[3]

    Contents

    1 Early life and marriages
    2 Literary career
    3 Political activities
    4 Quotation
    5 Works
    6 Legacy and honours
    7 21st-century Appreciation
    8 References
    9 Further reading
    10 External links

    Early life and marriages

    She was born Rose Emily Ridge in 1873 in Dublin, Ireland to Joseph Henry and Emma (Reilly) Ridge and was their only surviving child. When Rose was 13, her mother emigrated with her to New Zealand, where Emma later married a Scottish miner. Rose Ridge became politically active there. In 1895, while living in New Zealand, Rose Ridge married the manager of a gold mine. After they divorced, she moved to Sydney, attending Trinity College and also studying painting at Académie Julienne with Rossi Ashton.[4]

    Ridge emigrated to the United States after her mother died, settling first in San Francisco in 1907. There she identified as Lola Ridge, a poet and painter. She had her first poem published in the US in 1908 in Overland Monthly.

    She later moved to New York, settling in Greenwich Village. After supporting herself writing ad copy, she left that to focus on her poetry. Working as a model and in a factory, she became involved in working class politics and protests.[4] Peter Quartermain described her in the Dictionary of Literary Biography described her as "the nearest prototype in her time of the proletarian poet of class conflict, voicing social protest or revolutionary idealism."[4]

    Lola Ridge's first book of poetry was published in 1918. On 22 October 1919, she married David Lawson, a fellow radical.[4]
    Literary career

    After living for some time in New York, Ridge gained considerable notice with her long poem, The Ghetto, first published in 1918 in The New Republic. It was included in her first book, The Ghetto and Other Poems, published that year. The title poem portrays the Jewish immigrant community of Hester Street in the Lower East Side of New York. It explores the effects of capitalism, gender and generational conflict in ways that bear comparison to the works of Charles Reznikoff. But she also expressed the individuality of numerous immigrants, to show they were as various as other Americans and shared many human qualities.[1] The book was a critical success.

    This recognition led to opportunities for Ridge; she became involved with and edited new avant-garde magazines such as Others in 1919, and Broom, founded in 1921 by Harold Loeb, for which she was the American editor from 1922–1923, while he published in Rome. While working with Loeb, she had an apartment next to the basement office of Broom in the townhouse of his estranged wife Marjorie Content.[4]

    Ridge published 61 poems from 1908 to 1937 in such leading magazines as Poetry, New Republic, and The Saturday Review of Literature.[1] She was a contributing editor to The New Masses.[4]

    She wrote and published four more books of poetry through 1935, and single poems into 1937. Her work was also collected in anthologies. Her third book, Red Flag (1927) collected much of her political poetry.[1]

    In 1929, Ridge was accepted for a residency at the writers colony of Yaddo. That year she published Firehead, a long poem that was a radical retelling of Jesus' crucifixion. It and her last book, published in 1935 were more philosophical compared to her earlier work.[1]

    She was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1935. She received the Shelley Memorial Award by the Poetry Society of America for the years 1934 and 1935. Publishing until 1937, she died in 1941 of pulmonary tuberculosis.[4]
    Political activities

    Ridge did not join any political party, but was active in radical causes. She protested against the executions of Sacco and Vanzetti in 1927, and was among those arrested that day. In the 1930s, she supported the defence of Tom Mooney and Warren Billings, who had been framed for a 1916 bombing at the Preparedness Day Parade in San Francisco.
    Quotation

    My doll Janie has no waist
    and her body is like a tub with feet on it.
    Sometimes I beat her
    but I always kiss her afterwards.
    When I have kissed all the paint off her body
    I shall tie a ribbon about it
    so she shan't look shabby.
    But it must be blue –
    it mustn't be pink –
    pink shows the dirt on her face
    that won't wash off.

    I beat Janie
    and beat her...
    but still she smiled...
    so I scratched her between the eyes with a pin.
    Now she doesn't love me any more...
    she scowls... and scowls...
    though I've begged her to forgive me
    and poured sugar in the hole at the back of her head.

    -- from Sun-Up and Other Poems

    Works

    The Ghetto, and Other Poems, Huebsch, 1918.
    Sun-Up, and Other Poems, Huebsch, 1920
    Red Flag, Viking, 1927.
    Firehead, Payson & Clarke, 1929.
    Dance of Fire, Smith & Haas, 1935.
    Daniel Tobin, ed. (2007). Light in Hand: Selected Early Poems. Quale Press. ISBN 978-0-9792999-1-9.

    Legacy and honours

    1934 and 1935, Ridge won the Shelley Memorial Award, given by the Poetry Society of America
    Her papers are held at Smith College.[5]

    21st-century Appreciation

    With renewed scholarly interest in her work since the late 20th century, a selection of her first three books of poetry was published posthumously as Light in Hand: Selected Early Poems (2007), edited and with an introduction by Daniel Tobin. He notes that she is "part of the confluence of politics, culture and the burgeoning of women's voices at the advent of modernism to the start of World War II."[6]

    Robert Pinsky, former Poet Laureate of the United States, wrote that contemporary readers needed "to appreciate the magnitude and freshness of her enterprise: to make poetry out of the actual city."[2] He likens her to 18th-century British poet William Blake in her ability to express the perspective of children, evoking "innocence and experience in a way that blurs the ambiguous boundary between them."[2] Pinsky also notes that Ridge preceded American Hart Crane, known for his long poem The Bridge about the Brooklyn Bridge, in her assigning "ecstatic, high language of the past, especially of the Elizabethans, to the squalid and the sublime realities of the actual, 20th-century American city."[2]
    ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    The Dream
    - Poem by Lola Ridge

    I have a dream
    to fill the golden sheath
    of a remembered day....
    (Air
    heavy and massed and blue
    as the vapor of opium...
    domes
    fired in sulphurous mist...
    sea
    quiescent as a gray seal...
    and the emerging sun
    spurting up gold
    over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay....)
    But the day is an up-turned cup
    and its sun a junk of red iron
    guttering in sluggish-green water--
    where shall I pour my dream?
    Lola Ridge

    ---------------------------------------
    ---------------------------------------


    Dispossessed
    - Poem by Lola Ridge

    Tender and tremulous green of leaves
    Turned up by the wind,
    Twanging among the vines -
    Wind in the grass
    Blowing a clear path
    For the new-stripped soul to pass…

    The naked soul in the sunlight…
    Like a wisp of smoke in the sunlight
    On the hill-side shimmering.

    Dance light on the wind, little soul,
    Like a thistle-down floating
    Over the butterflies
    And the lumbering bees…

    Come away from that tree
    And its shadow grey as a stone…

    Bathe in the pools of light
    On the hillside shimmering -
    Shining and wetted and warm in the sun-spray falling like golden rain -

    But do not linger and look
    At that bleak thing under the tree.
    Lola Ridge
    ----------------------------------
    ----------------------------------

    A Memory
    - Poem by Lola Ridge

    I remember
    The crackle of the palm trees
    Over the mooned white roofs of the town…
    The shining town…
    And the tender fumbling of the surf
    On the sulphur-yellow beaches
    As we sat… a little apart… in the close-pressing night.

    The moon hung above us like a golden mango,
    And the moist air clung to our faces,
    Warm and fragrant as the open mouth of a child
    And we watched the out-flung sea
    Rolling to the purple edge of the world,
    Yet ever back upon itself…
    As we…

    Inadequate night…
    And mooned white memory
    Of a tropic sea…
    How softly it comes up
    Like an ungathered lily.

    ********************

    A PARTIAL LIST OF LOLA RIDGE POEMS

    1. In Harness 2/8/2012
    2. Jaguar 2/8/2012
    3. The Everlasting Return 4/21/2010
    4. The Fiddler 4/21/2010
    5. Reveille 2/8/2012
    6. Potpourri 2/8/2012
    7. Thaw 2/8/2012
    8. To Larkin 2/8/2012
    9. The Legion Of Iron 4/21/2010
    10. The Song 4/21/2010
    11. The Alley 2/8/2012
    12. Wild Duck 2/8/2012
    13. Windows 2/8/2012
    14. Wall Street At Night 2/8/2012
    15. The Fire 4/21/2010
    16. The Fog 4/21/2010
    17. The Foundling 4/21/2010
    18. The Spilling Of The Wine 4/21/2010
    19. The White Bird 4/21/2010
    20. Submerged 4/21/2010
    21. Under-Song 4/21/2010
    22. The Song Of Iron 4/21/2010
    23. To Alexander Berkman 2/8/2012
    24. Wind Rising In The Alleys 2/8/2012
    25. Train Window 2/8/2012
    26. The Tidings 4/21/2010
    27. Sun-Up 2/8/2012
    28. The Destroyer 4/21/2010
    29. The Woman With Jewels 4/21/2010
    30. The Garden 4/21/2010
    31. Jude 2/8/2012
    32. To The American People 2/8/2012
    33. To The Others 4/21/2010
    34. The Edge 4/21/2010
    35. Skyscrapers 2/8/2012
    36. Sons Of Belial 2/8/2012
    37. Iron Wine 4/21/2010
    38. Portraits 2/8/2012
    39. Interim 2/8/2012
    40. Secrets
    THIS IMMENSELY TALENTED POETESS WAS NEW TO ME UNTIL A FEW DAYS AGO WHEN A POET FRIEND SUGGESTED THAT I CHECK OUT HER WORK.
    His appraisal of her work was spot on..
    She wrote a lot and all of it was top level poetry IMHO.-TYR
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Invictus
    ---------- by William Ernest Henley


    Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeonings of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years
    Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll.
    I am the master of my fate:
    I am the captain of my soul.

    William Ernest Henley

    ---------------------------
    ---------------------------

    Biography

    William Ernest Henley
    Poet Details
    1849–1903

    Born in Gloucester, England, poet, editor, and critic William Ernest Henley was educated at Crypt Grammar School, where he studied with the poet T.E. Brown, and the University of St. Andrews. His father was a struggling bookseller who died when Henley was a teenager. At age 12 Henley was diagnosed with tubercular arthritis that necessitated the amputation of one of his legs just below the knee; the other foot was saved only through a radical surgery performed by Joseph Lister. As he healed in the infirmary, Henley began to write poems, including “Invictus,” which concludes with the oft-referenced lines “I am the master of my fate; / I am the captain of my soul.” Henley’s poems often engage themes of inner strength and perseverance. His numerous collections of poetry include A Book of Verses (1888), London Voluntaries (1893), and Hawthorn and Lavender (1899).

    Henley edited the Scots Observer (which later became the National Observer), through which he befriended writer Rudyard Kipling, and the Magazine of Art, in which he lauded the work of emerging artists James McNeill Whistler and Auguste Rodin. Henley was a close friend of Robert Louis Stevenson, who reportedly based his Long John Silver character in Treasure Island in part on Henley.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Not exactly a poem, but this one's for tyr .... Old Man by Neil Young.
    “When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.” Edumnd Burke

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    Quote Originally Posted by Gunny View Post
    Not exactly a poem, but this one's for tyr .... Old Man by Neil Young.
    THANKS AMIGO...
    I know that song like I know the back of my hand my friend. Neil Young is one of my favorite singers.
    That song with me comes in second after his, 1. Heart of Gold song,
    WITH HIS SONG, 3. The Needle And The Damage Done ,coming in as third..

    And true, he is without any doubt a true and great poet..
    Songs the way he writes them are actually, lyrical poetry!--Tyr


    NEIL YOUNG LYRICS

    "Old Man"

    Old man look at my life,
    I'm a lot like you were.
    Old man look at my life,
    I'm a lot like you were.

    Old man look at my life,
    Twenty four
    and there's so much more
    Live alone in a paradise
    That makes me think of two.

    Love lost, such a cost,
    Give me things
    that don't get lost.
    Like a coin that won't get tossed
    Rolling home to you.

    Old man take a look at my life
    I'm a lot like you
    I need someone to love me
    the whole day through
    Ah, one look in my eyes
    and you can tell that's true.

    Lullabies, look in your eyes,
    Run around the same old town.
    Doesn't mean that much to me
    To mean that much to you.

    I've been first and last
    Look at how the time goes past.
    But I'm all alone at last.
    Rolling home to you.

    Old man take a look at my life
    I'm a lot like you
    I need someone to love me
    the whole day through
    Ah, one look in my eyes
    and you can tell that's true.

    Old man look at my life,
    I'm a lot like you were.
    Old man look at my life,
    I'm a lot like you were.

    --------------------------------------
    --------------------------------------


    "Harvest" Album Lyrics


    Neil Young
    Tracklist
    01 Out On The Weekend lyrics
    02 Harvest lyrics
    03 A Man Needs A Maid lyrics
    04
    4.9/5
    Heart Of Gold lyrics
    05 Are You Ready For The Country lyrics
    06
    4,915 4.9/5
    Old Man lyrics
    07 There's A World lyrics
    08 Alabama lyrics
    09
    4.7/5
    The Needle And The Damage Done lyrics
    10 Words lyrics
    This album was submitted on September 13th, 2005 and last modified on February 9th, 2013.
    Album Details
    Released : 1972-00-00
    Discs : 1
    Genre : Rock, Ethnic/Folk, Christian, Classical
    Record label :
    Rank : 785 (−673)
    Rate :
    4.3/5 from 7 users
    Charts : − view all »
    Referring urls : view all »

    --------------------------------------

    NEIL YOUNG LYRICS
    "Heart Of Gold"

    I want to live,
    I want to give
    I've been a miner for a heart of gold.
    It's these expressions
    I never give
    That keep me searching for a heart of gold.

    And I'm getting old.
    Keep me searching for a heart of gold
    And I'm getting old.

    I've been to Hollywood
    I've been to Redwood
    I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold.
    I've been in my mind,
    It's such a fine line
    That keeps me searching for a heart of gold.

    And I'm getting old.
    Keeps me searching for a heart of gold
    And I'm getting old.

    Keep me searching for a heart of gold.
    You keep me searching and I'm growing old.
    Keep me searching for a heart of gold
    I've been a miner for a heart of gold.

    ------------------------------------

    NEIL YOUNG LYRICS
    "Needle And The Damage Done"

    I caught you knockin'
    at my cellar door
    I love you, baby,
    can I have some more
    Ooh, ooh, the damage done.

    I hit the city and
    I lost my band
    I watched the needle
    take another man
    Gone, gone, the damage done.

    I sing the song
    because I love the man
    I know that some
    of you don't understand
    Milk-blood
    to keep from running out.

    I've seen the needle
    and the damage done
    A little part of it in everyone
    But every junkie's
    like a settin' sun.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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