A poem a day

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Below is new poem by my great friend Winged Warrior-
A 360 Reversible.... And a very , very good one I might add.
I am humbly honored that in addition to giving tribute to Master Poe, he also gave creds to both my dear friend Victor and myself, along with our dark poetry......--Tyr


By Winged Warrior

Ravens and Castles


Listen to poem:
...inspired by and in dedication to ~ Victor Buhagiar, Robert Lindley (my mentors) and the rest of the PoetrySoup Family...thank you for your kindness and support...

A Tribute To Edgar Allan Poe... by ^WW^ Winged Warrior
July.30.2019


A Winged Warrior 360 Reversible...


-Ravens and Castles-

Morbid castles cobwebbed upon haunting hills,
Horrid crawling cadavers of blood bring spills…
Ravens cawing carousingly amidst nocturnal nights,
Cravens surrounding lunatics of fanatical frights…

Wizards and wands wandering of sunken dungeons,
Lizards lashing longing of fecal flies flying luncheons…
Spiders savoring creatures cocooning of appetites,
Writers writing of winding roads amongst candlelights…

Ghostly apparitions attending of masters chambered,
Mostly hauntings of dead relatives dismembered…
Thunder & lightening resonating through humid halls,
Under feeling of spells and incantations bouncing walls…

Pivoting pendulums balancing upon lethal life and death,
Riveting raging rivers calming anticipating final breath…
Wearing witches and warlocks of demons delirious dancing,
Swearing sentinels before crimson maddening moon trancing.

Background music by...
Dark Magic Music-'Salems Secrets'
Peter Gundry Composer




Backward read...


-Castles and Ravens-

Hills haunting upon cobwebbed castles morbid,
Spills bring blood of cadavers crawling horrid…
Nights nocturnal amidst carousingly cawing ravens,
Frights fanatical of lunatics surrounding cravens…

Dungeons sunken of wandering wands and Wizards,
Luncheons flying flies fecal of longing lashing lizards…
Appetites of cocooning creatures savoring spiders,
Candlelights amongst roads winding of writing writers…

Chambered masters of attending apparitions ghostly,
Dismembered relative’s dead of hauntings mostly…
Halls humid through resonating lightening & thunder,
Walls bouncing incantations and spells of feeling under…

Death and life lethal upon balancing pendulums pivoting,
Breath final anticipating calming rivers raging riveting…
Dancing delirious demons of warlocks and witches wearing,
Trancing moon maddening crimson before sentinels swearing.


Background music by...
'The Sealed Kingdom'
Adrian Von Ziegler Composer


(((THANK YOU, DEAR FRIENDS)))...To all who commented and to help make these verses, poem of the day...Thank you for your kindness and support...ps more to come lol...Winged Warrior ^WW^ )


Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2019

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Waradgery Tribe
by Dame Mary Gilmore

Harried we were, and spent,
broken and falling,
ere as the cranes we went,
crying and calling.

Summer shall see the bird
backward returning;
never shall there be heard
those, who went yearning.

Emptied of us the land;
ghostly our going;
fallen like spears the hand
dropped in the throwing.

We are the lost who went,
like the cranes, crying;
hunted, lonely and spent
broken and dying.

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

The First Thrush
by Dame Mary Gilmore


Though leaves have fallen long since,
The wagtails flirt and flit,
Glad in the morning sun;
While, on the knotted quince,
The dewdrops, pearled on it,
Bead to a little run. . . .

Soft as a breathing air
There came a lovely sound
Out of the branches bare;
So rich it was, and round,
Sense stood, in listening bound,
Stilled to its sweetness there!
It was the thrush's note,

That seemed as though his heart
On some loved thing did dote;
As though he yearned apart,
Knowing some hidden smart,
Pain in the long sweet rote.

There, as the spider hung
Grey-breasted 'gainst the brown
Skin of the quince, he sung
A song that o'er the town,
Rose up as though to crown
The tree-tops whence it sprung.

And now, it seems to me,
That long full breath he drew,
Like perfume shed on air,
Still dwells within the tree,
Though long ago he flew,
And left it naked there.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Valley of Unrest

by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1845)


Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless --
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye --
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: -- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: -- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46789/in-exile

In Exile

BY EMMA LAZARUS

“Since that day till now our life is one unbroken paradise. We live a true brotherly life. Every evening after supper we take a seat under the mighty oak and sing our songs.”—Extract from a letter of a Russian refugee in Texas.


Twilight is here, soft breezes bow the grass,
Day's sounds of various toil break slowly off.
The yoke-freed oxen low, the patient ass
Dips his dry nostril in the cool, deep trough.
Up from the prairie the tanned herdsmen pass
With frothy pails, guiding with voices rough
Their udder-lightened kine. Fresh smells of earth,
The rich, black furrows of the glebe send forth.

After the Southern day of heavy toil,
How good to lie, with limbs relaxed, brows bare
To evening's fan, and watch the smoke-wreaths coil
Up from one's pipe-stem through the rayless air.
So deem these unused tillers of the soil,
Who stretched beneath the shadowing oak tree, stare
Peacefully on the star-unfolding skies,
And name their life unbroken paradise.

The hounded stag that has escaped the pack,
And pants at ease within a thick-leaved dell;
The unimprisoned bird that finds the track
Through sun-bathed space, to where his fellows dwell;
The martyr, granted respite from the rack,
The death-doomed victim pardoned from his cell,—
Such only know the joy these exiles gain,—
Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.

Strange faces theirs, wherethrough the Orient sun
Gleams from the eyes and glows athwart the skin.
Grave lines of studious thought and purpose run
From curl-crowned forehead to dark-bearded chin.
And over all the seal is stamped thereon
Of anguish branded by a world of sin,
In fire and blood through ages on their name,
Their seal of glory and the Gentiles' shame.

Freedom to love the law that Moses brought,
To sing the songs of David, and to think
The thoughts Gabirol to Spinoza taught,
Freedom to dig the common earth, to drink
The universal air—for this they sought
Refuge o'er wave and continent, to link
Egypt with Texas in their mystic chain,
And truth's perpetual lamp forbid to wane.

Hark! through the quiet evening air, their song
Floats forth with wild sweet rhythm and glad refrain.
They sing the conquest of the spirit strong,
The soul that wrests the victory from pain;
The noble joys of manhood that belong
To comrades and to brothers. In their strain
Rustle of palms and Eastern streams one hears,
And the broad prairie melts in mist of tears.


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

A truly talented and awe inspiring poet.....-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Invictus: The Unconquerable
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.



This oft anthologised, oft quoted, oft hated poem is
sometimes published with the first line as title and so it is listed here in that fashion.
It is also sometimes known as I. T. R M. Hamilton Bruce since, after Bruce's death, Henley had those words added to subsequent publications of this poem.
'Invicitus' is sweeping; passionate; larger than life in a way that few modern poems can get away with. It is also an oft quoted poem, lines of it having almost passed into the language. While these are invariably the ones that involve hurling defiance into the teeth of the storm, note that the poem itself hinges just as strongly on the 'storm' itself. It is the tension between the strongly contrastive elements that raises 'Invicitus' from a series of platitudes to a great poem.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Chetan Patil, Poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen !


The impossible Dream
---The Poem Of La Mancha

To dream the impossible dream..
To fight the unbeatable foe..
To bear the unbearable sorrow..
To run where the brave dare not to go..
To love the pure and chest from a far..
To right the unforgivable wrong..
To try when your arms are too weary..
To reach that unreachable star..

This is my quest.. to follow that star..
No matter how place.. no matter how far..
To fight for the right..
without questions.. without pause..

To be willing to march into hell..
For heavenly cause....

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

De Profundis
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


I

The face, which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.


II

The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with ' Good day'
Make each day good, is hushed away,
And yet my days go on, go on.


III

The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on, go on.


IV

And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here,
While the tears drop, my days go on.


V

The world goes whispering to its own,
‘This anguish pierces to the bone;’
And tender friends go sighing round,
‘What love can ever cure this wound ?'
My days go on, my days go on.


VI

The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night.
O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss,
And life that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.


VII

Breath freezes on my lips to moan:
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.


VIII

I knock and cry, —Undone, undone!
Is there no help, no comfort, —none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.


IX

This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June:
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such.
What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?

X

No bird am I, to sing in June,
And dare not ask an equal boon.

Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures, —
And yet my days go on, go on.


XI

I ask less kindness to be done, —
Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deadly touch to these tired feet.

Till days go out which now go on.


XII

Only to lift the turf unmown
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say ‘Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on.
’


XIII

What harm would that do? Green anon
The sward would quicken, overshone
By skies as blue; and crickets might
Have leave to chirp there day and night
While my new rest went on, went on.


XIV

From gracious Nature have I won
Such liberal bounty? may I run
So, lizard-like, within her side,
And there be safe, who now am tried
By days that painfully go on?

XV

—A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.


XVI

God's Voice, not Nature's! Night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creatures' praise.

What babble we of days and days?
The Day-spring He, whose days go on.


XVII

He reigns above, He reigns alone;
Systems burn out and have his throne;
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around Him, changeless amid all,
Ancient of Days, whose days go on.


XVIII

He reigns below, He reigns alone,
And, having life in love forgone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the Jealous God.
Who mourns
Or rules with Him, while days go on?

XIX

By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear Him charge his saints that none
Among his creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against Him with despair,
However darkly days go on.


XX

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!
No mortal grief deserves that crown.

O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee
Whose days eternally go on!

XXI

For us, —whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done,
Grief may be joy misunderstood;
Only the Good discerns the good.

I trust Thee while my days go on.


XXII

Whatever's lost, it first was won;
We will not struggle nor impugn.

Perhaps the cup was broken here,
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.

I praise Thee while my days go on.


XXIII

I praise Thee while my days go on;
I love Thee while my days go on:
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank Thee while my days go on.


XXIV

And having in thy life-depth thrown
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops his pebble small
Down some deep well, and hears it fall
Smiling—so I.
THY DAYS GO ON.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46787/the-south

The South
BY EMMA LAZARUS
Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skies
Behold the Spirit of the musky South,
A creole with still-burning, languid eyes,
Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth:
Swathed in spun gauze is she,
From fibres of her own anana tree.

Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease,
By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed:
’Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees,
Like to the golden oriole’s hanging nest,
Her airy hammock swings,
And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.

How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreath
Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair:
Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death,
Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air,
While noiselessly she lies
With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.

Full well knows she how wide and fair extend
Her groves bright flowered, her tangled everglades,
Majestic streams that indolently wend
Through lush savanna or dense forest shades,
Where the brown buzzard flies
To broad bayous ’neath hazy-golden skies.

Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp,
With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom,
Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp,
Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom—
Where from stale waters dead
Oft looms the great jawed alligator’s head.

Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,—
Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods,
Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees;
And ever midst those verdant solitudes
The soldier’s wooden cross,
O’ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.

Was hers a dream of empire? was it sin?
And is it well that all was borne in vain?
She knows no more than one who slow doth win,
After fierce fever, conscious life again,
Too tired, too weak, too sad,
By the new light to be or stirred or glad.

From rich sea-islands fringing her green shore,
From broad plantations where swart freemen bend
Bronzed backs in willing labor, from her store
Of golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascend
Life-currents of pure health:
Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.

Yet now how listless and how still she lies,
Like some half-savage, dusky Indian queen,
Rocked in her hammock ’neath her native skies,
With the pathetic, passive, broken mien
Of one who, sorely proved,
Great-souled, hath suffered much and much hath loved!

But look! along the wide-branched, dewy glade
Glimmers the dawn: the light palmetto trees
And cypresses reissue from the shade,
And she hath wakened. Through clear air she sees
The pledge, the brightening ray,
And leaps from dreams to hail the coming day.

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

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

https://www.poetseers.org/poets/19th-century-poets/

Poets at Poetseers » 19th Century Poets
19th Century Poets
” I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die. “

– Percy Shelley From: “The Cloud” 1820

The early 19th Century saw the blossoming of the great Romantic poets such as Keats, Shelley and William Wordsworth. In America there was also a powerful movement of poets, loosely termed “Early American Poets” these included Emily Dickinson, Ralph Emerson and Walt Whitman. After the great Romantic poets the next generation of British Poets became associated with the Victorian age. To some extent they offered greater conformity of vision and were more likely to use Christian imagery but they were still influenced by powerful undercurrents of the Romantic movement. In fact the influence of Romanticism can be seen even in modern poets such as Gerard Manley Hopkins. Later poets of the twentieth century also acknowledged the influence of this creative period in poetry.

In India Swami Vivekananda epitomised the revitalisation of Hindu culture. After centuries of decline under Muslim and then British rule Vivekananda powerfully called his countrymen to invoke the ancient universal and eternal ideals of Sanatana Dharma.

British Poets in the 19th Century

Emily Bronte(1818 – 1848)
Elizabeth Browning (1806 – 1861)
Robert Browning(1812-1889)
John Clare (1793 – 1864)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1834)
John Keats (1795 -1821)
Rudyard Kipling
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 – 1889)
Christina Rossetti (1830 -1894)
Percy Shelley ( 1792 – 1822)
Lord Tennyson (1809 -1892)
William Wordsworth(1770 – 1850)
American Poets in the 19th Century

William Bryant (1794 – 1878 )
Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882)
Henry Wordsworth Longfellow (1807 -1882)
Henry David Thoreau (1817 – 1862)
Walt Whitman(1819 – 1892)
Robert Frost (1874-1963
Indian Poets in the 19th Century

Ramakrishna (1836 – 1886)
Swami Vivekananda (1863 – 1902)
Sarojini Naidu (1879 – 1949)
Michael Madhusuda Dutt (b. 1824)
Fikirchand
Sufi Poets in the 19th Century

Bibi Hayati (19th Century)
European Poets

St Teresa of Lisieux (1873-1896)
Romain Rolland (1866-1944)
W.B.Yeats (1865 – 1939)
Oscar Wilde (1855 – 1900)

~

19th Century Poets at Amazon.com

(18th Century Poets) View (20th Century Poets)

Related Categories
British Poets
Victorian Poets
The Romantic Poets
Early American Poets
The Great Poets
(Poetry Categories) (A-Z List of Poets) (Poetry at Amazon.com)

(Poetseers – Poem of the Day)

19th Century Poets at About

************************************************** **********
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1834)


Forbearance

(Beareth all things.—1 Cor. xiii. 7.)
Gently I took that which ungently came,
And without scorn forgave :–Do thou the same.
A wrong done to thee think a cat’s-eye spark
Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark.
Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin,
Fear that–the spark self-kindled from within,
Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare,
Or smother’d stifle thee with noisome air.
Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds,
And soon the ventilated spirit finds
Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenn’d,
Or worse than foe, an alienated friend,
A rib of dry rot in thy ship’s stout side,
Think it God’s message, and in humble pride
With heart of oak replace it ;–thine the gains–
Give him the rotten timber for his pains !
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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

To Nature

It may indeed be phantasy, when I
Essay to draw from all created things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ;
And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest piety.
So let it be ; and if the wide world rings
In mock of this belief, it brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
So will I build my altar in the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God ! and thou shalt not despise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice

By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

THE LOON
by Lew Sarett


A lonely lake, a lonely shore,
A lone pine leaning on the moon;
All night the water-beating wings
Of a solitary loon.

With mournful wail from dusk to dawn
He gibbered at the taunting stars, —
A hermit-soul gone raving mad,
And beating at his bars.

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

A Chippewa Love Song
by Lew Sarett

Ai-yee! my Yellow-Bird-Woman,
My ne-ne -- moosh, ai-yee! my Loved-One,
Be not afraid of my eyes!
Beat against me no longer;
Come! Come with a yielding of limbs.
Ai-yee! woman, woman,
Trembling there in the teepee
Like the doe in the season of rutting,
Why foolishly fearest thou me?
Beat against me no longer!
Be not afraid of my eyes!
Cast the strange doubts from thy bosom!
Be not as the flat-breasted squaw-sich
Who feels the first womanly yearnings
And hides, by the law of our people,
Alone three sleeps in the forest;
Be not as that brooding young maiden
Who wanders forlorn in the cedars,
And slumbers with troubled dreams,
To awaken suddenly, fearing
The hot throbbing blood in her bosom,
The strange eager life in her limbs.
Ai-yee! foolish one, woman,
Cast the strange fears from thy heart!
Wash the red shame from thy face!
Be not afraid of my glances!

Be as the young silver birch
In the Moon-of-the-Green-Growing-Grasses --
Who sings with the thrill of the sap
As it leaps to the south wind's caresses;
Who yields her rain-swollen buds
To the kiss of the sun with glad dancing.
Be as the cool tranquil moon
Who flings off her silver-blue blanket
To bare her white breast to the pine;
Who walks through the many-eyed night
In her gleaming white nudeness
With proud eyes that will not look down.
Be as the sun in her glory,
Who dances across the blue day,
And flings her red soul, fierce-burning,
Into the arms of the twilight.
Ai-yee! foolish one, woman,
Be as the sun and the moon!
Cast the strange doubts from thy bosom!
Wash the red shame from thy face!
Thou art a woman, a woman!
Beat against me no longer!
Be not afraid of my eyes!
*********************************************


THE POET OF THE WILDERNESS - Lew Sarett
I really enjoy working on this blog. I love doing the research - digging through old records looking for information or reading old newspaper and magazine articles trying to "flesh out" the subjects of my stories. But most I all I love working on this blog because it brings me in contact with people who I never would have encountered otherwise. This week's subject is a perfect example of that. His name is Lew Sarett (1888-1954) and he was called "the poet of the wilderness." It is highly doubtful that I would have ever encountered Lew Sarett in the normal course of my life but with this article of all that has changed. So let's sit back and relax and see what we can "dig up" about the man who wrote these lines:

Lew Sarett was born Lewis Zaratzsky on May 16, 1888 in Chicago. He was the only child of Rudolph Zaratzsky (1865-1925) and Jeanette, nee Bloch (1871-1948). His parents had immigrated to the US about 1880 - Rudolph from Poland and Jeanette from Lithuania. Rudolph was a clothing cutter by trade.

The family moved in 1895 to Marquette, Michigan, where young Lew Sarett first began to acquire his knowledge and love of the outdoors and of wild animals. Around 1900 Sarett and his mother returned to Chicago while his father continued to look for work. In 1902 the family was reunited and moved to Benton Harbor, Michigan, where Sarett graduated from Benton Harbor High School in 1907 as a champion orator, debater, athlete and scholar.

The 1910 US Census (April 28, 1910) finds "Lewis Seratsky" living in Chicago as a "Boarder" at 4347 West Congress Street. (That address is now a vacant lot.) He was living with Aron Jacobus and family. Lewis listed his occupation as "Cutter in the Tailoring Business," (same occupation as his father Rudolph). Surprisingly, Lewis told the census taker that he had been born in Russia, and that he came to the US in 1898.

Sarett started his higher education at the University of Michigan in Benton Harbor (1907-1908). In 1909 he was a sophomore transfer to Beloit College in Beloit, Wisconsin. During a colorful campus career there he was known as Lew R. Saretsky.


At Beloit he was a member of Delta Sigma Rho, honorary speech fraternity, and of the Turtle Mound, senior men's group. He was outstanding as a cheerleader in the days when sports were having a big revival of interest on the Beloit campus. As a cheerleader, he participated in Beloit's first homecoming ceremonies of 1910.

Lew Saretsky, Cheerleader

During these years, known as 'Swat,' Sarett participated in athletics and won honors in oratory. He won the Rice Prize for extemporaneous speaking at the 1910 commencement, and he won the Wisconsin State Oratorical Championship in two successive years. His prize-wining orations were “The Slavonic Offering to the American” in 1910 and “Poland's Offering to the American” in 1911. Around 1911, he formally changed his surname to Sarett.

After graduating from Beloit (Class of 1911), he attended Harvard Law School (1911-1912) and the University of Illinois Law School (LL.B. 1916).

In 1913 Lew Sarett accepted a position on the faculty of the University of Illinois in Champaign, Illinois. He was an Assistant Professor of Public Speaking for the 1913-1914 academic year and an Assistant Professor of English starting in 1914. During this period, Sarett lived at 504 E. Chalmers Street in Champaign. A parking lot occupies that space today.

For a time he lived among the Chippewa Indians of the Lake Superior region, was adopted by them and given the name "Lone Caribou." When Sarett was not teaching, he served as a part-time ranger in National Parks in Montana and Wyoming and as a wilderness guide in northern Minnesota and Canada.

On June 17, 1914 Lew R. Sarett married Margaret H. Minen (1893-1941) in St. Joseph, Michigan. Margaret H. Minen was born Margaret Helen Husted on June 17, 1893 in Marengo, Illinois to Harry Brooks Husted (1865-1931) and Helen Bryan, nee Osgood (1869-1910). Harry Husted was a bookkeeper by trade who went on to own a paint factory in Chicago.

Before she married Lew Sarett, Margaret had been married to George Edgar Mizen (1889-1942). They were married July 24, 1911 in Kane County, Illinois. The marriage ended in divorce.

Lew and Margaret Sarett were blessed with two children: Lewis Hastings Sarett (1917-1999), and Helen Osgood Sarett (1926-2007). Lewis H. Sarett became quite famous in his own right. He was the first chemist to synthesize cortisone. It was a feat of remarkable complexity involving nearly 40 chemical steps from desoxycholic acid and was achieved during World War II as a chemist in the Merck Research Laboratories. This synthesis and subsequent improvements of it ultimately led to cortisone’s use in treating rheumatoid arthritis and was the first of Sarett’s many contributions to medicine during a 40-year career at Merck. When he retired in 1982 he was senior vice-president for science and technology. He had been a key contributor to Merck’s growth, and in later years Sarett was an influential industry spokesman for U.S. science policy.

Sarett the elder has always dabbled with poetry, but he took it a step further in 1918 by starting to have some of his poems published. "Beat Against Me No Longer" was published in Others - a Magazine of the New Verse, "The Last Portage" in Argosy of May 24, 1919, and "The Granite Mountain" in Reedy's Mirror. Here is "Beat Against Me No Longer":

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Swan
Poem by Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin

I'll leave the mortal world behind,
Take wing in an flight fantastical,
With singing, my eternal soul
Will rise up swan-like in the air.

Possessing two immortal traits,
In Purgatory I won't not linger,
But rising over jealousy
I'll leave behind me kingdoms' shine.

'Tis so! Though not renowned by birth,
I am the muses favorite,
From other notables a world apart-
I'll be preferred by death itself.

The tomb will not confine me,
I will not turn to dust among the stars,
But like a heavenly set of pipes,
My voice will ring out from the sky.

And now I see that feathered skin
My figure covers all around.
My breast is downy and my back is winged,
I shine with pearly swan-like white.

I fly, I soar-and see below
The world entire-- oceans, woods.
Like mountains they lift up their heads
To hear my lofty hymn to God.

From Kuril Islands to the river Bug,
From White Sea to the Caspian,
Peoples from half the world
Of whom the Russian race's comprised,

Will hear of me in time:
Slavs, Huns, the Scythians, and Finns,
And others locked today in battle,
Will point at me and they'll pronounce:

"There flies the one who tuned his lyre
To speak the language of the heart,
And preaching peace to the whole world,
Enjoyed the happiness of all."

Forget a big and stately funeral,
My friends! Cease singing, muses' choir!
My wife! With patience gird yourself!
Don't keen upon what seems a corpse.
by Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

My Heart And I
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
In this poem, Elizabeth Barrett Browning refers to her friend and Italian statesman promoting unification, Count Cavour, who had recently died. She and her husband, poet Robert Browning, had just spent fifteen happy and relatively healthy years in Italy with friends. Elizabeth was no stranger to facing death, given her prolonged sickness throughout her life. Browning's expressive verses of compassion and loss have been praised as a fresh, strange music. In 1861, shortly after her death, Robert Browning published it, along with a collection of her later works, with this dedication: "I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett."


My Heart And I
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I.
Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

II.
You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,
As if such colours could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune's end,
We loved too true to keep a friend;
At last we're tired, my heart and I.

III.
How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet:
What do we here, my heart and I?

IV.
So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said;
I, smiling at him, shook my head:
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

V.
So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

VI.
Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

VII.
Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:
Disdain them, break them, throw them by
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used, well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

[Russ]

Clever idea

Below is new poem by my great friend Winged Warrior-
A 360 Reversible.... And a very , very good one I might add.
I am humbly honored that in addition to giving tribute to Master Poe, he also gave creds to both my dear friend Victor and myself, along with our dark poetry......--Tyr


By Winged Warrior

Ravens and Castles


Listen to poem:
...inspired by and in dedication to ~ Victor Buhagiar, Robert Lindley (my mentors) and the rest of the PoetrySoup Family...thank you for your kindness and support...

A Tribute To Edgar Allan Poe... by ^WW^ Winged Warrior
July.30.2019


A Winged Warrior 360 Reversible...


-Ravens and Castles-

Morbid castles cobwebbed upon haunting hills,
Horrid crawling cadavers of blood bring spills…
Ravens cawing carousingly amidst nocturnal nights,
Cravens surrounding lunatics of fanatical frights…

Wizards and wands wandering of sunken dungeons,
Lizards lashing longing of fecal flies flying luncheons…
Spiders savoring creatures cocooning of appetites,
Writers writing of winding roads amongst candlelights…

Ghostly apparitions attending of masters chambered,
Mostly hauntings of dead relatives dismembered…
Thunder & lightening resonating through humid halls,
Under feeling of spells and incantations bouncing walls…

Pivoting pendulums balancing upon lethal life and death,
Riveting raging rivers calming anticipating final breath…
Wearing witches and warlocks of demons delirious dancing,
Swearing sentinels before crimson maddening moon trancing.

Background music by...
Dark Magic Music-'Salems Secrets'
Peter Gundry Composer




Backward read...


-Castles and Ravens-

Hills haunting upon cobwebbed castles morbid,
Spills bring blood of cadavers crawling horrid…
Nights nocturnal amidst carousingly cawing ravens,
Frights fanatical of lunatics surrounding cravens…

Dungeons sunken of wandering wands and Wizards,
Luncheons flying flies fecal of longing lashing lizards…
Appetites of cocooning creatures savoring spiders,
Candlelights amongst roads winding of writing writers…

Chambered masters of attending apparitions ghostly,
Dismembered relative’s dead of hauntings mostly…
Halls humid through resonating lightening & thunder,
Walls bouncing incantations and spells of feeling under…

Death and life lethal upon balancing pendulums pivoting,
Breath final anticipating calming rivers raging riveting…
Dancing delirious demons of warlocks and witches wearing,
Trancing moon maddening crimson before sentinels swearing.


Background music by...
'The Sealed Kingdom'
Adrian Von Ziegler Composer


(((THANK YOU, DEAR FRIENDS)))...To all who commented and to help make these verses, poem of the day...Thank you for your kindness and support...ps more to come lol...Winged Warrior ^WW^ )


Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2019

Sad to have to report that our great friend Winged Warrior died many months ago....
Another very talented poet, kind and truly honorable person Heaven bound...--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Beginning of Wisdom
------ by Raymond A. Foss
In the beginning, we were afraid
we knew our nakedness
biting into the flesh of the fruit
of the forbidden tree

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom
the psalmist wrote, oh so long ago
We forget so often
forget He is a jealous God
forget our weakness without him
walk in our own paths
for a separate false idol
graven images and temporal pleasures
Opportunities of epiphany lost
in our self-reliance

Cleave to the Lord
follow his commands
love one another
share in the Good News
Hear His still voice
burning within you now


July 1, 2006 7:50am
Psalm 111:10