Poem of the Day

I’m posting this one because it was suggested by Heather and I love my roommate!

The Tyger
By William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire!

And what shoulder, and what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet!

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

This was sent to me by one of my aunt’s brothers. Yay for sharing poetry!

Hope
By Lisel Mueller

It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,
it shakes sleep from its eyes
and drops from mushroom gills,
it explodes in the starry heads
of dandelions turned sages,
it sticks to the wings of green angels
that sail from the tops of maples.
It sprouts in each occluded eye
of the many-eyed potato,
it lives in each earthworm segment
surviving cruelty,
it is the motion that runs the tail of a dog,
it is the mouth that inflates the lungs
of the child that has just been born.
It is the singular gift
we cannot destroy in ourselves,
the argument that refutes death,
the genius that invents the future,
all we know of God.
It is the serum which makes us swear
not to betray one another;
it is in this poem, trying to speak.

I had a great time over Thanksgiving, but I was sad to leave yesterday.

Parting
By Charlotte Brontë

There’s no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There’s such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one’s heart:

There’s such a thing as dwelling
On the thought ourselves have nursed,
And with scorn and courage telling
The world to do its worst.

We’ll not let its follies grieve us,
We’ll just take them as they come;
And then every day will leave us
A merry laugh for home.

When we’ve left each friend and brother,
When we’re parted wide and far,
We will think of one another,
As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us,
Every pleasant sight beneath,
We’ll connect with those that love us,
Whom we truly love till death!

In the evening, when we’re sitting
By the fire, perchance alone,
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,
Give responsive tone for tone.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,
Which cold human hands have wrought,
And where none shall dare restrain us
We can meet again, in thought.

So there’s no use in weeping,
Bear a cheerful spirit still;
Never doubt that Fate is keeping
Future good for present ill!

I’m back from West Texas and I had a fabulous time. Now I must go to bed, though, so I will post a chronicle of my adventures tomorrow, hopefully. On the way home tonight when dusk fell, I saw the harvest moon rising. It qualifies as one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen in my life.

An Hymn to the Evening
By Phillis Wheatley

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

Happy Thanksgiving! (A lot of people think this poem is about Christmas, but it’s not!) I will be beyond the reaches of modern technological marvels until sometime Saturday or Sunday, so no more poems until then. Have a wonderful holiday!

The New-England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day
By Lydia Maria Child

Over the river, and through the wood,
   To grandfather’s house we go;
      The horse knows the way,
      To carry the sleigh,
   Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
   To grandfather’s house away!
      We would not stop
      For doll or top,
   For ‘t is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood,
   Oh, how the wind does blow!
      It stings the toes,
      And bites the nose,
   As over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood,
   With a clear blue winter sky,
      The dogs do bark,
      And children hark,
   As we go jingling by.

Over the river, and through the wood,
   To have a first-rate play–
      Hear the bells ring
      Ting a ling ding,
   Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood–
   No matter for winds that blow;
      Or if we get
      The sleigh upset,
   Into a bank of snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
   To see little John and Ann;
      We will kiss them all,
      And play snow-ball,
   And stay as long as we can.

Over the river, and through the wood,
   Trot fast, my dapple grey!
      Spring over the ground,
      Like a hunting hound,
   For ‘t is Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood,
   And straight through the barn-yard gate;
      We seem to go
      Extremely slow,
   It is so hard to wait.

Over the river, and through the wood–
   Old Jowler hears our bells;
      He shakes his pow,
      With a loud bow wow,
   And thus the news he tells.

Over the river, and through the wood–
   When grandmother sees us come,
      She will say, Oh dear,
      The children are here,
   Bring a pie for every one.

Over the river, and through the wood–
   Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
      Hurra for the fun!
      Is the pudding done?
   Hurra for the pumpkin pie!

I thought after yesterday’s sadness, I should post a comforting poem, especially since I’m excited about Thanksgiving. I really love this one.

The Great Man
By Eunice Tietjens

I cannot always feel his greatness.
Sometimes he walks beside me, step by step,
And paces slowly in the ways—
The simple, wingless ways
That my thoughts tread. He gossips with me then,
And finds it good;
Not as an eagle might, his great wings folded, be content
To walk a little, knowing it his choice,
But as a simple man,
My friend.
And I forget.

Then suddenly a call floats down
From the clear airy spaces,
The great keen, lonely heights of being.
And he who was my comrade hears the call
And rises from my side, and soars,
Deep-chanting, to the heights.
Then I remember.
And my upward gaze goes with him, and I see
Far off against the sky
The glint of golden sunlight on his wings.

Powerful… sad…

Sorrow
By Kate Nichols Trask

O thorn-crowned Sorrow, pitiless and stern,
I sit alone with broken heart, my head
Low bowed, keeping long vigil with my dead.
My soul, unutterably sad, doth yearn
Beyond relief in tears—they only burn
My aching eyelids to fall back unshed
Upon the throbbing brain like molten lead,
Making it frenzied. Shall I ever learn
To face you fearlessly, as by my door
You stand with haunting eyes and death-damp hair,
Through the night-watches, whispering solemnly,
“Behold, I am thy guest forevermore.”
It chills my soul to know that you are there.
Great God, have mercy on my misery!

Emily Brontë’s poetry is just incredible!

A Death-Scene
By Emily Brontë

“O day! he cannot die
When thou so fair art shining!
O Sun, in such a glorious sky,
So tranquilly declining;

He cannot leave thee now,
While fresh west winds are blowing,
And all around his youthful brow
Thy cheerful light is glowing!

Edward, awake, awake—
The golden evening gleams
Warm and bright on Arden’s lake—
Arouse thee from thy dreams!

Beside thee, on my knee,
My dearest friend, I pray
That thou, to cross the eternal sea,
Wouldst yet one hour delay:

I hear its billows roar—
I see them foaming high;
But no glimpse of a further shore
Has blest my straining eye.

Believe not what they urge
Of Eden isles beyond;
Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,
To thy own native land.

It is not death, but pain
That struggles in thy breast—
Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;
I cannot let thee rest!”

One long look, that sore reproved me
For the woe I could not bear—
One mute look of suffering moved me
To repent my useless prayer:

And, with sudden check, the heaving
Of distraction passed away;
Not a sign of further grieving
Stirred my soul that awful day.

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;
Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:
Summer dews fell softly, wetting
Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Then his eyes began to weary,
Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;
And their orbs grew strangely dreary,
Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not, but they changed not,
Never moved, and never closed;
Troubled still, and still they ranged not—
Wandered not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dying—
Stooped, and raised his languid head;
Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,
So I knew that he was dead.

Most people know Rudyard Kipling for The Jungle Book and his poem If, but I think this is also a great poem.

Recessional
By Rudyard Kipling

God of our fathers, known of old,
   Lord of our far-flung battle line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
   Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
   The Captains and the Kings depart;
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
   An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away;
   On dune and headland sinks the fire;
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
   Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
   Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
   Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
   In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
   And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Too tired to be awake at 7am on a Saturday… but I must go babysit the students who couldn’t manage to do all their labs at the regularly scheduled times. Blah.

The Drowned Mariner
By Elizabeth Oakes Smith

A mariner sat on the shrouds one night;
   The wind was piping free;
Now bright, now dimmed was the moon-light pale,
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale,
   As he floundered in the sea;
The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave as it towered, then fell in spray,
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast,
   But the tumult pleased him well;
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watched as they hurried past
   Or lightly rose and fell;
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lashed as they passed the vessel’s side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
   Like an uncurbed steed along;
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water ploughs,
   But the ship is fleet and strong:
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled,
And onward she sweeps o’er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there came no chill to the mariner’s blood.

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
   And holds him by the shroud;
And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
   And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him,
With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

The mariner looked, and he saw with dread
   A face he knew too well;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread.
   Was there a tale to tell?
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groaned, as well he need;
For, ever, down as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide.

Bethink thee, mariner, well, of the past,—
   A voice calls loud for thee:—
There ’s a stifled prayer, the first, the last;—
The plunging ship on her beam is cast,—
   Oh, where shall thy burial be?
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken,
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken,
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee,
For thou art alone on the raging sea:

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave,
   To buffet the storm alone,
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle and feel there is none to save,—
   God shield thee, helpless one!
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past,
The trembling hands on the deep are cast,
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o’er.

Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep,
   Where the sea its dirge shall swell,
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep,
   There thou shalt slumber well.
The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side,
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man’s hand, from the maiden’s brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.

A peopled home is the ocean bed;
   The mother and child are there;
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
   The babe with its silken hair;
As the water moveth they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play;
And there is each cherished and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.

Ah, bitterness…

Giving Back the Flower
By Sarah Morgan Piatt

So, because you chose to follow me into the subtle sadness of night,
   And to stand in the half-set moon with the weird fall-light on your glimmering hair,
Till your presence hid all of the earth and all of the sky from my sight,
   And to give me a little scarlet bud, that was dying of frost, to wear,

Say, must you taunt me forever, forever? You looked at my hand and you knew
   That I was the slave of the Ring, while you were as free as the wind is free.
When I saw your corpse in your coffin, I flung back your flower to you,
   It was all of yours that I ever had; you must keep it, and—keep from me.

Ah? so God is your witness. Has God, then, no world to look after but ours?
   May He not have been searching for that wild star, with the trailing plumage, that flew
Far over a part of our darkness while we were there by the freezing flowers,
   Or else brightening some planet’s luminous rings, instead of thinking of you?

Or, if He was near us at all, do you think that He would sit listening there
   Because you sang “Hear me, Norma,” to a woman in jewels and lace,
While, so close to us, down in another street, in the wet, unlighted air,
   There were children crying for bread and fire, and mothers who questioned His grace?

Or perhaps He had gone to the ghastly field where the fight had been that day,
   To number the bloody stabs that were there, to look at and judge the dead;
Or else to the place full of fever and moans where the wretched wounded lay;
   At least I do not believe that He cares to remember a word that you said.

So take back your flower, I tell you—of its sweetness I now have no need;
   Yes, take back your flower down into the stillness and mystery to keep;
When you wake I will take it, and God, then, perhaps will witness indeed,
   But go, now, and tell Death he must watch you, and not let you walk in your sleep.

Nice and depressing…

A Song Before Grief
By Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Sorrow, my friend,
When shall you come again?
The wind is slow, and the bent willows send
Their silvery motions wearily down the plain.
The bird is dead
That sang this morning through the summer rain!

Sorrow, my friend,
I owe my soul to you.
And if my life with any glory end
Of tenderness for others, and the words are true,
Said, honoring, when I’m dead,—
Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral wreath, are due.

And yet, my friend,
When love and joy are strong,
Your terrible visage from my sight I rend
With glances to blue heaven. Hovering along,
By mine your shadow led,
“Away!” I shriek, “nor dare to work my new-sprung mercies wrong!”

Still you are near:
Who can your care withstand?
When deep eternity shall look most clear,
Sending bright waves to kiss the trembling land,
My joy shall disappear,—
A flaming torch thrown to the golden sea by your pale hand.

Because everyone needs a little chaos…

Sheltered Garden
By H.D.

I have had enough.
I gasp for breath.

Every way ends, every road,
every foot-path leads at last
to the hill-crest—
then you retrace your steps,
or find the same slope on the other side,
precipitate.

I have had enough—
border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs, sweet-cress.

O for some sharp swish of a branch—
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent—
only border on border of scented pinks.

Have you seen fruit under cover
that wanted light—
pears wadded in cloth,
protected from the frost,
melons, almost ripe,
smothered in straw?

Why not let the pears cling
to the empty branch?
All your coaxing will only make
a bitter fruit—
let them cling, ripen of themselves,
test their own worth,
nipped, shrivelled by the frost,
to fall at last but fair
With a russet coat.

Or the melon—
let it bleach yellow
in the winter light,
even tart to the taste—
it is better to taste of frost—
the exquisite frost—
than of wadding and of dead grass.

For this beauty,
beauty without strength,
chokes out life.
I want wind to break,
scatter these pink-stalks,
snap off their spiced heads,
fling them about with dead leaves—
spread the paths with twigs,
limbs broken off,
trail great pine branches,
hurled from some far wood
right across the melon-patch,
break pear and quince—
leave half-trees, torn, twisted
but showing the fight was valiant.

O to blot out this garden
to forget, to find a new beauty
in some terrible
wind-tortured place.

I think it’s time for a not-so-happy poem. (P.S. This is my 400th post in eight months. Kinda scary…)

I Shall Not Care
By Sara Teasdale

When I am dead and over me bright April
   Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,
   I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
   When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
   Than you are now.

This poem is in honor of my dear Jennifer, on her birthday, because I know it’s one of her favorites!

First Fig
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.

I love my friends!

To a Friend
By Grace Stricker Dawson

You entered my life in a casual way,
And saw at a glance what I needed;
There were others who passed me or met me each day,
But never a one of them heeded.
Perhaps you were thinking of other folks more,
Or chance simply seemed to decree it;
I know there were many such chances before,
But the others—well, they didn’t see it.

You said just the thing that I wished you would say,
And you made me believe that you meant it;
I held up my head in the gallant old way,
And resolved you should never repent it.
There are times when encouragement means such a lot,
And a word is enough to convey it;
There were others who could have, as easy as not—
But, just the same, they didn’t say it.

There may have been someone who could have done more
To help me along, though I doubt it;
What I needed was cheering, and always before
They had let me plod onward without it.
You helped to refashion the dream of my heart,
And made me turn eagerly to it;
There were others who might have (I question that part)—
But, after all, they didn’t do it!

Since I got home at 3:00 in the morning (and was awakened by someone next door pounding something at 8:00 am), I thought I’d post this poem today.

Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight
By Rose Hartwick Thorpe

Slowly England’s sun was setting oe’r the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,—
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls tall and gloomy,—moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,—
“I’ve a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;” and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!”

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
“At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Out she swung, far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell.
“Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart’s wild beating: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”

It was o’er!—the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O’er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
“Go! your lover lives,” said Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, “Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night.”

I haven’t had an occasion to post this poem, so I’m going to do it without one, anyway.

A Red, Red Rose
By Robert Burns

O my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

Even though I’ve read all the novels by the Brontë sisters, I still have a lot more poems to read. Here’s one I’ve already read.

Presentiment
By Charlotte Brontë

“Sister, you’ve sat there all the day,
   Come to the hearth awhile;
The wind so wildly sweeps away,
   The clouds so darkly pile.
That open book has lain, unread,
   For hours upon your knee;
You’ve never smiled nor turned your head
   What can you, sister, see?”

“Come hither, Jane, look down the field;
   How dense a mist creeps on!
The path, the hedge, are both concealed,
   Ev’n the white gate is gone;
No landscape through the fog I trace,
   No hill with pastures green;
All featureless is nature’s face,
   All masked in clouds her mien.

“Scarce is the rustle of a leaf
   Heard in our garden now;
The year grows old, its days wax brief,
   The tresses leave its brow.
The rain drives fast before the wind,
   The sky is blank and grey;
O Jane, what sadness fills the mind
   On such a dreary day!”

“You think too much, my sister dear;
   You sit too long alone;
What though November days be drear?
   Full soon will they be gone.
I’ve swept the hearth, and placed your chair,
   Come, Emma, sit by me;
Our own fireside is never drear,
Though late and wintry wane the year,
   Though rough the night may be.”

“The peaceful glow of our fireside
   Imparts no peace to me:
My thoughts would rather wander wide
   Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
I’m on a distant journey bound,
   And if, about my heart,
Too closely kindred ties were bound,
   ’T would break when forced to part.

“‘Soon will November days be o’er:’
   Well have you spoken, Jane:
My own forebodings tell me more,
For me, I know by presage sure,
   They’ll ne’er return again.
Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me
   Will bring or joy or gloom;
They reach not that Eternity
   Which soon will be my home.”

Eight months are gone, the summer sun
   Sets in a glorious sky;
A quiet field, all green and lone,
   Receives its rosy dye.
Jane sits upon a shaded stile,
   Alone she sits there now;
Her head rests on her hand the while,
   And thought o’ercasts her brow.

She’s thinking of one winter’s day,
   A few short months ago,
When Emma’s bier was borne away
   O’er wastes of frozen snow.
She’s thinking how that drifted snow
   Dissolved in spring’s first gleam,
And how her sister’s memory now
   Fades, even as fades a dream.

The snow will whiten earth again,
   But Emma comes no more;
She left, ‘mid winter’s sleet and rain,
   This world for Heaven’s far shore.
On Beulah’s hills she wanders now,
   On Eden’s tranquil plain;
To her shall Jane hereafter go,
   She ne’er shall come to Jane!

Last night Ged Foley sang a song about an Irish soldier who left Ireland because of the famine and came to fight for the Union, so I thought I’d post this poem.

All Quiet Along the Potomac
By Ethel Lynn Beers

“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say,
   ”Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
   By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
‘T is nothing: a private or two, now and then,
   Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost—only one of the men,
   Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac tonight,
   Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
   Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind
   Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
   Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,
   As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
   Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
   Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
   For their mother—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
   That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows
   Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
   He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
   As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
   The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
   Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
   Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle… “Ha! Mary, good-bye!”
   The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac tonight—
   No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—
   The picket’s off duty forever!

I thought I’d post a more optimistic and cheerful poem, as opposed to my usual doom and sadness. Enjoy!

Plant a Tree
By Lucy Larcom

He who plants a tree
   Plants a hope.
   Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope;
Leaves unfold into horizons free.
   So man’s life must climb
   From the clods of time
   Unto heavens sublime.
Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree,
What the glory of thy boughs shall be?

He who plants a tree
   Plants a joy;
   Plants a comfort that will never cloy;
Every day a fresh reality,
   Beautiful and strong,
   To whose shelter throng
   Creatures blithe with song.
If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree,
Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee!

He who plants a tree,—
   He plants peace.
   Under its green curtains jargons cease.
Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly;
   Shadows soft with sleep
   Down tired eyelids creep,
   Balm of slumber deep.
Never hast thou dreamed, thou blessed tree,
Of the benediction thou shalt be.

He who plants a tree,—
   He plants youth;
   Vigor won for centuries in sooth;
Life of time, that hints eternity!
   Boughs their strength uprear;
   New shoots, every year,
   On old growths appear;
Thou shalt teach the ages, sturdy tree,
Youth of soul is immortality.

He who plants a tree,—
   He plants love,
   Tents of coolness spreading out above
Wayfarers he may not live to see.
   Gifts that grow are best;
   Hands that bless are blest;
   Plant! life does the rest!
Heaven and earth help him who plants a tree,
And his work its own reward shall be.

Maybe I’ve been watching too much Homicide, but a poem about the deceased seemed appropriate today.

Comfort
By May Doney

Ah! if we only dreamed how close they stand
Who were our flesh and blood once, and are still
A part of us in sympathy and will,
We should not grieve so, thinking death had banned
All sweet communion with life’s spirit-land,
But fancy in each faint delicious thrill
That stirs us when Heaven’s cisterns overfill,
Droppings of comfort some near love had planned.
Death brings them nearer to us: human sense,
Earth-dulled, is all the barrier that hides
The adjacent country where each one abides;
And we shall wonder, when we too pass hence,
Our hearts were thwarted by so frail a fence,
And could not break the weak wall that divides.

Ah, Poe… So dark, so twisted, so wonderful…

Alone
By Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then—in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

It seemed like it was time for another ESVM.

Prayer to Persephone
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, “My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here.

Emily Brontë wrote fantastic poems. I chose this one today because I’d really like to escape to a world “where guile, and hate, and doubt, and cold suspicion never rise.”

To Imagination
By Emily Brontë

When weary with the long day’s care,
   And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost, and ready to despair,
   Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While then canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without;
   The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
   And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that all around
   Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
If but within our bosom’s bound
   We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason, indeed, may oft complain
   For Nature’s sad reality,
And tell the suffering heart how vain
   Its cherished dreams must always be;
And Truth may rudely trample down
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:

But thou art ever there, to bring
   The hovering vision back, and breathe
New glories o’er the blighted spring,
   And call a lovelier Life from Death.
And whisper, with a voice divine,
Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
   Yet, still, in evening’s quiet hour,
With never-failing thankfulness,
   I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
Sure solacer of human cares,
And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!

This seemed appropriate today, and I can’t help but replace the word death with a W.

Death Be Not Proud
By John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

This seems appropriate for election day. Let’s hope a certain “ignominious idiot” worm climbs back into his chrysalis. (I love Charlotte Perkins Gilman!)

A Conservative
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The garden beds I wandered by
   One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly,
   A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly
   All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting
   To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
   With wonder and surprise.
While sadly with his waving wing
   He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, “What can the matter be?
   Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
   And flowers in goodly store,”—
But he only turned away from me
   And burst into a roar.

Cried he, “My legs are thin and few
   Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
   Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
   To hamper and deform!”

At that outrageous bug I shot
   The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
   In rage and anger high,
“You ignominious idiot!
   Those wings are made to fly!”

“I do not want to fly,” said he,
   ”I only want to squirm!”
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
   But still his voice was firm:
“I do not want to be a fly!
   I want to be a worm!

O yesterday of unknown lack
   To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black;
   The last I saw was this,—
The creature madly climbing back
   Into his chrysalis.

Louisa May Alcott is one of my favorite authors. During the Civil War she went to Washington to nurse the wounded and contracted typhoid. They treated her with some form of mercury, and, though she nearly died, she did recover. However, she was in ill health for the rest of her life.

Louisa May Alcott
In Memoriam
By Louise Chandler Moulton

As the wind at play with a spark
   Of fire that glows through the night,
As the speed of the soaring lark
   That wings to the sky his flight,
So swiftly thy soul has sped
   On its upward, wonderful way,
Like the lark, when the dawn is red,
   In search of the shining day.

Thou art not with the frozen dead
   Whom earth in the earth we lay,
While the bearers softly tread,
   And the mourners kneel and pray;
From thy semblance, dumb and stark,
   The soul has taken its flight—
Out of the finite dark,
   Into the Infinite Light.