Poetry Books

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock S'io credesse che mia risposta fosseA persona che mai tornasse al mondo,Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondoNon torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I,When the evening is spread out against the skyLike a patient etherized upon a table;Let us go, through... more...

THE NURSERY ALPHABET.A for the Alphabet, A, B, C;B for the Book that was given to me.C for the Corn that stands in the stack;D for the Donkey with cross on his back.E for the Engine that's lighted with coke;F for the Funnel that puffs out the smoke. The Nursery Alphabet. E F G H.G for the Goose that swims on the pond;H for the Hen, of her chickens so fond.I for the Icicle, frosty and cold;J for... more...

THE STUDY OF POETRY. BY FRANCIS HOVEY STODDARD. Clever men of action, according to Bacon, despise studies, ignorant men too much admire them, wise men make use of them. "Yet," he says, "they teach not their own use, but that there is a wisdom without them and above them won by observation." These are the words of a man who had been taught by years of studiousness the emptiness of mere... more...

I. SUCCESS. [Published in "A Masque of Poets"at the request of "H.H.," the author'sfellow-townswoman and friend.] Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need. Not one of all the purple hostWho took the flag to-dayCan tell the definition,So clear, of victory, As he, defeated, dying,On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of... more...

PRICE SIXPENCE. Oh! on this green and mossy seat,In my hours of sweet retreat;Thus I would my soul employ,With sense of gratitude and joy.! farewell! the trumpet calls,The banner waves in view;And I must bid these friendly halls,One long! one last adieu! The dappled herd of grazing deer,That seek the shades by day;Now started from their path with fear,To give the stranger way. This is the valiant... more...

FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEAShall we wake one morn of spring,Glad at heart of everything,Yet pensive with the thought of eve?Then the white house shall we leave.Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,Through the garth, and go our ways,Wandering down among the meadsTill our very joyance needsRest at last; till we shall comeTo that Sun-god's lonely home,Lonely on the hillside grey,Whence the sheep have... more...

INTRODUCTION When a poem is read aloud it is easy to realize that poetry is closely related to music. Like music it awakens vague, mysterious feelings which cannot be expressed in ordinary speech; and the person who fails to catch the subtle melody of a poem gets but little from it even though he understands perfectly the meaning of the words. To illustrate this, put into commonplace prose a passage of... more...

TORU DUTT. INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. If Toru Dutt were alive, she would still be younger than any recognized European writer, and yet her fame, which is already considerable, has been entirely posthumous. Within the brief space of four years which now divides us from the date of her decease, her genius has been revealed to the world under many phases, and has been recognized throughout France and England.... more...

A Dream.I stood far off above the haunts of menSomewhere, I know not, when the sky was dimFrom some worn glory, and the morning hymnOf the gay oriole echoed from the glen.Wandering, I felt earth's peace, nor knew I soughtA visioned face, a voice the wind had caught.I passed the waking things that stirred and gazed,Thought-bound, and heeded not; the waking flowersDrank in the morning mist,... more...

THERE was once a little Brownie, who lived—where do you think he lived? in a coal-cellar.Now a coal-cellar may seem a most curious place to choose to live in; but then a Brownie is a curious creature—a fairy, and yet not one of that sort of fairies who fly about on gossamer wings, and dance in the moonlight, and so on. He never dances; and as to wings, what use would they be to him in a coal-cellar?... more...