Poetry Books

INTRODUCTION The eighteenth century was an age addicted to gossiping about its literary figures. This addiction was nowhere better demonstrated than by the countless reflections, sermons, poems, pamphlets, biographical sketches, and biographies about Samuel Johnson. The most productive phase of this activity commenced almost immediately after Johnson's death in December, 1784, and continued into... more...

I    [Bass drum beaten loudly.]  Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—  (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)  The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He's come."  (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)  Walking lepers followed, rank on rank,  Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank,  Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale—  Minds still... more...

[213] THE "aesthetic" poetry is neither a mere reproduction of Greek or medieval poetry, nor only an idealisation of modern life and sentiment. The atmosphere on which its effect depends belongs to no simple form of poetry, no actual form of life. Greek poetry, medieval or modern poetry, projects, above the realities of its time, a world in which the forms of things are transfigured. Of that... more...

Into My Own ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,But stretched away unto the edge of doom.I should not be withheld but that some dayInto their vastness I should steal away,Fearless of ever finding open land,Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.I do not see why I should e'er turn back,Or... more...

THE SEABOARD.Thesea is at ebb, and the sound of her utmost wordIs soft as the least wave’s lapse in a still small reach.From bay into bay, on quest of a goal deferred,From headland ever to headland and breach to breachWhere earth gives ear to the message that all days preachWith changes of gladness and sadness that cheer and chide,The lone way lures me along by a chance untriedThat haply, if hope... more...

CONTENTS OF FIRST LINES: To the Man of the High NorthMy rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming Men of the High NorthMen of the High North, the wild sky is blazing; The Ballad of the Northern LightsOne of the Down and Out—that's me. Stare at me well, ay, stare! The Ballad of the Black Fox SkinThere was Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike living the life of shame, The Ballad of Pious PeteI tried... more...

SYMBOLISMTongueless the bell!Lute without a song!It is not nightIt is God's dawn,Silence its unending song.Over heart's valley,In the soul's night,Through pain's windowBehold! His light!On Life's Height.No prayer, now,Though death-waves roll,Faith's candle lit,Beside it sits the soulReading Eternity's scroll. SOURCE OF SINGINGA bruised heart,A wounded soul,A broken... more...

THE ROCK-A-BY LADY The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby streetComes stealing; comes creeping;The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet—She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,When she findeth you sleeping! There is one little dream of a beautiful drum—"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,And lo! thick and fast... more...

A Defective Santa Claus Allus when our Pa he's away Nen Uncle Sidney comes to stay At our house here—so Ma an' me An' Etty an' Lee-Bob won't be Afeard ef anything at night Might happen—like Ma says it might. (Ef Trip wuz big, I bet you he 'Uz best watch-dog you ever see!) An' so last winter—ist before It's go' be Chris'mus-Day,—w'y, shore... more...

THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. PART I. At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,Whoever will choose to repair,Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriorsMay haply fall in with old Pierre.On the sunshiny bench of a tavernHe sits and he prates of old wars,And moistens his pipe of tobaccoWith a drink that is named after Mars. The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,And as long as his tap never fails,Thus over his... more...