Posts tagged ‘1892’

Friday, 15 April 2022

Barabbas Speaks by Edwin McNeill Poteat

I heard a man explaining
(they said his name was Paul)
how Jesus, on that fateful day,
had died to save us all.

I found it hard to follow
His fine-spun theory,
but I am very, very sure
He died that day for me.

From: Morrison, James Dalton (ed.), Masterpieces of Religious Verse, 1905, Harper & Brothers: New York and London, p. 184.

Date: 1892

By: Edwin McNeill Poteat (1861-1937)

Tuesday, 11 January 2022

At End of Love by Philip Bourke Marston

As one who dying in some alien place—
Some Northern Land no lavish sun makes bright—
Dreams, in the silent watches of the night,
How once it fared with him by other ways,
Through large blue eves and deep, warm, Southern days,
And seems once more to see things out of sight,
To hear old sounds that bring back old delight,
Yet knows, above them all, what words Death says:

So now, at end of Love, I ponder still
On all Love’s glory, which was once mine own,
And sweet elusive visions come to fill
My dreams with beauty; and a long lost tone
Thrills through the dark: but in the dawning chill
I shuddering wake, to know I am alone.

From: Marston, Philip Bourke, The Collected Poems of Philip Marston, 1892, Ward, Lock, Bowden, & Co.: London, p. 398.

Date: 1892 (published)

By: Philip Bourke Marston (1850-1887)

Saturday, 2 January 2021

The Happy Valley by Francis Turner Palgrave

In the heart of the long bare uplands
It lies like a river of green;
And the trees each slope descending
Leave a flowery sward between: —

A flowery path for the children,
With the oak and the thorn on high;
Coverts to tempt the boldest,
And shelter-spots for the shy.

Come, Love, to the happy valley
Where the turf slopes smooth and dry
At our feet the laughing children;
Above, the laughing sky.

Life has no hour more golden
Than thus on the grassy slope :
While we blend the age of reason
With the brighter age of hope.

For Childhood is of the valley,
Haven’d from tempest and heat ;
With flowers beyond its grasping,
And flowers beneath its feet ;

Mid-age has the long bare uplands,
Bare to the heat and the rain: —
Come, Love, to the happy valley,
Children with children again.

From: Palgrave, Francis T, Amenophis and Other Poems Sacred and Secular, 1892, Macmillan and Co: London and New York, pp. 178-179.

Date: 1892

By: Francis Turner Palgrave (1824-1897)

Thursday, 12 March 2015

Bees by Norman Rowland Gale

You voluble,
Vehement fellows
That play on your
Flying and
Musical ‘cellos,
All goldenly
Girdled you
Serenade clover,
Each artist in
Bass but a
Bibulous rover!

From: Gale, Normal, A Country Muse (Second Series), 1895, Archibald Constable and Co: London, p. 111.

Date: 1892

By: Norman Rowland Gale (1862-1942)

Thursday, 4 December 2014

World-Strangeness by William Watson

Strange the world about me lies,
Never yet familiar grown—
Still disturbs me with surprise,
Haunts me like a face half known.

In this house with starry dome,
Floored with gemlike plains and seas,
Shall I never feel at home,
Never wholly be at ease?

On from room to room I stray,
Yet my Host can ne’er espy,
And I know not to this day
Whether guest or captive I.

So, between the starry dome
And the floor of plains and seas,
I have never felt at home,
Never wholly been at ease.


Date: 1892

By: William Watson (1858-1935)

Sunday, 6 April 2014

La Gioconda by Katherine Harris Bradley and Edith Emma Cooper writing as Michael Field

Historic, side-long, implicating eyes;
A smile of velvet’s lustre on the cheek;
Calm lips the smile leads upward; hand that lies
Glowing and soft, the patience in its rest
Of cruelty that waits and does not seek
For prey; a dusky forehead and a breast
Where twilight touches ripeness amorously:
Behind her, crystal rocks, a sea and skies
Of evanescent blue on cloud and creek;
Landscape that shines suppressive of its zest
For those vicissitudes by which men die.


Date: 1892

By: Michael Field – Katherine Harris Bradley (1846-1914) and Edith Emma Cooper (1862-1913)

Sunday, 4 August 2013

Grizzly-Gru by Eugene Fitch Ware (Ironquill)

O Thoughts of the past and present,
O whither, and whence, and where,
Demanded my soul, as I scaled the height
Of the pine-clad peak in the somber night,
In the terebinthine air.

While pondering on the frailty
Of happiness, hope, and mirth,
The ascending sun with derisive scoff
Hurled its golden lances and smote me off
From the bulge of the restless earth.

Through the yellowish dawn of velvet
Where stars were so thickly strewn.
That quietly chuckled as I passed through,
I fell in the gardens of Grizzly-Gru,
On the mad, mysterious moon.

I fell on the turquoise ether,
Low down in the wondrous west,
And thence to the moon in whose yielding blue
Were hidden the gardens of Grizzly-Gru,
In the Monarchy of Unrest.

And there were the fairy gardens,
Where beautiful cherubs grew
In daintiest way and on separate stalks,
In the listed rows by the jasper walks,
Near the palace of Grizzly-Gru.

While strolling around the garden
I noticed the rows were full
Of every conceivable size and type—
Some that were buds, and some nearly ripe,
And some that were ready to pull.

In gauzy and white corolla,
Was one who had eyes of blue,
A little excuse of a baby nose,
Little pink ears, and ten little toes,
And a mouth that kept saying ah-goo.

Ah-gooing as I came near her,
She raised up her arms in glee—
Her little fat arms—and she seemed to say,
“I’m ready to go with you right away;
Don’t hunt any more—take me.”

I picked her off quick and kissed her,
And, hugging her to my breast,
I heard a loud yelling that pierced me through,
‘Twas His Terrible Eminence, Grizzly-Gru,
Of the Monarchy of Unrest.

He had on a blood-red turban,
A picturesque lot of clothes,
With big moustaches both fierce and black,
And a ghastly saber to cut and hack,
And shoes that turned up at the toes.

Out of the gate of the garden
The cherub and I took flight,
And closely behind us the saber flew,
And back of the saber came Grizzly-Gru,
And he chased us all day till night.

I ran down the lunar crescent,
And out on the silver horn;
I kissed the baby and held her tight,
And jumped down into the starry night,
And—I lit on the earth at morn.

He fitfully threw his saber,
It missed and went round the sun;
He followed no further, he was not rash,
But the baby held on to my coarse moustache,
And seemed to enjoy the fun.

In saving that blue-eyed baby
From the gardens of Grizzly-Gru,
I suffered a terrible shock and fright;
But the doctor believes it will be all right,
And he thinks he can pull me through.

From: Wilder, Marshall P, The Wit and Humor of America in Ten Volumes, Volume 1, 1911, Funk and Wagnalls Co: New York and London, pp. 174-177.

Date: 1892

By: Eugene Fitch Ware (Ironquill) (1841-1911)

Wednesday, 30 January 2013

Columbus by Cincinattus Hiner Miller (Joaquin Miller)

Behind him lay the grey Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: “Now we must pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?”
“Why, say, ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’ ”

“My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
“What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”
“Why, you shall say at break of day,
‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’ ”

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
“Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dead seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say” —
He said, “Sail on! sail on! and on!”

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
“This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
With lifted teeth, as if to bite!
Brave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?”
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”

Then pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck —
A light! a light! at last a light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”


Date: 1892

By: Cincinattus Hiner Miller (Joaquin Miller) (1837-1913)

Friday, 18 January 2013

The Help That Comes Too Late by Margaret Elizabeth Munson Sangster

‘Tis a wearisome world, this world of ours,
With its tangles small and great,
Its weeds that smother the spring flowers,
And its hapless strifes with fate;
But the darkest day of its desolate days
Sees the help that comes too late.

Ah! woe for the word that is never said
Till the ear is too deaf to hear,
And woe for the lack to the fainting head
Of the ringing shout of cheer;
Ah! woe for the laggard feet that tread
In the mournful wake of the bier.

What booteth help when the heart is numb?
What booteth a broken spar
Of love thrown out when the lips are dumb,
And life’s bark drifteth far,
Oh! far and fast from the alien past,
Over the moaning bar.

A pitiful thing the gift to-day
That is dross and nothing worth,
Though if it had come but yesterday,
It had brimmed with sweet the earth;
A fading rose in a death-cold hand,
That perished in want and dearth.

Who fain would help in this world of ours,
Where sorrowful steps must fall,
Bring help in time to the waning powers,
Ere the bier is spread with the pall;
Nor send reserves when the flags are furled,
And the dead beyond your call.

For baffling most in this weary world,
With its tangles small and great,
Its lonesome nights and weary days,
And its struggles forlorn with fate,
Is that bitterest grief, too deep for tears,
Of the help that comes too late.

From: Sangster, Margaret E, On the Road Home: Poems, 1894, Harper and Brothers, New York, pp. 26-27.

Date: 1892

By: Margaret Elizabeth Munson Sangster (1838-1912)

Thursday, 18 October 2012

Compensation by Carol Atherton (Briggs) Mason

Not in each shell the diver brings to air
Is found the priceless pearl, but only where
Mangled, and torn, and bruised well-nigh to death,
The wounded oyster draws its labouring breath.
Oh, tried and suffering soul! gauge here your gain;
The pearl of patience is the fruit of pain.

From: Mason, Carol Atherton (Briggs), The Lost Ring, and Other Poems, 1892, Houghton, Mifflin and Company: Boston, p. 61.

Date: 1892

By: Carol Atherton (Briggs) Mason (1823-1890)