Posts tagged ‘1894’

Monday, 10 August 2015

To Poverty by Harrison Smith Morris

Come, link thine arm in mine, good Poverty,
Penniless yeoman of the tattered gear;
Let’s amble down the brazen world and steer
For ports where toil is aristocracy.
Utopia laughs not at our sackcloth. See!
Here’s fair Sir Lackland and right many a peer,
With doublets threadbare as our own full near,
Would vow us love and hospitality.

Our gold’s laid up in sunsets safe from thieves;
And all our current silver’s in the stars.
We’ve naught to lose save honest hearts, who steals
Shall get more treasure than he knows or feels.
Here’s sweetest roots from out our scrip, good sirs,
And waters clear, and couches in the leaves.

From: Morris, Harrison S., Madonna and Other Poems, 1894, J. B. Lippincott Company: Philadelphia and London, p. 172.
(https://archive.org/stream/madonnaotherpoem00morr#page/172/mode/2up

Date: 1894

By: Harrison Smith Morris (1856-1948)

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Sunday, 16 November 2014

On a Harp Playing in a London Fog by Ernest Percival Rhys

What Ariel, far astray, with silver wing,
Upborne with airy music, silver-sweet,
Haunts here the London street? —
And from the fog, with harping string on string,
Laughs in the ear, and spurs the lagging feet,
While Caliban-like, London sulks, though all the stars should sing.

Such mystic harping once its silvery scale
Ran in grey Harlech, and on Merlin’s Hill,
Where listening fancy still
Can hear it, like some song in fairy-tale;
And still in Broceliaunde the oak-trees will
Repeat its lingering sighing strain to many a cold sea-vale.

Here harps the mystic noise should make the dead
Of London wake, and all its walls have ears;
As when in Troy the spears
Rang in the streets, by Helen’s beauty sped:
Here harps the song of Merlin, or the spheres:
But London sleeps, unmoved, and dreams his other dreams instead.

So may he sleep, — the waking hour unknown,
When Ariel’s song shall end what it began,
And waken Caliban.
And yet, who knows, his sleep is lighter grown
By half-a-song’s weight, since that chiming ran,
Athwart the fog, like thistledown o’er misty uplands blown.

From: Rhys, Ernest, A London Rose and Other Rhymes, 1894, Elkin Mathews & John Lane: London, pp. 9-10.
(https://archive.org/stream/alondonroseando00rhysgoog#page/n22/mode/2up)

Date: 1894

By: Ernest Percival Rhys (1859-1946)

Monday, 6 October 2014

The Sand-Dunes by Margaret Prouty Hillhouse

Sand-dunes in the salt winds drifting.
Restless hills, forever shifting,
Not a leaf or blade of green,
In thy lonely waste is seen,
Lying in the pale moonlight,
Like vast snow-drifts cold and white.

North Island, South Carolina.

From: Hillhouse, Margaret P., The White Rose Knight and Other Poems, 1894, De Vinne Press: New York, p. 27.
(https://archive.org/stream/whiteroseknight00hillgoog#page/n40/mode/2up)

Date: 1894

By: Margaret Prouty Hillhouse (1846-1925)

Sunday, 23 March 2014

What the Sonnet Is by Eugene Lee-Hamilton

Fourteen small broidered berries on the hem
Of Circe’s mantle, each of magic gold;
Fourteen of lone Calypso’s tears that rolled
Into the sea, for pearls to come of them;
Fourteen clear signs of omen in the gem
With which Medea human fate foretold;
Fourteen small drops, which Faustus, growing old,
Craved of the Fiend, to water Life’s dry stem.
It is the pure white diamond Dante brought
To Beatrice; the sapphire Laura wore
When Petrarch cut it sparkling out of thought;
The ruby Shakespeare hewed from his heart’s core;
The dark, deep emerald that Rossetti wrought
For his own soul, to wear for evermore.

From: Lee-Hamilton, Eugene, Sonnets of the Wingless Hours, 1908, Thomas B. Mosher: Portland, Maine, p. 89.
(https://archive.org/stream/sonnetsofwingles00leeh#page/88/mode/2up)

Date: 1894

By: Eugene Lee-Hamilton (1845-1907)

Wednesday, 29 January 2014

Isolation by Edward Booth Loughran

Man lives alone; star-like, each soul
In its own orbit circles ever;
Myriads may by or round it roll —
The ways may meet, but mingle never.

Self-pois’d, each soul its course pursues
In light or dark, companionless:
Drop into drop may blend the dews —
The spirit’s law is loneliness.

If seemingly two souls unite,
‘Tis but as joins yon silent mere
The stream that through it, flashing bright,
Carries its waters swift and clear.

The fringes of the rushing tide
May on the lake’s calm bosom sleep —
Its hidden spirit doth abide
Apart, still bearing toward the deep.

O Love, to me more dear than life!
O Friend, more faithful than a brother!
How many a bitter inward strife
Our souls have never told each other!

We journey side by side for years,
We dream our lives, our hopes are one —
And with some chance-said word appears
The spanless gulf, so long unknown!

For candour’s want yet neither blame;
Even to ourselves but half-confessed,
Glows in each heart some silent flame,
Blooms some hope-violet of the breast.

And temptings dark, and struggles deep
There are, each soul alone must bear,
Through midnight hours unblest with sleep,
Through burning noontides of despair.

And kindly is the ordinance sent
By which each spirit dwells apart —
Could Love or Friendship live, if rent
The “Bluebeard chambers of the heart”?

From: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/isolation/

Date: 1894

By: Edward Booth Loughran (1850-1928)

Monday, 1 October 2012

The Land of Many Names by Edwin John Ellis

There is a place where no surprise
Is felt at beauty, or true love tried.
Hate cannot find the gate, nor pride.
There do the spring birds learn to sing
And open their hearts as wide
As the eyes
Of the meadows that wake in spring.

There the clouds of the golden skies
Find their ruby. The white foam free
Of the wave lives there in her maiden glee,
And no hand touches her white side, wild.
The winds cannot hold what they see.
For she flies
Like dreams from a waking child.

Dead lovers there, from the days of Troy,
Attain the reward our hearts shall keep,
Believing for them in twilight sleep.
The while, as maids at a child-birth wait.
We stay till they call us to peep
At their joy,
And find in their fate, our fate.

There, while wind through the garden sings
Gently and low in the long sunbeams,
They sleep between summer and trees and streams.
They love through their sleep from hour to hour,
In beautiful crimson dreams
Like the wings
Of the peace-giving poppy flower.

The watchman called it a Land of Rest,
The lonely, a Land of Love, they tell.
The weary, Eden, whence Adam fell.
But the old who wander the downward slope
Deem it is Youth, knowing well.
Dispossessed,
The Land of Eternal Hope.

From: http://www.unz.org/Pub/BookmanUK-1894sep-00169

Date: 1894

By: Edwin John Ellis (1848-1916)