Posts tagged ‘1909’

Thursday, 15 February 2018

Oh Stormy Winds, Bring Up the Clouds by Henjō (Yoshimine no Munesada)

Oh stormy winds, bring up the clouds,
And paint the heavens grey;
Lest these fair maids of form divine
Should angel wings display,
And fly far far away.

From: Porter, William N. (transl.), A Hundred Verses from Old Japan, being a translation of the Hyaku-nin-isshiu, 1909, Clarendon Press: London, p. 12.

Date: c850 (original in Japanese); 1909 (translation in English)

By: Henjō (Yoshimine no Munesada) (816-890)

Translated by: William N. Porter (1849-1929)

Thursday, 19 February 2015

Ruffling Wind by Richard Watson Dixon

Does the south wind ever know
That he makes the lily blow?
Does the north wind hear the cry
Of the leaf he whirls on high?

Do the strong winds fear the rage
Of the ocean they engage?
Do the light winds on the lake
Love the ripple that they make?

O would they then come to spoil
Sad Earth’s image of her toil?
O would they more make to cease
Sweet Earth’s mirror of her peace?

From: Dixon, Richard Watson and Bridges, Robert (ed.), Poems by the Late Rev. Dr. Richard Watson Dixon: A Selection with Portrait and A Memoir by Robert Bridges, 1909, Smith, Elder, & Co: London, p. 147.

Date: 1909 (published)

By: Richard Watson Dixon (1833-1900)

Friday, 22 August 2014

Homesick by Dorothy Frances McCrae

I’m sick of fog and yellow gloom,
Of faces strange, and alien eyes,
Your London is a vault, a tomb,
To those born ’neath Australian skies.
Oh, land of gold and burning blue,
I’m crying like a child for you!

The trees are tossing in the park
Against the banked-up amethyst,
At four o’clock it will be dark,
And I a blind man in the mist.
Hark to old London’s smothered roar,
Gruff jailer growling at my door!

Each day I see Fate’s wheel whirl round,
And yet my fortunes are the same,
My hopes are trodden in the ground,
Good luck has never heard my name,
Oh friends, oh home, beyond the seas,
Alone in darkness here I freeze!

The Day is dead: night falls apace;
I reach my hand to draw the blind,
To hide old London’s frowning face,
And then (alas!) I call to mind
The shining ways we used to roam
Those long, light evenings at home.

I hate this fog and yellow gloom,
These days of grey and amethyst;
I want to see the roses bloom,
The smiling fields by sunshine kissed —
Oh land of gold and burning blue!
I’m crying like a child for you!


Date: 1909

By: Dorothy Frances McCrae (1878-1937)

Friday, 4 April 2014

Love and Pie by John Albert Carlill

Whin I gor hoired et Beacon Farm a year last Martinmas,
I fund we’d gor a vory bonny soort o’ kitchen lass;
And so I tell’d her plooin’ made me hungry—thot was why
I awlus was a laatle sthrong on pudden and on pie.
And efther thot I thowt the pie was, mebbe, middlin’ large,
And so I ate it for her sake—theer wasn’t onny charge;
Until it seems t’ missus asked her rayther sharply why
She awlus used t’ biggest dish for pudden and for pie.

I wasn’t mich of use, ye knaw, et this here fancy talkin’,
She had no chance o’ goin’ oot for armin’ it and walkin’.
But thin I knawed I gor her love whin I could see t’ pies;
I knawed her thowts o’ me were big by bigness o’ their size.
The pies and gell I thowt thot geed1, they hardlins could be beaten,
She knawed I’d awlus thowts on her by way t’ pies were eaten;
Until it seems t’ missus asked her rayther sharply why
She awlus used t’ biggest dish for pudden and for pie.

Noo just thoo wait a bit and see; I’m only thod-lad2 noo,
I moight be wagoner or hoind within a year or two;
And thin thoo’ll see, or I’m a cauf, I’ll mak ’em ring choch bell,
And carry off et Martinmas yon prize-pie-makkin’ gell.
And whin thoo’s buyin’ coats and beats3 wi’ wages thot ye take,
It’s I’ll be buyin’ boxes for t’ laatle bits o’ cake;
And whin I’ve gar a missus ther’ll be no more askin’ why
She awlus gers oor biggest dish for pudden and for pie.

2Third lad on the farm

From: Moorman, F.W., Yorkshire Dialect Poems, 1917, Sidgwick and Jackson: Yorkshire.

Date: 1909

By: John Albert Carlill (1864-1947)

Saturday, 10 November 2012

I Am Free by Hannah Rea Woodman

I am free! I am free! I stretch wide hands
To the laughing mad-cap winds; I enfold
All prisoned things, crouchant, wretched and cold
In my new warm life. I would lose their bands,
Give them crimson, kisses, fame, riches, lands!
I’d give them liberty, splendid as light,
Sweet as water to desert thirst, the sight
Of distant green blur on the blazing sands!
No more angry words that cut keen like steel;
No jealous, dim doubts that sicken the mind
And toss it like foam on a maddened sea;
No more stupid, half-despised efforts to feel
The old passion surge, resistless and blind;
I am free, free, free! Dear God, I am free!


Date: 1909

By: Hannah Rea Woodman (1870-1951)

Friday, 2 November 2012

All Souls by Edith Wharton


A thin moon faints in the sky o’erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.


Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope —
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.


And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.


And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: “Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!”
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.


Till they say, as they hear us — poor dead, poor dead! —
“Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed —
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart —
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.”


And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
“One more, one more, ere we go their way”?
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.


And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it’s All Souls’ night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away


Date: 1909

By: Edith Wharton (1862-1937)