Author's Poems

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Life

Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
o why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
o'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
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    Roses

    You love the roses - so do I. I wish
    The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
    From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
    Then all the valley would be pink and white
    And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
    As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
    Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
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      The Passing Of Arthur

      The great brand
      Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
      And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
      Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
      Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
      By night, with noises of the northern sea.
      So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur.
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        In A London Drawingroom

        The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
        For view there are the houses opposite
        Cutting the sky with one long line of wall
        Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
        Monotony of surface & of form
        Without a break to hang a guess upon.
        No bird can make a shadow as it flies,
        For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung
        By thickest canvass, where the golden rays
        Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering
        Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye
        Or rest a little on the lap of life.
        All hurry on & look upon the ground,
        Or glance unmarking at the passers by
        The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages
        All closed, in multiplied identity.
        The world seems one huge prison-house & court
        Where men are punished at the slightest cost,
        With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.
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          The Seven Sages

          Whether they knew or not,
          Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
          All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
          A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
          That never looked out of the eye of a saint
          Or out of drunkard's eye.
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            The growing drama has outgrown such toys
            Of simulated stature, face, and speech:
            It also peradventure may outgrow
            The simulation of the painted scene,
            Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume,
            And take for a worthier stage the soul itself,
            Its shifting fancies and celestial lights,
            With all its grand orchestral silences
            To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.
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              in Poems (Author's Poems, Love)

              Casabianca

              Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
              trying to recite'The boy stood on
              the burning deck. ' Love's the son
              stood stammering elocution
              while the poor ship in flames went down.

              Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
              even the swimming sailors, who
              would like a schoolroom platform, too,
              or an excuse to stay
              on deck. And love's the burning boy.
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                The Dawn

                I would be ignorant as the dawn
                That merely stood, rocking the glittering coach
                Above the cloudy shoulders of the horses;
                I would be — for no knowledge is worth a straw —
                Ignorant and wanton as the dawn.
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                  Sestina

                  September rain falls on the house.
                  In the failing light, the old grandmother
                  sits in the kitchen with the child
                  beside the Little Marvel Stove,
                  reading the jokes from the almanac,
                  laughing and talking to hide her tears.

                  She thinks that her equinoctial tears
                  and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
                  were both foretold by the almanac,
                  but only known to a grandmother.
                  The iron kettle sings on the stove.
                  She cuts some bread and says to the child,

                  It's time for tea now; but the child
                  is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
                  dance like mad on the hot black stove,
                  the way the rain must dance on the house.
                  Tidying up, the old grandmother
                  hangs up the clever almanac

                  on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
                  hovers half open above the child,
                  hovers above the old grandmother
                  and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
                  She shivers and says she thinks the house
                  feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

                  It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
                  I know what I know, says the almanac.
                  With crayons the child draws a rigid house
                  and a winding pathway. Then the child
                  puts in a man with buttons like tears
                  and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

                  But secretly, while the grandmother
                  busies herself about the stove,
                  the little moons fall down like tears
                  from between the pages of the almanac
                  into the flower bed the child
                  has carefully placed in the front of the house.

                  Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
                  The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
                  and the child draws another inscrutable house.
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