New Year's Eve, 1913 / Gordon Bottomley

New Year's Eve, 1913

O, Cartmel bells ring soft to-night,
    And Cartmel bells ring clear,
But I lie far away to-night,
    Listening with my dear;

Listening in a frosty land
    Where all the bells are still
And the small-windowed bell-towers stand
    Dark under heath and hill.

I thought that, with each dying year,
    As long as life should last
The bells of Cartmel I should hear
    Ring out an aged past:

The plunging, mingling sounds increase
    Darkness's depth and height,
The hollow valley gains more peace
    And ancientness to-night:

The loveliness, the fruitfulness,
    The power of life lived there
Return, revive, more closely press
    Upon that midnight air.

But many deaths have place in men
    Before they come to die;
Joys must be used and spent, and then
    Abandoned and passed by.

Earth is not ours; no cherished space
    Can hold us from life's flow,
That bears us thither and thence by ways
    We knew not we should go.

O, Cartmel bells ring loud, ring clear,
    Through midnight deep and hoar,
A year new-born, and I shall hear
    The Cartmel bells no more.

~~
Gordon Bottomley (1874-1948)
from Poems of Thirty Years, 1925

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Gordon Bottomley biography

Christmas, 1860 / Aubrey de Vere

Christmas, 1860

        I

Alone, among thy books, once more I sit;
No sound there stirs except the flapping fire;
Strange shadows of old times about me flit
As sinks the midnight lamp or flickers higher.
I see thee pace the room. With eye thought-lit
Back, back, thou oom'st once more to my desire:
Low-toned thou read'st once more the verse new-writ,
Too deep, too pure for worldlings to admire.

That brow all honour, that all gracious hand.
That cordial smile, and clear voice musical,
That noble bearing, mien of high command,
Yet void of pride — to-night I have them all.
Ah, phantoms vain of thought! The Christmas air
Is white with flying flakes. Where art thou — where?


        II

To-night, upon thy roof the snows are lying;
The Christmas snows lie heavy on thy trees;
A dying dirge, that soothes the year in dying,
Swells from thy woodlands on the midnight breeze.
Our loss is ancient; many a heart is sighing
This night a late one, or by slow degrees
Heals some old wound, to God's high grace replying:
A time there was when thou wert like to these.

Where art thou? In what unimagined sphere
Liv'st thou, sojourner, or no transient guest?
By whom companioned ? Access hath she near,
In life thy nearest, and beloved the best?
What memory hast thou of thy loved ones here?
Hangs the great Vision o'er thy place of rest?


        III

Sweet-sounding bells, blithe summoners to prayer!
The answer man can yield not, ye bestow;
Your answer is a little Infant bare,
Wafted to earth on night-winds whispering low.
Blow him to Bethlehem, airs angelic, blow!
There doth the Mother-maid his couch prepare.
His harbour is her bosom! Drop him there,
Soft as a snow-flake on a bank of snow.

Sole Hope of man! Sole Hope for us, for thee!
"To us a Prince is given: a Child is born!"
Thou sang'st of Bethlehem, and of Calvary,
The Maid Immaculate and the twisted Thorn.
Where'er thou art, not far, not far is He
Whose banner whitens in yon Christmas morn!

~~
Aubrey Thomas de Vere (1814-1902)
from Selections from the Poems, 1894

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Aubrey Thomas de Vere biography

Once in royal David's city / Cecil Frances Alexander

Christmas

Once in royal David's city
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby
In a manger for His bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ her little Child.

He came down to earth from heaven
Who is God and Lord of all,
And His shelter was a stable,
And His cradle was a stall;
With the poor, and mean, and lowly,
Lived on earth our Savior holy.

And through all His wondrous Childhood,
He would honor and obey,
Love and watch the lowly Maiden,
In whose gentle arms He lay;
Christian children all must be
Mild, obedient, good as He.

For he is our childhood's pattern,
Day by day, like us He grew,
He was little, weak and helpless,
Tears and smiles like us He knew;
And He feeleth for our sadness,
And He shareth in our gladness.

And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love;
For that Child so dear and gentle
Is our Lord in heaven above;
And He leads His children on
To the place where He is gone.

Not in that poor lowly stable,
With the oxen standing by,
We shall see Him; but in heaven,
Set at God's right hand on high;
Where like stars His children crowned
All in white shall wait around.

~~
Cecil Frances Alexander (1818-1895) 

from Poems, 1896 

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide] 

Cecil Frances Alexander biography

With trembling fingers did we weave / Alfred Tennyson

XXX

With trembling fingers did we weave
    The holly round the Chrismas hearth;
    A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall
    We gambol'd, making vain pretence
    Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech
    We heard them sweep the winter land
    And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;
    We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
    A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
    Upon us: surely rest is meet:
    "They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,"
And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;
    Once more we sang: “They do not die
    Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;

"Rapt from the fickle and the frail
    With gather'd power, yet the same,
    Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil."

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
    Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
    O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.

~~
Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
from In Memoriam A.H.H., 1850

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Alfred Tennyson biography

A Midwinter Night's Eve / George J. Dance

A Midwinter Night's Eve

No trace of summer yet; the earth was dead.
The sun was slowly dying, too, and like
Some ancient monarch lay, a rotting hulk
Now wrapped in robes of pure magnificence –
Of purple, liquid gold, and bleeding red,
Reflecting off the scattered clouds above
Like flowers thrown upon a frozen grave.

A minute's silence for a fallen king.

The service over and the body lowered,
The very day now buried in the past,
With halting steps the widow turned away,
So painfully pulled on a cloak of black,
And hobbled off to seek oblivion
In dreams of reuniting with the sun.

~~

George J. Dance, 2007

from Logos, and other logoi, 2021

[All rights reserved - used with permission

Andrew Crouthamel, Pennsylvania winter sunset, 2005. CC BY 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

George J. Dance biography

December: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

December: A pastoral poem

How swift the decline of the year!
December how chearless thy frown!
The knell of the fast-flowing year
Depresses both village and town.
O come Meditation, thou queen
Of pleasures, tho' pensive yet gay;
For thou can'st enliven the scene,
And lengthen the short-living day.

Emotions which flow from thy song,
Are smiles of content to the breast,
Are raptures that sweetly prolong
The whispers of peace and of rest:
What tho' the pale Season denies
The beauties which brighten the spring,
Contentment's the much-envied prize,
Meditation's the cherub to bring.

When odours replenish the gale,
The streamlets run purling along,
The zephyrs which softly prevail,
And Philomel issues her song:
The reed of sweet music display'd,
In notes unambitiously wild;
The pleasures alive in the shade,
When nature is placid and mild.

When Flora awakens the flow'rs,
Her children of purest perfume,
Descend in refreshment the show'rs,
To strengthen the innocent bloom:
When nature, with face of delight,
Diffuses her bounties around,
Creation that's new to the sight,
By the hand of young Extacy's crown'd.

When the landskip with transport descry'd
The summer holds forth to the view,
In robes too expressive of pride,
Tho' the mirror of nature is true;
When autumn rough labour repays,
And plenty wide-scatters her crops,
Diffuses her earth-gilding rays
Thro' gardens thick-cluster'd with hops.

When summer, or autumn, or spring,
Their treasures alternate dispense,
Their vicissitudes joyfully bring
The grateful remembrance of sense;
But winter, tho' wrapt in a cloud,
A gratitude warmer excites,
For virtue dares publish aloud,
That December is fraught with delights.

Devotion, elate at the sound,
Her incense prepares for the morn,
When tidings of gladness around
Proclaim that a Saviour was born;
Superlative news to the breast,
Replete with the faith most divine,
Where thy virtues, sweet innocence, rest,
And religion's best triumph is thine.

Let warm acclamations ascend,
Festivity, Temp'rance, be near,
And Charity, Virtue's fast friend,
The head of pale sorrow uprear.
Let Wealth all her scorn lay aside,
To Poverty's cottage repair,
Experience, the soul-lifting pride,
In robbing Distress of a care.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, December 1773

William Perfect biography

Winter Song / Wilfred Owen

Winter Song

The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.

From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam again with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.

~~
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Wilfred Owen biography

Season of Change / George Sulzbach

Season of Change

With your long red hair
alone you stand in a crowd.
I watch from the bridge
afraid of discovery.

Outside of the coffee shop
rumors of murder.
Guarded beads
you hold close in your fist.

Seasons of change
it makes no difference.
Twilight beams
bring out the crimson.

~~
George Sulabach, 20-

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

Roman Harald, Redhead, 2014. CC BY-NC-ND, Flickr Commons

George Sulzbach biography

Change / Raymond Knister

Change

I shall not wonder more, then,
But I shall know.

Leaves change, and birds, flowers,
And after years are still the same.

The sea's breast heaves in sighs to the moon,
But they are moon and sea forever.

As in other times the trees stand tense and lonely,
And spread a hollow moan of other times.

You will be you yourself,
I'll find you more, not else,
For vintage of the woeful years.

The sea breathes, or broods, or loudens,
Is bright or is mist and the end of the world;
And the sea is constant to change.

I shall not wonder more, then,
But I shall know.

~~
Raymond Knister (1899-1932)
from The Midland, December 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Raymond Knister biography

Approach of Winter / William Carlos Williams

Approach of Winter

 
The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine,—
like no leaf that ever was —
edge the bare garden.

~~
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
from Complete Collected Poems, 1906-1938, 1938

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Trees in the Wind, November 2007. Photograph taken by Dori (dori@merr.info). 

William Carlos Williams biography

December's featured poem

 

The Penny Blog's featured poem for December 2021:

Christmas Bells, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010/12/christmas-bells-henry-wadsworth.html

New poetry collection from George J. Dance

November saw the first printing of Logos, and other logoi, a second poetry collection from George J. Dance. The book collects poems written over 50 years, from 1972 to 2021. It is a companion volume to his first collection, Doggerel, and other doggerel (2015): the two books contain slightly over 100 poems, grouped in a cycle of a year. 

For now, Logos is available for purchase at Lulu.com only.  

Penny's Top 20 / November 2021

         

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in November 2021:

  1.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  2.  Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollet

  3.  Ritual Memory, Will Dockery

  4.  Skating, William Wordsworth

  5.  The Nightingales of Flanders, Grace Hazard Conkling
  6.  East Coker (II), T.S. Eliot
  7.  Autumn Movement, Carl Sandburg

  8.  Marching Men, Marjorie Pickthall
  9.  The eager note on my door..., Frank O'Hara
10.  Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost

11.  November: A pastoral poem, William Perfect
12.  The New England Boy's Song about Thanksgiving Day, L.M. Child
13.  The Snowing of the Pines, Thomas Wentworth Higginson
14.  Believe It or Not, George J. Dance
15.  The Witches' Song, William Shakespeare
16.  The Branch, AE Reiff
17.  The World's Body, AE Reiff

18.  Moonlight Alert, Yvor Winters
19.  The Motive for Metaphor, Wallace Stevens

20. Angel Standing in the Sun, AE Reiff

Source: Blogger, "Stats" 

The Snowing of the Pines / Thomas Wentworth Higginson

The Snowing of the Pines

Softer than silence, stiller than still air
Float down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves.
The forest floor its annual boon receives
That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair.
Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare
Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves
Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves
Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear.
Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way;
High up, the crows are gathering for the night;
The delicate needles fill the air; the jay
Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight;
They fall and fall, till at November’s close
The snow-flakes drop as lightly — snows on snows.

~~
Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911)
from The World's Best Poetry, 1904

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Thomas Wentworth Higginson biography

November: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

November: A pastoral poem

Ah! whither, bright god of the spring,
Are thy rays nature-chearing withdrawn?
The warblers that stretch the gay wing,
No longer enliven the lawn.
Ye breezes of softness, ah where
Are your zephyrs of fragrance exil'd?
No longer you sport through the air,
On the bosom of aether so mild.

Ye streams that ran purling along,
From your banks your own Flora is fled;
And Philomel issues no song
Thro' the verdure that cover'd her head.
The bleating of lambs from the fold,
From the valley no longer ascends;
No tale of soft passion is told
Where the beech its broad branches extends.

Ah! where is the couch of green moss,
Which I with my Delia have found,
When with pleasure we wander'd across
The daisy-embroidered ground.
No more to the close-twisted bow'r,
With the fair one delighted I run?
In coolness to pass the fond hour,
Eluding the heat of the sun.

For nature so pensive is grown,
Her tears steep in dew all the plain,
With grief I attend to her moan,
But my sorrows attend her in vain.
November, the tomb of the year,
Usurps his tyrannical stand,
His glooms in succession appear,
In succession stalk over the land.

But where does my Celadon rove,
The friend of my undisguis'd breast?
And where is that empress of love,
My Delia, with innocence bless'd?
Can November to Celadon bring
The horrors which friendship annoy?
In that bosom forgetfulness spring,
Where friendship has treasur'd each joy?

Can Delia, whose heart is the seat
Where love ever faithful is stor'd,
Too cruel desert my retreat,
By winter's rough visit explor'd?
No, Celadon, no, to complain
Of the virtues enthron'd in your heart,
Would pierce friendship's side with a pain,

'Twere ungrateful in me to impart;

For friendship, most pure in her form,
In lustre congenial is thine,
Unruffled, unhurt by the storm,
Tho' the troubles of life shall combine.
Let winter attempt to destroy
The comforts which friendship can bring,
Come, Celadon, come, we'll enjoy,
And soften November to Spring.

Nor let me of Delia complain,
Tho' the trees all their verdure resign,
Tho' the north bids his tyrannies reign,
And Phoebus for clouds cannot shine.
She comes — in her presence is love,
Her eyes are the heralds of grace;
November no longer shall prove
Of nature the squalid disgrace.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, November 1773

William Perfect biography

East Coker / T.S. Eliot (II)

                    II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

        That was a way of putting it — not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

        The houses are all gone under the sea.

        The dancers are all gone under the hill.

~~
T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
from East Coker, 1940

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

 
T.S. Eliot biography

Ritual Memory / Will Dockery

Ritual Memory

If these words of love
fell into bad timing
put them away
like a flower in a book.

This place has become a valley
all is lost here in the rain
but I am older and wiser
and understand the tricks of life

how sadness and soft light
are a natural form of life
as is cold rain
in the later part of November.

I feel so old yet not wise
foolhardy as the day I was born.
Put me away.
I make a better memory.

I will not rip it out of here.

It is an honest poem

so I will not edit it.
Why would I even want to do that?

~~
Will Dockery, 1997
from Selected Poems, 1976-2019, 2019 

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

Will Dockery biography

The eager note on my door ... / Frank O'Hara

Poem

The eager note on my door said “Call me,
call when you get in!” so I quickly threw
a few tangerines into my overnight bag,
straightened my eyelids and shoulders, and

headed straight for the door. It was autumn
by the time I got around the corner, oh all
unwilling to be either pertinent or bemused, but
the leaves were brighter than grass on the sidewalk!

Funny, I thought, that the lights are on this late
and the hall door open; still up at this hour, a
champion jai-alai player like himself? Oh fie!
for shame! What a host, so zealous! And he was

there in the hall, flat on a sheet of blood that
ran down the stairs. I did appreciate it. There are few
hosts who so thoroughly prepare to greet a guest
only casually invited, and that several months ago.

~~
Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)
from Meditations in an Emergency, 1957

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Frank O'Hara biography

The Nightingales of Flanders / Grace Hazard Conkling

The Nightingales of Flanders

"Le rossignol n'est pas mobilisé."
– A French soldier

The nightingales of Flanders,
    They had not gone to war;
A soldier heard them singing
    Where they had sung before.

The earth was torn and quaking,
    The sky about to fall;
The nightingales of Flanders,
    They minded not at all.

At intervals we heard them
    Between the guns, he said,
Making a thrilling music
    Above the listening dead.

Of woodland and of orchard
    And roadside tree bereft,
The nightingales of Flanders
    Were singing, France is left!

~~
Grace Hazard Conkling (1878-1958)
from Wilderness Songs, 1920

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Grace Hazard Conkling biography

Marching Men / Marjorie Pickthall

Marching Men

Under the level winter sky
I saw a thousand Christs go by.
They sang an idle song and free
As they went up to calvary.

Careless of eye and coarse of lip,
They marched in holiest fellowship.
That heaven might heal the world, they gave
Their earth-born dreams to deck the grave.

With souls unpurged and steadfast breath
They supped the sacrament of death.
And for each one, far off, apart,
Seven swords have rent a woman's heart.

~~
Marjorie L.C. Pickthall
from The Wood Carver's Wife, and later poems, 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the United Kingdom]

 Marjorie Pickthall biography

Autumn Movement / Carl Sandburg

Autumn Movement

from Redhaw Winds

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

~~
Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
from Poetry, October 1918

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Carl Sandburg biography

Nothing Gold Can Stay / Robert Frost

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

~~
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
from New Hampshire, 1923

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Antti Pääkkönen, Fallen Maple Leaf, 2016. CC 1.0 public domain, Wikimedia Commons

Robert Frost biography

November's featured poem

The Penny Blog's featured poem for November 2021:

The New England Boy's Song about Thanksgiving Day,
by Lydia Maria Child

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/11/new-england-boys-song-about.html 

Penny's Top 20 / October 2021

        

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in October 2021:

  1.  Autumn Maples, Archibald Lampman

  2.  Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollet

  3.  The Witches' Song, William Shakespeare

  4.  An October Evening, William Wilfred Campbell

  5.  Skating, William Wordsworth
  6.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens
  7.  Advent of Today, William Carlos Williams

  8.  October's Party, George Cooper
  9.  In October, Bliss Carman
10.  October: A pastoral poem, William Perfect

11.  To a Moth That Drinketh of the Ripe October, Emily Pfeiffer 
12.  September Night, George J. Dance
13.  Maple Leaves, Thomas Bailey Aldrich
14.  A Trivial Day in Early Autumn, Pearl Andelson Sherry
15.  Christ Walks in this Infernal District Too, Malcolm Lowry
16.  The Dwarf, Wallace Stevens
17.  The Bright Extensive Will, AE Reiff

18.  Spring Morning, A.E. Housman
19.  Autumn, T.E. Hulme

20. Mnemosyne, Trumbell Stickney

Source: Blogger, "Stats" 

The Witches' Song / William Shakespeare

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot. 

    Double, double toil and trouble;
    Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

    Double, double toil and trouble;
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches' mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

    Double, double toil and trouble;
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

~~
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
from Macbeth, 1623

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Shakespeare biography

October: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

October: A pastoral poem

Of visage deep-wrinkled with care,
His temples a chaplet surround,
With acorns and oak-leaves his hair,
And starwort with saffron is bound.
The dam'sene her purple bestows,
A sash o'er his shoulder to throw;
With negligence easy it flows
Immingled with gifts from the sloe.

His right hand the scorpion suspends,
High-lifted it writhes in the air;
From his left a rush basket impends,
Replete with the walnut and pear:
His franchise it is to invoke
The fog of blue mist on the hill,
Thick rising like columns of smoke,
Exhal'd from the vale-loving rill.

He comes — shall my muse wake the reed?
Ah where are the notes of the bough!
When whilom the beech on the mead
Spread shelter for Phillida's cow:
When Philomel's pastoral lay
Trill'd loudly her queruolous strain,
The kids with the lambkins in play,
Skipp'd frolicksome over the plain.

My muse cannot sing in the grove
And think of past transports serene,
When Zephyrs invited to love,
And Delia was extacy's queen:
When near the smooth lapse of the brook
I sought thro' the whispering vale,
The roses which painting her crook,
Compar'd to her blushes were pale.

No more to the brook must I stray,
From the whispering valley exil'd;
No longer these Zephyrs shall play
Round Delia that linger'd and smil'd:
Farewell to the white-flaunting hop,
The gardens that glow'd to the sight;
Yet the blooming arbutus I'll crop,
Present to the fair with delight.

I'll gather autumnal perfume,
The suckle shall yield her last sweet;
Convulvus offers her bloom,
To decorate Delia's retreat;
The pheasant I'd bear to my maid,
But shrink from the present with fear,
Lest into fresh sorrow betray'd,
Her eyes are suffus'd with a tear.

Pomona, in straw-colour'd vest,
With marigolds stuck in her hair,
The gossamer gauzing her breast,
Her cheeks ruddy beauty declare;
October she met in the close,
He courted her presence and shape;
Vertumnus in jealousy rose,
And thought 'twas the god of the grape.

But Bacchus I see in the vale,
The Satyrs his orgies sustain;
My path from his feasts I curtail,
Reject his incontinent train;
The fig and the vine let me bring,
Great Bacchus, to honour thy sway,
The games of the vintage to sing,
Give vigour, ye nine, to my lay.

But who is this envoy of woes,
That wakes with Aurora's first ray,
His song of complaint to disclose,
From the vine or the jessamine spray?
He sings desolation to come;
Sharp winter predicts from aloof;
My shed, social bird, be thy home,
Securely perch under my roof.

Dost grieve that the summer is past?
The trees their green ornaments shed?
That omens of winter in haste
Approaching press over thy head?
Prolong, gentle red-breast, thy strains
Contagions shall usher thy moan;
My sympathy share in thy pains,
Thy sorrows, poor bird, be my own.

When mid-day is silent around,
The gloom of ag'd cypress I seek,
The turf is with osiers fresh bound,
The cause my dejection must speak:
Lycander, my once valued friend,
Ah, muse! much indebted, essays,
In sadness from friendship to send
What elegy weeps into lays.

The virtues all pinioned in thee,
Thy solitude's sacred retreat,
Made innocence grandeur to thee,
Whose soul was serenity's seat:
False pageantry ne'er could annoy;
The gems of content were thy own;
Mild competence furnish'd a joy
Denied to the pride of a throne.

Obscurity mark'd his estate;
Yet temperate health was his lot;
He scorn'd the least wish to be great,
Whose pomp was the peace of a cot;
How fervent, sincere flow'd the strain,
With simple morality fraught;
Devoutly religious, tho' plain,
He spoke to the God of his thought.

Ambition unknown to his breast,
Unknown every clamourous strife,
The venom corrosive of rest,
That fury that harrows up life:
Yet pensively thoughtful he grew,
The mate of his youth was no more;
The friend of his age, ever true,
His feelings intensely deplore.

I saw him one day 'neath the oak
That measures a shade of extent,
His silence his misery spoke,
Deep sorrow to solitude lent:
His brow was as dark as the shade;
He sought from the path of the dell,
Nor long did he grieve in the glade,
But languishing droop'd 'till he fell.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, October 1774

William Perfect biography

Maple Leaves / Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Maple Leaves

October turned my maple's leaves to gold;
The most are gone now; here and there one lingers:
Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold,
Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.

~~
Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)
from Poems, 1885

[Poem is in the public domain world-wide]

Maasaak, Last leaves on Norway Maple in autumn, 2014. CC BY-SA, Wikimedia Commons

Thomas Bailey Aldrich biography

In October / Bliss Carman

In October

Now come the rosy dogwoods,
    The golden tulip-tree,
And the scarlet yellow maple,
    To make a day for me.

The ash-trees on the ridges,
    The alders in the swamp,
Put on their red and purple
    To join the autumn pomp.

The woodbine hangs her crimson
    Along the pasture wall,
And all the bannered sumacs
    Have heard the frosty call.

Who then so dead to valor
    As not to raise a cheer,
When all the woods are marching
    In triumph of the year?

~~
Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
from Later Poems, 1926

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Bliss Carman biography

Autumn Maples / Archibald Lampman

Autumn Maples

The thoughts of all the maples who shall name,
    When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey?
    Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay,
Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name,
Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame;
    And some with softer woe that day by day,
    So sweet and brief, should go the westward way,
Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame,
    That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous rose;
        Others for wrath have turned a rusty red,
        And some that knew not either grief or dread,
    Ere the old year should find its iron close,
Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold,
Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold.

~~
Archibald Lampman (1861-1899)
from Among the Millet, and other poems, 1888

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Archibald Lampman biography

October's Party / George Cooper

October's Party

October gave a party;
    The leaves by hundreds came —
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
    And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
    And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
    Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
    The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
    In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
    And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
    New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow,
    At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
    And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
    They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
    In jolly "hands around."

~~
George Cooper (1840-1927)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

George Cooper biography

A Trivial Day in Early Autumn / Pearl Andelson Sherry

A Trivial Day in Early Autumn

from Worker in Marble

A China lily cup
Upon a pool
Lifts up
Its bowl.

Over the pale sky
Frail clouds;
A butterfly
About the garden flowers.

Subtle
The wind
Among
The falling leaves.

~~
Pearl Andelson Sherry (1899-1966)
from Poetry, December 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Pearl Andelson Sherry biography

Advent of Today / William Carlos Williams

Advent of Today

South wind
striking in — torn
spume — trees

inverted over trees
scudding low
a sea become winged

bringing today
out of yesterday
in bursts of rain —

a darkened presence
above
detail of October grasses

veiled at once
in a downpour —
conflicting rattle of

the rain against
the storm’s slow majesty —
leaves

rising
instead of falling
the sun

coming and going
toward the
middle parts of the sky

~~
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
from Complete Collected Poems, 1906-1938, 1938

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

William Carlos Williams biography

An October Evening / William Wilfred Campbell

An October Evening

The woods are haggard and lonely,
    The skies are hooded for snow,
The moon is cold in Heaven,
    And the grasses are sere below.

The bearded swamps are breathing
    A mist from meres afar,
And grimly the Great Bear circles
    Under the pale Pole Star.

There is never a voice in Heaven,
    Nor ever a sound on earth,
Where the spectres of winter are rising
    Over the night's wan girth.

There is slumber and death in the silence,
    There is hate in the winds so keen;
And the flash of the north's great sword-blade
    Circles its cruel sheen.

The world grows agèd and wintry,
    Love's face peakèd and white;
And death is kind to the tired ones
    Who sleep in the north to-night.

~~
William Wilfred Campbell
from Poems, 1905

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

William Wilfred Campbell biography

To a Moth That Drinketh of the Ripe October / Emily Pfeiffer

To a Moth That Drinketh of the Ripe October

    I

A moth belated, sun and zephyrkist,
Trembling about a pale arbutus bell,
Probing to wildering depths its honey’d cell,—
A noonday thief, a downy sensualist!
Not vainly, sprite, thou drawest careless breath,
Strikest ambrosia from the cool-cupp’d flowers,
And flutterest through the soft, uncounted hours,
To drop at last in unawaited death;
’T is something to be glad! and those fine thrills,
Which move thee, to my lip have drawn the smile
Wherewith we look on joy. Drink! drown thine ills,
If ill have any part in thee; erewhile
May the pent force—thy bounded life, set free,
Fill larger sphere with equal ecstasy.


    II

With what fine organs art thou dower’d, frail elf!
Thy harp is pitch’d too high for dull annoy,
Thy life a love-feast, and a silent joy,
As mute and rapt as Passion’s silent self.
I turn from thee, and see the swallow sweep
Like a wing’d will, and the keen-scented hound
That snuffs with rapture at the tainted ground,—
All things that freely course, that swim or leap,—
Then, hearing glad voiced creatures men call dumb,
I feel my heart, oft sinking ’neath the weight
Of Nature’s sorrow, lighten at the sum
Of Nature’s joy; its half unfolded fate
Breathes hope — for all but those beneath the ban
Of the inquisitor and tyrant, man.

~~
Emily Pfeiffer (1827-1890)
from Sonnets and Songs, 1880

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Emily Pfeiffer biography

October's featured poem

The Penny Blog's featured poem for October:

Mnemosyne, by Trumbull Stickney

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2012/10/mnemosyne.html

Penny's Top 20 / September 2021

       

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in September 2021:

  1.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  2.  The Dwarf, Wallace Stevens

  3.  Silk Diamond, George Sulzbach

  4.  To Tame the Kingdoms Let His Angels Run, AE Reiff

  5.  September Night, George J. Dance
  6.  Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollet
  7.  Skating, William Wordsworth

  8.  On the Approach of Autumn, Amelia Opie
  9.  4 autumn American Haiku, Jack Kerouac
10.  September, Ella Wheeler Wilcox

11.  September: A pastoral poem, William Perfect
12.  East Coker (I), T.S. Eliot
13.  Lines (You go to the woods), Carolyn Sturgis Tappan
14.  A September Morning in Nebraska, C.M. Barrow
15.  Christ Walks in this Infernal District Too, Malcolm Lowry
16.  Poem with Rhythms, Wallace Stevens
17.  Large Red Man Reading, Wallace Stevens

18.  A Song for September, Thomas William Parsons
19.  June Rain, Richard Aldington

20. A June Night, Emma Lazarus

Source: Blogger, "Stats" 

A September Morning in Nebraska / C.M. Barrow

A September Morning in Nebraska

The sun has not yet risen, but his golden glow,
    Lights up the misty portals of the far off east;
The wavering shadows o’er the prairies come and go,
    And all the eerie sounds of night have ceased.

Nature’s own songsters, from the cotton trees,
    Fill all the languorous air with melody.
The corn fields rustle in the gentle morning breeze,
    And from the coming dawn the night-mist flees.

Anon a golden disc appears to view,
    Afar, o’er shimmering seas of grass and corn —
Like diamonds shine the myriad drops of dew,
    Up flies the lark, another day is born.

~~
C.M. Barrow
from Discover Poetry 

On the Approach of Autumn / Amelia Opie

Sonnet: On the Approach of Autumn

Farewell gay Summer! now the changing wind
That Autumn brings commands thee to retreat;
It fades the roses which thy temples bind,
And the green sandals which adorn thy feet.

Now flies with thee the walk at eventide,
That favouring hour to rapt enthusiasts dear;
When most they love to seek the mountain side,
And mark the pomp of twilight hastening near.

Then fairy forms around the poet throng,
On every cloud a glowing charm he sees....
Sweet Evening, these delights to thee belong:....
But now, alas! comes Autumn’s chilling breeze,
And early Night, attendant on its sway,
Bears in her envious veil sweet Fancy’s hour away.

~~
Amelia Opie (1769-1853)
from The Warrior's Return, and other poems, 1808

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Amelia Opie biography

East Coker / T.S. Eliot (I)

                        I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

        In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field,, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

                                           In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
the association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie˜
A dignified and commodious sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

        Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

~~
T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
from East Coker, 1940

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

 
T.S. Eliot biography

September: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

September: A pastoral poem

Shall sorrow dash gall on my strain,
While echo alarm'd in the dale,
Responds to compassionate pain
That flows for the partridge and quail;
Responds to the merciless gun,
If cruelty harbour a joy,
Then Doriland rise with the sun,
For privilege grants to destroy.

I sigh at the cruel decree,
My minstrelsy pity implores,
As well might the muse bid the sea
Forbear to contend with the shores:
'Tis done, and the covey must bleed,
The plume of the stubble must fall;
In silence I shrink at the deed,
For pity is deaf to my call.

Tho' nature seems prone to decay,
The coverts less russet appear;
Contracted the length of the day,
Announces the eve of the year:
September revolves with delight,
A coronet circles his head,
Emboss'd with fair blossoms of white
The hopes splendid incense has shed.

His mantle the vine leaves compose,
A hollyhock purples his hand,
Th' arbutus, the larkspur and rose
Disdain not their charms to expand:
Bloom lupines and sweet-scented peas,
The tamarisk modest in hue;
The bean clad in scarlet to please,
And aconite's prodigal blue.

His reign shall the cricket attend,
The green-coated herald of cold,
Does winter this messenger send,
His embassy drear to unfold.
But why peevish insect thus pine?
Has Fate then ordain'd thee to weep?
While querulous notes, ever thine,
Deny the refreshment of sleep.

And thou on the wings of dull sound,
Who humm'st the drear knell of the day,
O say on what circumstance bound,
Agility hastens thy way:
Why thus giant beetle to roam,
In ebony panoply dress'd?
By war art thou urg'd from thy home?
Or art thou by enemies press'd?

When ev'ning's brown shadows extend
To my bow'r, still crested with green,
Without invitation my friend
Will Celadon honour the scene.
Of Phoebus to catch the last gleam,
While friendship our numbers shall fill,
Those numbers respond from the stream
That steals from the foot of the hill.

Or when with her crimson the morn
Dispels the black dreams of the night;
Her pencil the day to adorn,
Depaints lawny scenes to the sight:
When hinds are arouz'd to their toil,
And nymphs o'er the eminence gain,
Where Cantium with many a smile,
Of Ceres receives the rude train.

O then let us in early career,
Th' industrious vulgar survey,
To mirth and to jocus give ear,
For jocus and mirth lead the day:
The plant interdicted no more,
With floscles of silver behold,
While farmers, enrich'd by its store,
Sing "Silver's the mother of gold."

Why need that the muse should essay,
Or hint to the generous breast,
That he who is happy to day,
With pity should eye the distress'd;
Ye planters this precept to learn,
See providence please to bestow,
Solicits that grateful return,
To feel for the anguish of woe.

And shall the remonstrance of need
The abject and wretched unseen,
To plenty unaided proceed,
Return with disconsolate mien;
Forbid it ye virtues, whose tears
Ere start at the plaints of distress,
Whose sympathy misery rears,
Whose arms are extended to bless.

But where now, Aonian nine,
Are your measures aetherial pour'd,
In humaniz'd cadence divine,
For whom is your melody stor'd?
The bells, o'er the mist-crested ground,
Delightfully usher a peal,
That Hymen has sanction'd the sound,
My heart is the muse that must feel.

This day to her Celadon's breast
The peerless Penelope gives,
September be ever confess'd
What honour thy empire receives.
Bless'd pair! for whom Hymen has wove
A wreath of unchangeable peace,
And supplicates blessings from Jove,
That time may affection increase.

Ye graces your beauties that lend,
Ye virtues that shed hallow'd fire,
Felicity beam on my friend,
The warmest, first lay of my lyre:
Fill, heaven, their measure of joys,
To bless their connubial solace,
Renown'd for his truth be their boys,
Their girls for her softness and grace.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, August 1774

William Perfect biography

4 autumn American Haiku / Jack Kerouac

Autumn Haiku

Cool sunny autumn day,
I’ll mow the lawn
one last time.


Autumn Wind

Bird bath thrashing
by itself —
Autumn wind.


Waiting Haiku

Waiting for the leaves
to fall —
There goes one!

Autumn Nite

Cloudy autumn nite
— cold water drips
in the sink. 

~~
Jack Kerouac (1922-1969)

[Poems are in the public domain in Canada]

Jack Kerouac biography

Silk Diamond / George Sulzbach

Silk Diamond

Silk diamond
September golden bullet
The leather horse
Rider
With bad news.

Bringer of news
Sealed in a scroll
Over the limit
Time sent
The dust devil.

Thirsty desperado
With a taste for murder
And blood
On his soul.

I will never cross the pass
By winter
The icy demon
Charms us all.

~~
George Sulzbach, 20--

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

George Sulzbach, Painting of the Lady. All rights reserved - used with permission.

George Sulzbach biography

September / Ella Wheeler Wilcox

September

My life's long radiant Summer halts at last
     And lo! beside my pathway I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
     Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
     Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid coloring of bold
     And passion-hued emotions. I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
     Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
     Now violet and rose have had their day
I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
     And call September nothing but September.

~~
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)
from Poems of Sentiment, 1906

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ella Wheeler Wilcox biography

To Tame the Kingdoms Let His Angels Run / AE Reiff

To Tame the Kingdoms Let His Angels Run

Lift up your eyes and look unto the hills,

God’s glory is declarèd from the heaven,

He warms the earth as though the living sun

That causes plants to grow and rivers run

From Him had sprung. The meadow and green tree

Lift up a branch and all in praise of Thee.

Man he created sovereign under heaven

To joy him in the light-renewing sun,

There in his veins the dancing rivers run,

But he’s as much a mine as he’s a tree

That lifts a branch and sings his praise of Thee

Who lit the dawn and raised the blooming hills.

There was an angel standing in the sun

Amid the solar flare where rivers run

Who sang, the heaven’s a plant, celestial tree

With garnished fruit that stems its praise of Thee.

When stars are trees, then galaxies are hills,

Where poets dream embodied still of heaven.

All through the night earth’s springs and rivers run

While orchards rest in fields, the apple tree

Outgrows from earth between us, me and thee.

And if clouds sink upon the summer hills,

Surround our infancy under the heaven,

Then as we grow clouds part, outshines the sun.

Is it man or heaven, the springing tree

Whose green boughs so transpire their love of thee?

All praise the growth that lies upon the hills.

Stand on your feet you men, look at the heaven,

Redemption near, he comes with light, the son

To tame the kingdoms let his angels run.

Heaven, earth, man, tree, praise the living God, thee,

Who wrought salvation, light and life upon the hills.

Rejoice you lands, he comes, the king of heaven

Whose glory so outshines the lowering sun

That spinning globe that round him ever runs

Will cease and root in his eternal tree.

~~

AE Reiff, 2021

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

AE Reiff biography

September's featured poem

 

The Penny Blog's featured poem for September 2021:

September Night, by George J. Dance

Around the campfire
smell of burning
leaves in
silence.
{...}

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010/09/september-night-george-dance.html

Penny's Top 20 / August 2021

      

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in August 2021:

  1.  The World's Body, AE Reiff 

  2.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  3.  The Sun Rising, John Donne

  4.  At the Gates of Dawn, George J. Dance

  5.  Ephemeris, Babette Deutsch
  6.  Late August, William Stanley Braithwaite
  7.  At Lord's, Francis Thompson

  8.  At the Ball Game, William Carlos Williams
  9.  The New Cricket-Ground, Edward Cracroft Lefroy
10.  August: A pastoral poem, William Perfect

11.  An August Midnight, Thomas Hardy
12.  On the Grasshopper and Cricket, John Keats
13.  A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island, Frank O'Hara
14.  An August Mood, Duncan Campbell Scott
15.  2 poems on summer's end, Emily Dickinson
16.  Penny's OS 2.0, George J. Dance
17.  God Smiles, Will Dockery

18.  The Man with the Blue Guitar, Wallace Stevens
19.  Poem with Rhythms, Wallace Stevens

20. September in the Laurentian Hills, William Wilfred Campbell

Source: Blogger, "Stats" 

Ephemeris / Babette Deutsch

Ephemeris

Above the river in a summer swoon
Hangs the still air, and in the warm embrace
Of afternoon
We too lie dumbly, full of soft delight.
The grass is sweet to smell:
We suck the white
Fresh ends of it, and the green pleasant place
Where we are lapped seems with that faint taste sweeter
Than any poppied isle in remote seas
To some divinely drowsy lotus-eater.

Long, long
We lie, and have no care for any human thing,
Save for the snatch of song
Where, bathing gaily, tawny-bodied boys
Upfling
The water round them; or from a child at play
Floats the shrill ripple of laughter far away.
And then sharp stillness, pointed by the stir
Of little winds among the boughs, wherethru
The deep sky shines impenetrably blue.

Wrapped in that golden haze we weave at will
The scents and airs of summer's subtle loom;
Regretting but the moments as they pass,
The perished bloom
Of the wan day, that like the wind is gone;
And in the growing hush we watch her die;
And watch, beneath the same impersonal sky
The wimpled river flowing greyly on.

~~
Babette Deutsch (1895-1982)
from Banners, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in the United States]

Babette Deutsch biography