August / Edmund Gosse

August

The soul is like a song-bird, and must hold
    Its silent August, or its heart would break;
    From the hot rushes of the unruffled lake
No warbler pipes, and where the elms enfold
Blackbird and thrush, no music is outrolled;
    They wait in solitude and voiceless ache,
    Till, with serenest winds, September wake
The enchanted pipes and wingéd age of gold.
So with the heart, and therefore blame thou not
    Brisk lover, that thy pensive maid is mute,
        Wandering beside thee with a downcast air;
She is not heedless, nor thy love forgot,
    But passion dons her dreamy autumn suit
        To wake renewed in beauty, freshly fair.

~~
Edmund Gosse (1849-1928)
from Firdausi in Exile, and other poems, 1885

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

Edmund Gosse biography

Peder Severin Krøyer (1851–1909), Summer evening on the beach at Skagen, 

The painter and his wife, 1899. Wikimedia Commons.

Lament of the Irish Emigrant / Helen Selina Dufferin

 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,
    Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin’ long ago,
    When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin’ fresh and green,
    And the lark sang loud and high —
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
    And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
    The day is bright as then,
The lark’s loud song is in my ear,
    And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
    And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list’nin’ for the words
    You never more may speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane,
    And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
    I see the spire from here;
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
    And my step might break your rest —
For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep
    With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary,
    For the poor make no new friends,
    But, oh! they love the better still,
    The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
    My blessin’ and my pride;
There’s nothin’ left to care for now,
    Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
    That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
    And my arms’ young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
    And the kind look on your brow —
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
    Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
    When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin’ there,
    And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,
    When your heart was sad and sore —
Oh! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,
    Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell,
    My Mary — kind and true!
But I’ll not forget you, darling!
    In the land I’m goin’ to;—
They say there’s bread and work for all,
    And the sun shines always there,—
But I’ll not forget old Ireland,
    Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
    I’ll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
    To the place where Mary lies,—
And I’ll think I see the little stile
    Where we sat side by side,
And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn,
    When first you were my bride!

~~
Helen Selina Dufferin (1807-1867)
from The Keepsake, 1840

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Helen Selina Dufferin biography

"Lament of the Irish Emigrant" sung by Tom Blackwood.

Always Marry an April Girl / Ogden Nash

Always Marry An April Girl

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true —
I love April, I love you.

~~
Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
from Verses from 1929 on, 1959

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Ogden Nash biography

"Always Marry an April Girl" read by Josh Flynn.

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time / Robert Herrick

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

~~
Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
from Hesperides, 1648

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Robert Herrick biography

"To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" courtesy Bruce Wall / Poetry Refit.

A Holiday / Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Holiday

The Wife:
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers.
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.

The Husband:
Impossible! You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.

The Wife:
The feast will be like Hamlet
Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack -
The love-light in your eye.

The Husband:
Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.

The Wife (turning):
He does not mean to wound me,
I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
And frighten care away!
Tho' poor my lot in some small cot
That were a holiday.

The Husband (musing):
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex -
Zounds! but 'tis difficult to please the sex.
I've housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.

~~
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)
from Poems of Purpose, 1916

[Poem is in the public domain wordwide]

Ella Wheeler Wilcox biography

"A Holidy" read by Aimee. Courtesy Aimee Reads Poetry.

The Farmer's Bride / Charlotte Mew

The Farmer's Bride

     Three Summers since I chose a maid,
     Too young maybe — but more’s to do
     At harvest-time than bide and woo.
            When us was wed she turned afraid
     Of love and me and all things human;
     Like the shut of a winter’s day
     Her smile went out, and ’twasn’t a woman —
            More like a little frightened fay.
                    One night, in the Fall, she runned away.

     “Out ’mong the sheep, her be,” they said,
     ’Should properly have been abed;
     But sure enough she wasn’t there
     Lying awake with her wide brown stare.
So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down
     We chased her, flying like a hare
     Before our lanterns. To Church-Town
            All in a shiver and a scare
     We caught her, fetched her home at last
            And turned the key upon her, fast.

     She does the work about the house
     As well as most, but like a mouse:
            Happy enough to chat and play
            With birds and rabbits and such as they,
            So long as men-folk keep away.
     “Not near, not near!” her eyes beseech
     When one of us comes within reach.
            The women say that beasts in stall
            Look round like children at her call.
            I’ve hardly heard her speak at all.

     Shy as a leveret, swift as he,
     Straight and slight as a young larch tree,
     Sweet as the first wild violets, she,
     To her wild self. But what to me?

     The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,
            The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,
     One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,
            A magpie’s spotted feathers lie
     On the black earth spread white with rime,
     The berries redden up to Christmas-time.
            What’s Christmas-time without there be
            Some other in the house than we!

            She sleeps up in the attic there
            Alone, poor maid. ’Tis but a stair
     Betwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,
     The soft young down of her, the brown,
The brown of her — her eyes, her hair, her hair!

~~
Charlotte Mew (1869-1928)
from The Farmer's Bride, 1921

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

Charlotte Mew biography

"The Farmer's Bride" read by Tom O'Bedlam. Courtesy SpokenVerse.

Rejoice this Day / Govinda Krishna Chettur

XVIII

Rejoice this day, for this day love is near,
And sunlight gleaming slantwise on the grass,
And hope and beauty of all things that pass
Yet come again with the returning year:
They may not die, these things that once were ours;
And love, not less, that liveth in the mind:
Therefore all ills forget, all griefs that bind,
And all unwisdom of unhappy hours:
Remembering only the great gift of bliss
Love brought to us one shining summer morn,
When on my lips you placed that shy sweet kiss:
Wherefore we sing all time with passionate praise,
Despite of pity, pain and tears forlorn,
This loveliness and glory of our days.

~~
Govinda Krishna Chettur (1898-1936)
from The Triumph of Love: A sonnet sequence, 1932

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

Govinda Krishna Chettur biography

An April Fool of Long Ago / Jean Blewett

An April Fool of Long Ago

The Squire, The Canterbury Tales,
Ellesmere MS. Wikimedia Commons.

In powdered wig and buckled shoe,
Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay,
The wealthy squire rode forth to woo
Upon a first of April day.

He would forget his lofty birth,
His spreading acres, and his pride,
And Betty, fairest maid on earth,
Should be his own — his grateful bride.

The maid was young, and he was old;
The maid was good to look upon.
Naught cared she for his land or gold,
Her love was for the good squire's son.

He found her as the noonday hush
Lay on the world, and called her name.
She looked up, conscious, and her blush
A tender interest did proclaim.

For he was Hubert's sire, and she
To keep a secret tryst did go.
He said: "Methinks she cares for me" —
That April fool of long ago.

The flattered squire his suit did press
Without delay. "Say, wilt thou come,"
He said, with pompous tenderness,
"And share my wealth and grace my home?"

"Kind sir," the lovely Betty cried,
"I'm but a lass of low degree."
"The love that is controlled by pride
Is not true love at all," quoth he.

"I hold a man should woo and wed
Where'er he wills — should please himself."
"There is the barrier strong," she said,
"Of pedigree, and place, and pelf.

"Could one so lowly hope to grace
Your home?" Right proud his air and tone:
"You're pure of heart and fair of face;
Dear Betty, you would grace a throne!"

"Since you so highly think of me" —
Her tears and laughter were at strife —
"You will not mind so much, maybe,
That I am Hubert's promised wife."

Pale went the good squire's florid cheek,
His wrath flamed out — but Betty stood,
Brown-haired, red-lipped, blue-eyed and meek,
A sight to make a bad man good.

She won on him. "But why this guile —
This secrecy?" His voice was rough.
"We feared," she whispered, with a smile,
"You would not think me good enough."

"An April fool am I. Come, come —
My offer stands. As Hubert's wife,"
He laughed, "you'll share my wealth and home
And brighten up a lonely life."

He kissed her cheek and rode away.
Unbroken was his heart, I wist,
For he was thinking of a day —
A day back in youth's rosy mist —

And of a form and of a face.
"My dear, dead love," he whispered low,
The while he rode at sober pace,
That April fool of long ago.

~~
Jean Blewett (1872-1954)
from The Cornflower, and other poems, 1906

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

Jean Blewett biography

"An April Fool of Long Ago" read by AI. Courtesy Reciting Literature.

It shall be, then, upon a summer's day – Donc, ce sera par un clair jour d'ete / Paul Verlaine

It shall be, then, upon a summer's day

It shall be, then, upon a summer's day:
The sun, my joy's accomplice, bright shall shine,
And add, amid your silk and satin fine,
To your dear radiance still another ray;

The heavens, like a sumptuous canopy,
Shall shake out their blue folds to droop and trail
About our happy brows, that shall be pale
With so much gladness, such expectancy;

And when day closes, soft shall be the air
That in your snowy veils, caressing, plays,
And with soft-smiling eyes the stars shall gaze
Benignantly upon the wedded pair.

~~
translated by Gertrude Hall (1863-1961)
from Poems of Paul Verlaine, 1895

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


Donc, ce sera par un clair jour d'été

Donc, ce sera par un clair jour d'été;
Le grand soleil, complice de ma joie,
Fera, parmi le satin et la soie,
Plus belle encor votre chère beauté;

Le ciel tout bleu, comme une haute tente,
Frissonnera somptueux à longs plis
Sur nos deux fronts heureux qu'auront pâlis
L'émotion du bonheur et l'attente;

Et quand le soir viendra, l'air sera doux
Qui se jouera, caressant, dans vos voiles,
Et les regards paisibles des étoiles
Bienveillamment souriront aux époux.

~~
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
from La Bonne Chanson, 1870

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Paul Verlaine biography
Gertrude Hall biography

Let me not to the marriage of true minds / William Shakespeare

CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
     If this be error and upon me prov'd,
     I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

~~
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
from Shakespeare's Sonnets (London: John Lane, 1899)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

"Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds" recited by Laurence Olivier. Courtesy Shakespeare Network.

William Shakespeare biography
Shakespeare's Sonnets
Analysis of Sonnet 116

Wedding Hymn / Sidney Lanier

Wedding Hymn

Thou God, whose high, eternal Love
Is the only blue sky of our life,
Clear all the Heaven that bends above
The life-road of this man and wife.
May these two lives be but one note
In the world’s strange-sounding harmony,
Whose sacred music e’er shall float
Through every discord up to Thee.
As when from separate stars two beams
Unite to form one tender ray:
As when two sweet but shadowy dreams
Explain each other in the day:
So may these two dear hearts one light
Emit, and each interpret each.
Let an angel come and dwell tonight
In this dear double-heart, and teach.

~~
Sidney Lanier (1842-1881)
from Poems, 1891.

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Sidney Lanier biography

"Wedding Hymn" read by Narad. Courtesy Poems for Seekers.

Afterglow / George J. Dance

Afterglow

My darling, on this night of Valentine's, 
Excuse me while I find a way to say 
I love you, knowing I could never pay 
For thirty years with only fourteen lines. 
But let me try to say just what I mean: 
That in the depths of February's chill, 
As long as I can have you with me still, 
It never will be dark or cold, Maureen; 
For, holding you and looking at the snow, 
     I see a light from thirty years ago 
Still blazing, gleaming, dazzling all below! 
And looking in your eyes, Maureen, I know 
     A passion from as many years ago, 
Which warms my body with its afterglow. 

~~
George J. Dance, 2007

from Logos, and other logoi, 2021

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

George J. Dance biography
Valentine's Day on The Penny Blog

A Decade / Amy Lowell

       
A Decade

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.

---
Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
from Pictures of the Floating World, 1919

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

Amy Lowell biography

"At Night" read by Narad. Courtesy The Mother & Sri Aurobindo.