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.

Thanksgiving / Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ms. Jones, Our Almost Traditional Thanksgiving Dinner, 2005 (cropped).

CC BY 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Thanksgiving

We walk on starry fields of white
    And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
    We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
    To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
    Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
    Upon our thought and feeling.
They hand about us all the day,
    Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
    We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives,
    And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year
    But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
    To brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
    Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
    While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
    Of worry or of trouble;
Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,
    Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
    To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
    To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
    Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
    Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
    As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
    A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

~~
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)
from Custer, and other poems, 1896

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Ella Wheeler Wilcox biography

"Thanksgiving" read by WarmVoice.

Ballad of the Goodly Fere / Ezra Pound

Ballad of the Goodly Fere

Simon Zelotes speaketh it sometime after the Crucifixion.

Ha' we lost the goodliest fere o' all
For the priests and the gallows tree?
Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O' ships and the open sea.

When they came wi' a host to take Our Man
His smile was good to see,
"First let these go!" quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Or I'll see ye damned," says he.

Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
"Why took ye not me when I walked about
Alone in the town?" says he.

Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wine
When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere
But a man o' men was he.

I ha' seen him drive a hundred men
Wi' a bundle o' cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house
For their pawn and treasury.

They'll no' get him a' in a book I think
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere
But aye loved the open sea.

If they think they ha' snared our Goodly Fere
They are fools to the last degree.
"I'll go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Though I go to the gallows tree."

"Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
"Ye shall see one thing to master all:
'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree."

A son of God was the Goodly Fere
That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men.
I have seen him upon the tree.

He cried no cry when they drave the nails
And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue
But never a cry cried he.

I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between,
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea,

Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.

A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.

I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.

~~
Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
From Exultations, 1909

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

Ezra Pound biography

"Ballad of the Goodly Fere" read by SweetSheet. Courtesy YouTube.

Winter Twilight / Bliss Carman

Winter Twilight

Along the wintry skyline,
Crowning the rocky crest,
Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees
Against the saffron west,—
Its gray and purple network
Of branching tracery
Outspread upon the lucent air,
Like weed within the sea.

The scarlet robe of autumn
Renounced and put away,
The mystic Earth is fairer still,—
A Puritan in gray.
The spirit of the winter,
How tender, how austere!
Yet all the ardor of the spring
And summer's dream are here.

Fear not, O timid lover,
The touch of frost and rime!
This is the virtue that sustained
The roses in their prime.
The anthem of the northwind
Shall hallow thy despair,
The benediction of the snow
Be answer to thy prayer.

And now the star of evening
That is the pilgrim's sign,
Is lighted in the primrose dusk,—
A lamp before a shrine.
Peace fills the mighty minster,
Tranquil and gray and old,
And all the chancel of the west
Is bright with paling gold.

A little wind goes sifting
Along the meadow floor,—
Like steps of lovely penitents
Who sighingly adore.
Then falls the twilight curtain,
And fades the eerie light,
And frost and silence turn the keys
In the great doors of night.

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

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

Bliss Carman 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]

"The Nightingales of Flanders" read for LibriVox by Nemo. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.

(Poem begins at 44:35)

Grace Hazard Conkling biography

Summer Day / John McClure

Summer Day

I walked upon a little hill
     Where the wind came running by
With quick march-music in my feet
     And a dream before my eye.

I walked among the slender flowers
     That nodded from the grass,
I heard them laugh like city-folk
     To see a poet pass.

And I laughed to the laughing flowers
     And the white clouds in the sky,
And I dreamed a dream and forgot it
     While the wind went running by.

~~
John McClure (1893-1956)
from Airs and Ballads, 1918

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

John McClure biography

You went away in summertime / F.O. Call

You went away in summertime 

You went away in summertime
When leaves and flowers were young,
And birds still lingered in the fields
With many songs unsung.

Tm glad it was in summertime
When skies were clear and blue,
I could not say good-bye to you
And bear the winter too.

~~

F.O. Call (1878-1956)

from Acanthus and Wild Grape, 1920

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

Marcus Stone, The Parting by the River, 1865. Public domain, Wikimedia Commons

F.O. Call biography

I started Early / Emily Dickinson

[656]

I started Early – Took my Dog –
And visited the Sea –
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me –

And Frigates – in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands –
Presuming Me to be a Mouse –
Aground – upon the Sands –

But no Man moved Me – till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe –
And past my Apron – and my Belt
And past my Bodice – too –

And made as He would eat me up –
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve –
And then – I started – too –

And He – He followed – close behind –
I felt His Silver Heel
Opon my Ancle – Then My Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl –

Until We met the Solid Town –
No One He seemed to know –
And bowing – with a Mighty look –
At me – The Sea withdrew –

~~

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Emily Dickinson biography

"I started Early" read by Blair Brown; animation by Maureen Selwood.

Courtesy PoetryEverywherePTV.

Twilight on Sixth Avenue / Charles G.D. Roberts

Twilight on Sixth Avenue

Over the tops of the houses
    Twilight and sunset meet.
The green, diaphanous dusk
    Sinks to the eager street.

Astray in the tangle of roofs
    Wanders a wind of June.
The dial shines in the clock-tower
    Like the face of a strange-scrawled moon.

The narrowing lines of the houses
    Palely begin to gleam,
And the hurrying crowds fade softly
    Like an army in a dream.

Above the vanishing faces
    A phantom train flares on
With a voice that shakes the shadows, –
    Diminishes, and is gone.

And I walk with the journeying throng
    In such a solitude
As where a lonely ocean
    Washes a lonely wood.

~~
Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
from The Book of the Native, 1896

"Twilight on Sixth Avenue" read by Nemo for LibriVox. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.

(Poem begins at 9:50)

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

Charles G.D. Roberts biography

In June / Ethelwyn Wetherald

In June

The trees are full, the winds are tame,
The fields are pictures in a frame
    Of leafy roads and fair abodes,
Steeped in content too large for name.

Across a slender bridge of night
The luminous days are swift in flight,
    As though 'twere wrong to cover song
And scent and greenness from the light.

Within the snowy clouds above
Sits viewless Peace, a brooding dove;
    For every nest there beats a breast,
For every love some answering love.

The ways are thronged with angel wings,
The heart with angel whisperings;
    And as it seems in happy dreams
The bird of gladness sings and sings.

~~
Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857-1940)
from The Last Robin: Lyrics and sonnets, 1907

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

Ethelwyn Wetherald biography

Autumn Twilight / Harry Kemp

Autumn Twilight

Cornwall Bridge, Connecticut

Rich afterglows of Autumn
Fill all the world with light
And elm and oak and maple
Loom up like fire in flight,
And golden is the valley,
And golden is the hill,
And golden is the first star
At twilight's window-sill.

~~
Harry Kemp (1883-1960)
from Chanteys and Ballads, 1920

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

Harry Kemp biography

Whilst Shepherds Watch't / Nahum Tate

Whilst Shepherds Watch't

Whilst Shepherds watch'd their flocks by night,
    All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
    And glory shone around.

Fear not, said he, for mighty dread
    Had seized their troubled mind,
Glad tidings of great joy I bring
    To you and all mankind.

To you in David's town this day
    Is born of David's line
A Saviour, which is Christ the Lord;
    And this shall be the sign.

The heavenly Babe you there shall find,
    To human view display'd,
All meanly wrapt in swaddling bands
    And in a manger laid.

Thus spake the Seraph, and forthwith
    Appeared a heavenly throng
Of Angels praising God, and thus
    Address'd their joyful song:

All glory be to God on high,
    And to the earth be peace,
Good-will henceforth from Heav'n to men
    Begin and never cease.

~~
Nahum Tate (1652-1715)
from A Supplement to the New Version of Psalms, 1700

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Nahum Tate biography

"While Shepherds watched their flocks by night" sung by King's College Cambridge, 2011. Courtesy spiritdei.

Hallowe'en in a Suburb / H.P. Lovecraft

Hallowe'en in a Suburb

The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
     And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
     And the harpies of upper air,
     That flutter and laugh and stare.

For the village dead to the moon outspread
     Never shone in the sunset’s gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
     Where the rivers of madness stream
     Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.

A chill wind weaves thro’ the rows of sheaves
     In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
     And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
     For harvests that fly and fail.

Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
     That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral pow’r
     Spreads sleep o’er the cosmic throne
     And looses the vast unknown.

So here again stretch the vale and plain
     That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
     Sprung out of the tomb’s black maw
     To shake all the world with awe.

And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
     The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
     Shall some day be with the rest,
     And brood with the shades unblest.

Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
     And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
     Of horror and death are penn’d,
     For the hounds of Time to rend.

~~
H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)
from The National Amateur, March 1926

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

H.P. Lovecraft bibliography

"Hallowe'en in a Suburb" read by Nick Gisburne. Courtesy Nick Gisburne (Gisburne2000).

Besides the Autumn poets sing / Emily Dickinson

Besides the Autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze –

A few incisive mornings –      
A few Ascetic eves –
Gone – Mr Bryant’s “Golden Rod” –
And Mr Thomson’s “sheaves.”

Still, is the bustle in the brook –
Sealed are the spicy valves –
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many Elves –

Perhaps a squirrel may remain –
My sentiments to share –
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind –      
Thy windy will to bear!

~~

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Emily Dickinson biography

"Besides the Autumn poets sing" read by Erin Carlstrom. Courtesy The Reader.

Blue Squills / Sara Teasdale

Blue Squills

How many million Aprils came
     Before I ever knew
How white a cherry bough could be,
     A bed of squills, how blue!

And many a dancing April
     When life is done with me,
Will lift the blue flame of the flower
     And the white flame of the tree.

Oh, burn me with your beauty, then,
     Oh, hurt me, tree and flower,
Lest in the end death try to take
     Even this glistening hour.

O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees,
     O sunlit white and blue,
Wound me, that I through endless sleep
     May bear the scar of you.

~~
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
from Flame and Shadow, 1920

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

Sara Teasdale biography

"Blue Squills" read by The Wordman. Courtesy poemrecital.

The Snow-Blossoms / Clark Ashton Smith

The Snow-Blossoms

But yestereve the winter trees
Reared leafless, blackly bare,
Their twigs and branches poignant-marked
Upon the sunset-flare.

White-petaled, opens now the dawn,
And in its pallid glow,
Revealed, each leaf-lorn, barren tree
Stands white with flowers of snow.

~~
Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961)
from The Star-Treader, and other poems, 1912

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

Clark Ashton Smith biography

A Christmas Carol / Charles Dickens

A Christmas Carol

I care not for spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne:
He wooes them amain with his treacherous rain.
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself
Nor his own changing mind an hoar.
He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,
He'll wither your youngest flower.

Let the summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever's train;
And when love is too strong, it don't last long.
As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,
Than the broad and onblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let autumn air be never so fair.
It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A thumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We'll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we'll keep him up, while there's bite or sup.
And in fellowship good we'll part.

In his fine, honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They're no disgrace, for there's m«ch the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing, till the roof doth ring.
And it echoes from wall to wall —
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!

~~
Charles Dickens (1812-1870), 1837
from Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens, 1903

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Charles Dickens biography

"A Christmas Carol" read by Douglas D. Anderson for LibriVox. Courtesy freeaudiobooks84.

Feuilles d'Automne / Duncan Campbell Scott

Feuilles d'Automne

Gather the leaves from the forest
  And blow them over the world,
The wind of winter follows
  The wind of autumn furled.

Only the beech tree cherishes
  A leaf or two for ruth,
Their stems too tough for the tempest,
  Like thoughts of love and of youth.

You may sit by the fire and ponder
  While darkness veils the pane,
And fear that your memories are rushing away
  In the wind and the rain.

But you'll find them in the quiet
  When the clouds race with the moon,
Making the tender silver sound
  Of a beech in the month of June.

For you cannot rob the memory
  Of the leaves it loves the best;
The wind of time may harry them,
  It rushes away with the rest.

~~
Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947)
from Lundy's Lane, and other poems, 1916

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

Duncan Campbell Scott biography

Winter Night / Robert Hillyer

Winter Night

The snow lies crisp beneath the stars.
On roofs and on the ground,
Late footsteps crunch along the paths,
There is no other sound.

So cold it is the very trees
Snap in the rigid frost,
A dreadful night to think on them, —
The homeless and the lost.

The dead sleep sheltered in the tomb;
The rich drink in the hall;
The Virgin and the Holy Child
Crouch shivering in a stall.

~~
Robert Hillyer (1895-1961)
from Sonnets, and other lyrics, 1917

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

Robert Hillyer biography

When on a Summer's Morn / W.H. Davies

When on a Summer's Morn

When on a summer's morn I wake,
     And open my two eyes,
Out to the clear, born-singing rills
     My bird-like spirit flies.

To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush,
     Or any bird in song;
And common leaves that hum all day,
     Without a throat or tongue.

And when Time strikes the hour for sleep,
     Back in my room alone,
My heart has many a sweet bird's song —
     And one that's all my own.

~~
W.H. Davies (1871-1940)
from The Bird of Paradise, and other poems, 1914

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

W.H. Davies biography