White Paper (Sydney Wheeler Jephcott Poems)
SNOWY-SMOOTH beneath the pen-Richest field that iron ploughs,Germinating thoughts of men,Tho' no heaven its rain allows.There they ripen, thousand-fold;And our ...
SNOWY-SMOOTH beneath the pen-Richest field that iron ploughs,Germinating thoughts of men,Tho' no heaven its rain allows.There they ripen, thousand-fold;And our ...
Watch the white dawn gleam,To the thunder of hidden guns.I hear the hot shells screamThrough skies as sweet as a ...
When fades the light along the western sky, When dies the last dim rose to subtlest gray,When darkling mere and mead ...
Wild roses in day-long rain! And the train has stopped,with panes streaming with dazzling rain-gleamand the bushes' wild light in the wet and ...
He was in love with Truth and knew her near-Her comrade, not her suppliant on the knee:She gave him wild ...
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees,And day-long, night-long, the ...
Gazing upon the toiling seas,In gloomy rows the silent captives sate;And as the ship rode off before the breeze,They murmured ...
Proemion.Immeasurable Earth!Through the loud vast and populacy of Heaven,Tempested with gold schools of ponderous orbs,That cleav'st with deep-revolting harmoniesPassage perpetual, ...
Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth In the working earth, And the wonderful moon shines bright Through the soft spring night, The innocent flowers in the limitless woods are springing Far and away With the sound and the perfume of May, And ever up from the south the happy birds are winging, The waters glitter and leap and play While the grey hawk soars. But far in an open glade of the forest set Where the rapid plunges and roars, Is a ruined fort with a name that men forget,— A shelterless pen With its broken palisade, Behind it, musket in hand, Beyond message or aid In this savage heart of the wild, Mere youngsters, grown in a moment to men, Grim and alert and arrayed, The comrades of Daulac stand. Ever before them, night and day, The rush and skulk and cry Of foes, not men but devils, panting for prey; Behind them the sleepless dream Of the little frail-walled town, far away by the plunging stream, Of maiden and matron and child, With ruin and murder impending, and none but they To beat back the gathering horror Deal death while they may, And then die. Day and night they have watched while the little plain Grew dark with the rush of the foe, but their host Broke ever and melted away, with no boast But to number their slain; And now as the days renew Hunger and thirst and care Were they never so stout, so true, Press at their hearts; but none Falters or shrinks or utters a coward word, Though each setting sun Brings from the pitiless wild new hands to the Iroquois horde, And only to them despair. Silent, white-faced, again and again Charged and hemmed round by furious hands, Each for a moment faces them all and stands In his little desperate ring; like a tired bull moose Whom scores of sleepless wolves, a ravening pack, Have chased all night, all day Through the snow-laden woods, like famine let loose; And he turns at last in his track Against a wall of rock and stands at bay; Round him with terrible sinews and teeth of steel They charge and recharge; but with many a furious plunge and wheel, Hither and thither over the trampled snow, He tosses them bleeding and torn; Till, driven, and ever to and fro Harried, wounded, and weary grown, His mighty strength gives way And all together they fasten upon him and drag him down. So Daulac turned him anew With a ringing cry to his men In the little raging forest glen, And his terrible sword in the twilight whistled and slew. And all his comrades stood With their backs to the pales, and fought Till their strength was done; The thews that were only mortal flagged and broke Each struck his last wild stroke, And they fell one by one, And the world that had seemed so good Passed like a dream and was naught. And then the great night came With the triumph-songs of the foe and the flame Of the camp-fires. Out of the dark the soft wind woke, The song of the rapid rose alway And came to the spot where the comrades lay, Beyond help or care, With none but the red men round them To gnash their teeth and stare. All night by the foot of the mountain The little town lieth at rest, The sentries are peacefully pacing; And neither from East nor from West Is there rumour of death or of danger; None dreameth tonight in his bed That ruin was near and the heroes That met it and stemmed it are dead. But afar in the ring of the forest, Where the air is so tender with May And the waters are wild in the moonlight, They lie in their silence of clay. The numberless stars out of heaven Look down with a pitiful glance; And the lilies asleep in the forest Are closed like the lilies of France.(Archibald Lampman)
Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One, High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail. Where ...
The unsoiled hand, the sleek, black coat, The senile, ledger-haunted hours,The knowledge that my freeman's vote Is humbly cast to ...
A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;Day-long she had worked almost ...
As first I remember him: A red man, and tall, Great Toll, the blacksmith, filled my childish eye.At its first ...
Ah, it was here--September And silence filled the air-- I came last year to remember, And muse, ...
Bavaria, 1946The clairvoyante, a major general's wife, The secretaries' sibyl, read the letters They brought her from their GI soldier-lovers, ...
Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay O'erbrims the mows beyond the time-warped eaves, Up to the rafters where the spider weaves, Though few flies wander his secluded way. Through a high chink one lonely golden ray, Wherein the dust is dancing, slants unstirred. In the dry hush some rustlings light are heard, Of winter-hidden mice at furtive play. Far down, the cattle in their shadowed stalls, Nose-deep in clover fodder's meadowy scent, Forget the snows that whelm their pasture streams, The frost that bites the world beyond their walls. Warm housed, they dream of summer, well content In day-long contemplation of their dreams.(Charles G. D. Roberts)
(_The Maine Coast_) It is so, O sea! wild roses Bloom here in the scent of your ...
I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, what's to ...
Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names And then away, away, like whirling flames; And now fled by, mist-covered, ...
Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went, Following the beasts upon a fresh spring day; But since his horn-tipped bow ...
IN the harbor, in the island, in the Spanish Seas, Are the tiny white houses and the orange trees, And ...
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