Monday, November 4, 2013

Of an Orchard.

By Katharine Tynan Hinkson (1861–1931)
GOOD is an Orchard, the Saint saith,
To meditate on life and death,
With a cool well, a hive of bees,
A hermit’s grot below the trees.
Good is an Orchard: very good,        5
Though one should wear no monkish hood;
Right good when Spring awakes her flute,
And good in yellowing time of fruit:
Very good in the grass to lie
And see the network ’gainst the sky,        10
A living lace of blue and green
And boughs that let the gold between.
The bees are types of souls that dwell
With honey in a quiet cell;
The ripe fruit figures goldenly        15
The soul’s perfection in God’s eye.
Prayer and praise in a country home
Honey and fruit: a man might come
Fed on such meats to walk abroad
And in his Orchard talk with God.        20
Use this to write all your poetry!

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Youth and Maidenhood.

By Sarah Williams (1837–1868)
LIKE a drop of water is my heart
  Laid upon her soft and rosy palm,
Turn’d whichever way her hand doth turn,
  Trembling in an ecstasy of calm.
Like a broken rose-leaf is my heart,        5
  Held within her close and burning clasp,
Breathing only dying sweetness out,
  Withering beneath the fatal grasp.
Like a vapoury cloudlet is my heart,
  Growing into beauty near the sun,        10
Gaining rainbow hues in her embrace,
  Melting into tears when it is done.
Like mine own dear harp is this my heart,
  Dumb without the hand that sweeps its strings;
Tho’ the hand be careless or be cruel,        15
  When it comes my heart breaks forth and sings.

Thursday, October 31, 2013


The Library of Congress

Out in the pasture cool and green,
Where the murmuring brook is seen,
Hurrying its way in its noisy glee
To mingle its waves with the dark blue sea,
I sit and watch, while the shadows creep,
The quiet ways of a flock of sheep.

I watch their ways as they slowly pass,
Stopping to pluck at the tender grass,
And my thoughts go back to the fields once trod,
By the sinless feet of the "Lamb of God,"
Of the sweet words uttered and dear commands
'Mongst which was this one, "Feed my lambs."

But as I sit in the waning light
I notice the sheep are not all white,
There are two black sheep with their white wooled brothers,
But they run with the flock and eat grass with the others,
And as I glance from left to right
I wonder if sheep know black from white.

But list! there comes from among the sheep
A voice that counsels both low and sweet,
And it says, we sheep can ne'er decide,
For the blackest sheep are white inside.
So we go by this, "judge not thy brother,"
And dwell in peace and love each other.

In the pasture green of this world of ours
There are many thistles and many flowers,
And the time ne'er'll come 'til we sleep our last sleep,
When a flock will be found without its black sheep.
I've wondered sometimes if in the last great day
When the good and the bad shall go their way,
We'll not be astonished and doubt our sight,
To see our black sheep turn out white.

The above pretty poem was written by Mrs. Twing when seventeen years of age. Since then she has become famous as the medium for the spiritual writings of Samuel Bowles, late Editor of the Springfield (Mass.) Republican, entitled: No. 1, Experiences of Samuel Bowles (late editor of the Springfield, Mass., Republican) In Spirit Life; or Life as he now sees it from a Spiritual Stand-Point. Written through the mediumship of Carrie E. S. Twing, of Westfield, N. Y. Price,

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Bride Song.

By Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830–1894)
From ‘The Prince’s Progress’

TOO late for love, too late for joy,

  Too late, too late!
You loiter’d on the road too long,
  You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch        5
  Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
  Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
  You made it wait.        10
Ten years ago, five years ago,
  One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
  Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face        15
  Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap’d,
  The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
  To melt the snow.        20
Is she fair now as she lies?
  Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
  With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,        25
  White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
  And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
  Cast off the care?        30
We never saw her with a smile
  Or with a frown;
Her bed seem’d never soft to her,
  Though toss’d of down;
She little heeded what she wore,        35
  Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
  Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show’d in her locks
  That used to be so brown.        40
We never heard her speak in haste:
  Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
  As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise        45
  And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
  No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
  That she might run to greet.        50
You should have wept her yesterday,
  Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
  That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,        55
  But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
  Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
  Cut down and spread.        60
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Monday, October 28, 2013


Dora  Read Goodale.
RARE nights have been, but never night like this!

Never so softly breathed the ebbing gale
Where, in locked slumber, rolls the interval
Under the brown edge of the precipice!
Oh, softly, from the purple hushed abyss
With all its heavenly legions streaming pale,
The moon, bright-orbed behind her crystal veil,
Melts to this rude world in a stainless kiss!
Such is the hour when skyey forces. hover;
The prisoned spirit leaps to burst its bars,
Earth's dullest mortal thrilling like a lover-.
Poor shepherd dazed beneath that gulf of stars!
Till time and sense and rock and sand and sea
Fade in the white glare of immensity.



Louise Chandler Moulton.
We sit and chat in the familiar place,-

We two, where in those other years were three,Till,

suddenly, you turn your eyes from me,

And in the empty air I see a face,

Serenely smiling with the old-time grace,

And we are three again. All silently

The third guest entered; and as silent we,

Held mute by very awe for some brief space.

And then we question, Has he come to stay?Was

heaven lonely to the child of earth?

Was there no nectar in immortal bliss

To warm lips thirsting for a mortal kiss?

Has the new lesson taught the old love's worth?

The still ghost hears, and smiles, and - goes his way.

Love Not.

By Caroline Elizabeth Sarah (Sheridan) Norton

LOVE not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay!
  Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs—
Things that are made to fade and fall away,
  When they have blossom’d but a few short hours.
                        Love not, love not!        5
Love not, love not! The thing you love may die—
  May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
  Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.
                        Love not, love not!        10
Love not, love not! The thing you love may change,
  The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange;
  The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
                        Love not, love not!        15
Love not, love not! O warning vainly said
  In present years, as in the years gone by!
Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head,
  Faultless, immortal—till they change or die!
                        Love not, love not!        20
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