He prevents this mass destruction by focusing the energy. They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. The very in we Had strange, I but mark; The of seemed to make A rustling in the dark. Does your gaze, so far away, See the road to Arcady? From near-horizoned, little lands they come, From barren country-side and deathly slum, From bleakest wastes, from lands of aching drouth, From grape-hung valleys of the smiling South, From chains and prisons, ay, from horrid fear, Mark you the furtive eye, the listening ear! There are almost infinite possibilities for either one to happen. Her brooding glances roam Above the pushing crowd to her far home, And slow she smiles to think how fine 'twill be When they so rich! We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess. And all the glory seems so near A common man may win it— When every earth-bound lakelet holds A million stars within it. Of the world's roads I am weary— You, with song so brave and cheery, Happy troubadour must be On the way to Arcady? He strove, but uselessly— The very clouds which veiled the heaven they sought Hid from his eyes the hearts of them he taught! They tended her For twenty years.
This spirit is my own happy ghost— But I, myself,—alas! Content was I to dwell in it— Its door was fast against the wind With all the gusty swell of it. And does he smile to hear the song an angel stole from me? This is especially poignant in light of envisioning fireplaces surrounded by friends who've been apart, catching up at Thanksgiving, realizing that so much changes so quickly. Somewhere—just beyond— My soul awoke with a rapturous sigh Would I wake my soul for a night bird's cry? My gems, the pearl upon the leaf At mystic hour of the morn; My gold, the gold that rims the sea A moment ere the day is born; And on my breezy couch o' nights The stars shine down—my taper lights! Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. Surely a spell, creation-old, was made For you, O lake of silences, that all Earth's fretting voices here should muted fall, As if a finger on their lips were laid! How you were born of it? Hear the grass growing Sweet for the mowing; Hear the stars sing As they travel around— Grass blade and star dust, You, I, and all of us, One with the cause of us, Deep underground! I'll leave the out door swinging, As it might swing for you And on the clean swept door-sill Wild roses I shall strew— So when pale Death comes trailing Her branch of sodden rue She'll gather up my gay content And know contentment too! The world, so ancient yesterday, To-day seems strangely newer; All that was wearisome and stale Has wrapped itself in rosy veil— The wraith of winter, grown so pale That smiling spring peeps through her! Fool I was—oh, fool was I Who should know the ways of them! You are waste, You are ruin, For where is that which once you were? The second section is the one of interest here, as it contains: 'All Souls' Day', 'The Promised Land', 'Clairvoyance', and 'The Window'. The night sought out a hidden place I had forgot and sighed in it. The Devereux Farm is by the sea, some miles from Lynn. So much for drafty castles.
Upon the mountain slopes he gazed, Where the great pine trees grow, Then gashed their mighty sides and laid Their singing branches low. They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. In 'Clairvoyance', Edward Strode is an expert on Japanese swords and has recently acquired a new specimen for his collection, but there is some doubt concerning the authenticity of the tsuba sword guard. For you every pool is the sky, Breaking clouds chasing through,— A heaven so instant and near That you bathe in its blue! Is it the secret kinship which each new life is given To link it by an age-long chain to those whose lives are through, That wheresoever he may go, by fate or fancy driven, The home-star rises in his heart to keep the compass true? Then, that the gods might hear their voice On purple days of spring, They sought the tossing, pine-clad slope And made a place to sing. Song is my mistress, fickle she, Yet dear beyond all dearth of speech; Child of the winds of land and sea She charms me with the charm of each— Full soft and sweet she sings and then She sings wild songs for sailor-men! See—on that bench beside the busy door— There sleeps a Roman born: upon the floor His wife, dark-haired and handsome, takes her rest, Their black-eyed baby tugging at her breast. In 'All Souls' Day', Mildmay Fane narrowly escapes death after being attacked and left for de A Fire of Driftwood: A Collection of Short Stories was published by William Heinemann Ltd in 1932, a decade before Broster's more well-known volume Couching at the Door. The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again.
Dorothy Kathleen Broster 1877 - 1950 produced 15 popular historical novels between 1911 and 1947. These satin shoon and green-lit gems are terrible to me; I hear a murmur on the wind, the murmur of the sea! The Devereux Farm is by the sea, some miles from Lynn. The lone trail and the known trail, the trail you must take on trust, And never a trail without a grave where a wanderer's bones are thrust— Never a look or a turning back till the dust shall claim the dust! They looked but could not see. A delicious drive with F. I would wear a grass green dress, Dew pearls for my gems—no less Now can comfort me. The tired lines Etch her white face with look so wholly pure I tremble—dare I speak to her of aught? If you think it will end in ice, move to the left.
We sat within the farm-house old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. Longfellow readily admitted that the harbor and lighthouse, which he visited the same day, could not be seen from the windows of the farm-house. Edward Stirling for the London stage in 1922. I heard the winds of the worlds sweep by To follow the pipes of Pan! And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, — Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again. And of them all the years take toll; they pass As shadows flit above the prairie grass.
Ay, should our magic straightly wake Atlantis from her sea-rocked sleep And we on some Processional Look down where dancing maidens leap, If one flushed maid Beside us stayed To tie more firm her loosened braid— Would not the shaking wonder be To find her just like you and me? They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. Still, for your weeping, I will leave you something. Brosters are too hard to come by for me to give this anything but my most welcoming expectations. We may dream indeed, with heart elate, While a new Nation clamors at our gate! We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again.
Winter is a passing thing and Spring is always gay; If she, too, be passing she does not weep to know it. In fact, Kasischke is jaunty in enumerating the changes, a jauntiness that gives added power and pathos to her ending. And am I still Remembering? The twilight falls on old Quebec And in the purple shines a star, And on her citadel lies peace More powerful than armies are. Longfellow and Kasischke By Zara Raab We want to read and write poems that speak to us in this time and place. Desperate to visit Florence alone, without her cousin's constant talking, knitting and interfering, Ellen is willing to do just about anything for a moment's solitary peace.
Ebb and flow Of race feuds vex no more your walls. Man has no part—his little, noisy years Rise to her silence thin and impotent— There are no echoes in that vast content, No doubts, no dreams, no laughter and no tears! This Irishman, who, when he sees the Green, Turns that his shaking lips may not be seen, He, too, shall bear a son who, blythe and gay, Sings the old songs but in a cheerier way! How still the air is in the night, how near and kind the heavens are, One might a naked hand outstretch and grasp a star! Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, town, The lighthouse, the fort, The houses, and brown. I fear to meet her in the glen, Or seek her by the shore; I fear to lift her cabin's latch, But—should she come no more! I cannot move in my place, I am chained and still; I pray that the moon pause not By my window-sill. Ah, crimson, crimson were her lips, but his were turning gray. She held him with her witch's stare A sweet, child-look—it witched him well! Cynthia Storrington is a seventeen-year-old guest of Strode's daughter, and it turns out that she's a sensitive and susceptible to hypnotism. But it was a near thing— What? The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again.
I am the monarch of the Road! Then came your hand upon the latch Although I had not sent for you And all Outside came blowing in The way I had not meant it to! Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. I turned away, and by my side stood Joy All glorified—ah, so ashamed was I Who dared to dream that Joy, my Joy, could die! Her song she hushed and, wonder-eyed, She gazed upon their bell and book; The zealous priests were fain to hide Lest they be holden by her look. The homeless winds came rushing down— Oh they were wild and free! Somewhere—far away— Spring awoke to-day From the depth of dream! What is left is nothing— Ashes blown along the shore! Longfellow readily admitted that the harbor and light-house, which he visited the same day, could not be seen from the windows of the farm-house. They were indeed too much akin, — The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. Not far away we saw the port, — The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, — The lighthouse — the dismantled fort, — The wooden houses, quaint and brown.