From Beyond
Here there is balm for every tender heart Wounded by life;
Rest for each one who bore a valiant part Crushed in the strife
I suffered there and held a losing fight Even to the grave;
And now I know that it was very right To suffer a...
Here there is balm for every tender heart Wounded by life;
Rest for each one who bore a valiant part Crushed in the strife
I suffered there and held a losing fight Even to the grave;
And now I know that it was very right To suffer a...
February 23, 1921
Read at Hart House Theatre before the University of Toronto
The Muse is stern unto her favoured sons, Giving to some the keys of all the joy Of the green earth, but holding even that joy Back from their life; Bidding th...
(Aetat Six)Now every night we light the
And I sit up till _really_ late;
My Father sits upon the right,
My Mother on the left, and
Set within a desert lone, Circled by an arid sea,
Stands a figure carved in stone, Where a fountain used to be
Two abraded, pleading hands Held below a shapeless mouth,
Human-like the fragment stands, Tortured by perpetual drouth...
Now the November skies,
And the clouds that are thin and gray,
That drop with the wind away;
A flood of sunlight rolls,
Here at the roots of the mountains,
Between the sombre legions of cedars and tamaracks,
The rapids charge the ravine:
A little light, cast by foam under starlight,
To ports of balm through isles of
The gentle airs are leading us;
To curtained calm and tents of dusk,
The wood-wild things unheeding
(The refrain is quoted by Edward Fitzgerald inone of his
Growing, growing, all the glory going;
Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk,
All the world's a-dying and failing in the dusk--
The Father
The Child
Death
Angels
The shore-lark soars to his topmost flight, Sings at the height where morning springs,
What though his voice be lost in the light, The light comes dropping from his wings
Mount, my soul, and sing at the height Of thy clear flight in the ...
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 ...
Dear Morris--here is your letter--Can my answer reach you now
Fate has left me your debtor,
You will remember how;
For I went away to Nantucket,