For want of bread to eat and clothes to wear — Because work failed and streets were deep in snow, And this meant food and fire — she fell so low, Sinning for dear life’s sake, in sheer despair. Or, because life was else so bald and bare, The natural woman in her craved to know The warmth of passion — as pale buds to blow And feel the noonday sun and fertile air.
And who condemns? She who, for vulgar gain And in cold blood, and not for love or need, Has sold her body to more vile disgrace — The prosperous matron, with her comely face — Wife by the law, but prostitute in deed, In whose gross wedlock womanhood is slain.
We present this work in honor of the 145th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Charles Heavysege Canadian 1816 – 1876
The day was lingering in the pale north-west, And night was hanging o’er my head— Night, where a myriad stars were spread; While down in the east, where the light was least, Seemed the home of the quiet dead. And, as I gazed on the field sublime, To watch the bright, pulsating stars, Adown the deep where the angels sleep Came drawn the golden chime Of those great spheres that sound the years For the horologe of time. Millenniums numberless they told, Millenniums a millionfold From the ancient hour of prime.
Did a tender bush grow On the banks of a gentle river, And its dark branches Very proud he spread; But in the bitter winter The river rose like a torrent, And in its tumid stream The tender bush led.
Reflecting snow and scarlet, She was born garrida and pompous In the desert a rose, Gala del prado and love; But he launched with insane fury His breath inflamed the wind, And it took away in a moment Its vain pomp and freshness.
So everything lasts well… So sweet loves, Like the lush flowers, They fade in their dawn; And in the uncertain sway From fickle fortune, Born and dies in an instant The hope of love.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 185th birthday.
Annie Louisa Walker Canadian 1836 – 1907
You cannot rob us of the rights we cherish, Nor turn our thoughts away From the bright picture of a “Woman’s Mission” Our hearts portray. We claim to dwell, in quiet and seclusion, Beneath the household roof,— From the great world’s harsh strife, and jarring voices, To stand aloof;— Not in a dreamy and inane abstraction To sleep our life away, But, gathering up the brightness of home sunshine, To deck our way.
As humble plants by country hedgerows growing, That treasure up the rain, And yield in odours, ere the day’s declining, The gift again;
So let us, unobtrusive and unnoticed, But happy none the less, Be privileged to fill the air around us With happiness;
To live, unknown beyond the cherished circle, Which we can bless and aid; To die, and not a heart that does not love us Know where we’re laid.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 215th birthday.
James Ballantine Scots 1806 – 1877
Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, And bear ye a’ life’s changes, wi’ a calm and tranquil mind, Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha’e faith and ye ‘ll win through, For ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.
Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye’ve been, Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een, Believe it for the best, and trow there’s good in store for you, For ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew. In lang, lang days o’ simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky Refuses ae wee drap o’ rain to nature parched and dry, The genial night, wi’ balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, And ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.
Sae, lest ‘mid fortune’s sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie, And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith’s ee, Some wee dark clouds o’ sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.
We present this work in honor of the 125th anniversary of the poet’s death.
José Asunción Silva Colombian 1865 – 1896
One night one night all full of murmurings, of perfumes and music of wings; one night in which fantastic fireflies burnt in the humid nuptial shadows, slowly by my side, pressed altogether close, silent and pale, as if a presentiment of infinite bitternesses agitated you unto the most hidden fibers of your being, along the flowering path which crosses the plain you walked; and the full moon in the infinite and profound blue heavens scattered its white light; and your shadow, fine and languid, and my shadow projected by the rays of the moon, upon the sorrowful sands of the path, joined together; and they became one, and they became one, and they became only one long shadow, and they became only one long shadow, and they became only one long shadow…
Tonight alone; my soul full of the infinite bitternesses and agonies of your death, separated from you by time, by the tomb and by distance, by the infinite blackness where our voice cannot reach, silent and alone along the path I walked… And the barking of dogs at the moon could be heard, at the pale moon, and the chirping of the frogs… I felt cold. It was the coldness that in your alcove your cheeks and your temples and your adoréd hands possessed within the snowy whiteness of the mortuary sheets. It was the coldness of the sepulcher, it was the ice of death, it was the coldness of oblivion. And my shadow, projected by the rays of the moon, walked alone, walked alone, walked alone along the solitary plain; and your shadow, svelte and agile, fine and languid, as in that warm night of springtime death, as in that night full of murmurings, of perfumes and music of wings, approached and walked with mine, approached and walked with mine, approached and walked with mine… Oh, the shadows intertwined! Oh, the corporeal shadows united with the shadows of the souls! Oh, the seeking shadows in those nights of sorrows and of tears!
The appointed lot has come upon me, mother, The mournful ending of my years of strife, This changing world I leave, and to another In blood and terror goes my spirit’s life.
But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weeping And let thy soul her wonted peace regain; I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweeping Across my lyre to wake its dying strains.
A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing All glorious and holy, pure, divine, And innocent, unconscious as the wailing I uttered on my birth; and I resign
Even now, my life, even now descending slowly, Faith’s mantle folds me to my slumbers holy. Mother, farewell! God keep thee — and forever!
We present this work in honor of the 135th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Emily Dickinson American 1830 – 1886
I went to heaven,— ‘Twas a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew. People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names. Almost contented I could be ‘Mong such unique Society.
Poets Corner 