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Best Famous Edgar Bowers Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Edgar Bowers poems. This is a select list of the best famous Edgar Bowers poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Edgar Bowers poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Edgar Bowers poems.

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Written by Edgar Bowers |


 The angel of self-discipline, her guardian
Since she first knew and had to go away
From home that spring to have her child with strangers,
Sustained her, till the vanished boy next door
And her ordeal seemed fiction, and the true
Her mother’s firm insistence she was the mother
And the neighbors’ acquiescence.
So she taught school, Walking a mile each way to ride the street car— First books of the Aeneid known by heart, French, and the French Club Wednesday afternoon; Then summer replacement typist in an office, Her sister’s family moving in with them, Depression years and she the only earner.
Saturday, football game and opera broadcasts, Sunday, staying at home to wash her hair, The Business Women’s Circle Monday night, And, for a treat, birthdays and holidays, Nelson Eddy and Jeanette McDonald.
The young blond sister long since gone to college, Nephew and nieces gone, her mother dead, Instead of Caesar, having to teach First Aid, The students rowdy, she retired.
The rent For the empty rooms she gave to Thornwell Orphanage, Unwed Mothers, Temperance, and Foster Parents And never bought the car she meant to buy; Too blind at last to do much more than sit All day in the antique glider on the porch Listening to cars pass up and down the street.
Each summer, on the grass behind the house— Cape jasmine, with its scent of August nights Humid and warm, the soft magnolia bloom Marked lightly by a slow brown stain—she spread, For airing, the same small intense collection, Concert programs, worn trophies, years of yearbooks, Letters from schoolgirl chums, bracelets of hair And the same picture: black hair in a bun, Puzzled eyes in an oval face as young Or old as innocence, skirt to the ground, And, seated on the high school steps, the class, The ones to whom she would have said, “Seigneur, Donnez-nous la force de supporter La peine,” as an example easy to remember, Formal imperative, object first person plural.

Written by Edgar Bowers |

Dedication for a House

 We, who were long together homeless, raise
Brick walls, wood floors, a roof, and windows up
To what sustained us in those threatening days
Unto this end.
Alas, that this bright cup Be empty of the care and life of him Who should have made it overflow its brim.

Written by Edgar Bowers |

Amor Vincit Omnia

 Love is no more.
It died as the mind dies: the pure desire Relinquishing the blissful form it wore, The ample joy and clarity expire.
Regret is vain.
Then do not grieve for what you would efface, The sudden failure of the past, the pain Of its unwilling change, and the disgrace.
Leave innocence, And modify your nature by the grief Which poses to the will indifference That no desire is permanent in sense.
Take leave of me.
What recompense, or pity, or deceit Can cure, or what assumed serenity Conceal the mortal loss which we repeat? The mind will change, and change shall be relief.

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Written by Edgar Bowers |

Variations on an Elizabethan Theme

 Long days, short nights, this Southern summer 
Fixes the mind within its timeless place.
Athwart pale limbs the brazen hummer Hangs and is gone, warm sound its quickened space.
Butterfly weed and cardinal flower, Orange and red, with indigo the band, Perfect themselves unto the hour.
And blood suffused within the sunlit hand, Within the glistening eye the dew, Are slow with their slow moving.
Watch their passing, As lightly the shade covers you: All colors and all shapes enrich its massing.
Once I endured such gentle season.
Blood-root, trillium, sweet flag, and swamp aster— In their mild urgency, the reason Knew each and kept each chosen from disaster.
Now even dusk destroys; the bright Leucotho? dissolves before the eyes And poised upon the reach of light Leaves only what no reasoning dare surmise.
Dim isolation holds the sense Of being, intimate as breathing; around, Voices, unmeasured and intense, Throb with the heart below the edge of sound.