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Best Famous Poetess Poems

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Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

A Fountain a Bottle a Donkeys Ears and Some Books

 Old Davis owned a solid mica mountain
In Dalton that would someday make his fortune.
There'd been some Boston people out to see it: And experts said that deep down in the mountain The mica sheets were big as plate-glass windows.
He'd like to take me there and show it to me.
"I'll tell you what you show me.
You remember You said you knew the place where once, on Kinsman, The early Mormons made a settlement And built a stone baptismal font outdoors— But Smith, or someone, called them off the mountain To go West to a worse fight with the desert.
You said you'd seen the stone baptismal font.
Well, take me there.
" Someday I will.
" "Today.
" "Huh, that old bathtub, what is that to see? Let's talk about it.
" "Let's go see the place.
" 'To shut you up I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll find that fountain if it takes all summer, And both of our united strengths, to do it.
" "You've lost it, then?" "Not so but I can find it.
No doubt it's grown up some to woods around it.
The mountain may have shifted since I saw it In eighty-five.
" "As long ago as that?" "If I remember rightly, it had sprung A leak and emptied then.
And forty years Can do a good deal to bad masonry.
You won't see any Mormon swimming in it.
But you have said it, and we're off to find it.
Old as I am, I'm going to let myself Be dragged by you all over everywhere——" "I thought you were a guide.
” "I am a guide, And that's why I can't decently refuse you.
" We made a day of it out of the world, Ascending to descend to reascend.
The old man seriously took his bearings, And spoke his doubts in every open place.
We came out on a look-off where we faced A cliff, and on the cliff a bottle painted, Or stained by vegetation from above, A likeness to surprise the thrilly tourist.
"Well, if I haven't brought you to the fountain, At least I've brought you to the famous Bottle.
" "I won't accept the substitute.
It's empty.
” "So's everything.
" "I want my fountain.
" "I guess you'd find the fountain just as empty.
And anyway this tells me where I am.
” "Hadn't you long suspected where you were?" "You mean miles from that Mormon settlement? Look here, you treat your guide with due respect If you don't want to spend the night outdoors.
I vow we must be near the place from where The two converging slides, the avalanches, On Marshall, look like donkey's ears.
We may as well see that and save the day.
" "Don't donkey's ears suggest we shake our own?" "For God's sake, aren't you fond of viewing nature? You don't like nature.
All you like is books.
What signify a donkey's cars and bottle, However natural? Give you your books! Well then, right here is where I show you books.
Come straight down off this mountain just as fast As we can fall and keep a-bouncing on our feet.
It's hell for knees unless done hell-for-leather.
" Be ready, I thought, for almost anything.
We struck a road I didn't recognize, But welcomed for the chance to lave my shoes In dust once more.
We followed this a mile, Perhaps, to where it ended at a house I didn't know was there.
It was the kind To bring me to for broad-board paneling.
I never saw so good a house deserted.
"Excuse me if I ask you in a window That happens to be broken, Davis said.
"The outside doors as yet have held against us.
I want to introduce you to the people Who used to live here.
They were Robinsons.
You must have heard of Clara Robinson, The poetess who wrote the book of verses And had it published.
It was all about The posies on her inner windowsill, And the birds on her outer windowsill, And how she tended both, or had them tended: She never tended anything herself.
She was 'shut in' for life.
She lived her whole Life long in bed, and wrote her things in bed.
I'll show You how she had her sills extended To entertain the birds and hold the flowers.
Our business first's up attic with her books.
" We trod uncomfortably on crunching glass Through a house stripped of everything Except, it seemed, the poetess's poems.
Books, I should say!—-if books are what is needed.
A whole edition in a packing case That, overflowing like a horn of plenty, Or like the poetess's heart of love, Had spilled them near the window, toward the light Where driven rain had wet and swollen them.
Enough to stock a village library— Unfortunately all of one kind, though.
They bad been brought home from some publisher And taken thus into the family.
Boys and bad hunters had known what to do With stone and lead to unprotected glass: Shatter it inward on the unswept floors.
How had the tender verse escaped their outrage? By being invisible for what it was, Or else by some remoteness that defied them To find out what to do to hurt a poem.
Yet oh! the tempting flatness of a book, To send it sailing out the attic window Till it caught wind and, opening out its covers, Tried to improve on sailing like a tile By flying like a bird (silent in flight, But all the burden of its body song), Only to tumble like a stricken bird, And lie in stones and bushes unretrieved.
Books were not thrown irreverently about.
They simply lay where someone now and then, Having tried one, had dropped it at his feet And left it lying where it fell rejected.
Here were all those the poetess's life Had been too short to sell or give away.
"Take one," Old Davis bade me graciously.
"Why not take two or three?" "Take all you want.
" Good-looking books like that.
" He picked one fresh In virgin wrapper from deep in the box, And stroked it with a horny-handed kindness.
He read in one and I read in another, Both either looking for or finding something.
The attic wasps went missing by like bullets.
I was soon satisfied for the time being.
All the way home I kept remembering The small book in my pocket.
It was there.
The poetess had sighed, I knew, in heaven At having eased her heart of one more copy— Legitimately.
My demand upon her, Though slight, was a demand.
She felt the tug.
In time she would be rid of all her books.


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Kathleen

 It was the steamer Alice May that sailed the Yukon foam.
And touched in every river camp from Dawson down to Nome.
It was her builder, owner, pilot, Captain Silas Geer, Who took her through the angry ice, the last boat of the year; Who patched her cracks with gunny sacks and wound her pipes with wire, And cut the spruce upon the banks to feed her boiler fire; Who headed her into the stream and bucked its mighty flow, And nosed her up the little creeks where no one else would go; Who bragged she had so small a draft, if dew were on the grass, With gallant heart and half a start his little boat would pass.
Aye, ships might come and ships might go, but steady every year The Alice May would chug away with Skipper Silas Geer.
Now though Cap geer had ne'er a fear the devil he could bilk, He owned a gastric ulcer and his grub was mostly milk.
He also owned a Jersey cow to furnish him the same, So soft and sleek and mild and meek, and Kathleen was her name.
And so his source of nourishment he got to love her so That everywhere the captain went the cow would also go; And though his sleeping quarters were ridiculously small, He roped a section of them off to make Kathleen a stall.
So every morn she'd wake him up with mellifluous moo, And he would pat her on the nose and go to wake the crew.
Then when he'd done his daily run and hitched on to the bank, She'd breath above his pillow till to soothing sleep he sank.
So up and down the river seeded sourdoughs would allow, They made a touching tableau, Captain Silas and his cow.
Now as the Captain puffed his pipe and Kathleen chewed her cud, There came to him a poetess, a Miss Belinda Budd.
"An epic I would write," said she, "about this mighty stream, And from your gallant bark 'twould be romantic as a dream.
" Somewhat amazed the Captain gazed at her and shook his head; "I'm sorry, Miss, but we don't take she passengers," he said.
"My boat's a freighter, we have no accommodation space For women-folk - my cabin is the only private palce.
It's eight foot small from wall to wall, and I have, anyhow, No room to spare, for half I share with Kathleen, That's my cow.
" The lady sighed, then soft replied: "I love your Yukon scene, And for its sake your room I'll take, and put up with Kathleen.
" Well, she was so dead set to go the Captain said: "By heck! I like your *****; you take my bunk and I'll camp on the deck.
" So days went by then with a sigh she sought him so anew: "Oh, Captain Geer, Kathleen's a dear, but does she have to moo? In early morn like motor horn she bellows overhead, While all the night without respite she snores above my bed.
I know it's true she dotes on you, your smile she seems to miss; She leans so near I live in fear my brow she'll try to kiss.
Her fond regard makes it so hard my Pegasus to spur.
.
.
Oh, please be kind and try to find another place for her.
" Bereft of cheer was captain Geer; his face was glazed with gloom: He scratched his head: "There ain't," he said, "another inch of room.
With freight we're packed; it's stowed and stacked - why even on the deck.
There's seven salted sourdoughs and they're sleeping neck and neck.
I'm sorry, Miss, that Kathleen's kiss has put your muse to flight; I realize her amber eyes abstract you when you write.
I used to love them orbs above a-shining down on me, And when she'd chew my whickers you can't calculate my glee.
I ain't at all poetical, but gosh! I guess your plight, So I will try to plan what I can fix up for to-night.
" Thus while upon her berth the wan and weary Author Budd Bewailed her fate, Kathleen sedate above her chewed her cud; And as he sought with brain distraught a steady course to steer, Yet find a plan, a worried man was Captain Silas Geer.
Then suddenly alert was he, he hollerred to his mate; "Hi, Patsy, press our poetess to climb on deck and wait.
Hip-hip-hooray! Bid her be gay and never more despair; My search is crowned - by heck, I've found an answer to her prayer.
" To Patsy's yell like glad gazelle came bounding Bardess Budd; No more forlorn, with hope new-born she faced the foaming flood; While down the stair with eager air was seen to disappear, Like one inspired (by genius fired) exultant Captain Geer.
Then up he came with eye aflame and honest face aglow, And oh, how loud he laughed, as proud he led her down below.
"Now you may write by day or night upon our Yukon scene, For I," he cried, "have clarified the problem of Kathleen.
I thought a lot, then like a shot the remedy I found: I jest unhitched her rope and switched the loving creature round.
No more her moo will trouble you, you'll sleep right restful now.
Look, Lady, look! - I'm giving you.
.
.
the tail end of the cow.
"
Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Ode

 To the Pious Memory of the Accomplished Young Lady, Mrs Anne Killigrew,
Excellent in the Two Sister-arts of Poesy and Painting

Thou youngest Virgin Daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green, above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us in thy wand'ring race,
Or, in procession fixed and regular
Moved with the heavens' majestic pace;
Or, called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region be thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
(Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.
) Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first fruits of poesie were given, To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer And candidate of Heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfused into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, (An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.
) But if thy pre-existing soul Was formed, at first, with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before; If so, then cease thy flight, O Heav'n-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say that at thy birth New joy was sprung in Heav'n as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And ev'n the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres! And if no clust'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heav'n had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holyday above.
O gracious God! how far have we Profaned thy Heav'nly gift of poesy! Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debased to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordained above, For tongues of angels and for hymns of love! Oh wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubrique and adult'rate age (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own) T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage? What can we say t' excuse our second fall? Let this thy vestal, Heav'n, atone for all: Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled, Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
Art she had none, yet wanted none, For nature did that want supply: So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born.
Her morals too were in her bosom bred By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.
And to be read herself she need not fear; Each test and ev'ry light her muse will bear, Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Ev'n love (for love sometimes her muse expressed) Was but a lambent-flame which played about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream; So cold herself, while she such warmth expressed, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.
Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought she should have been content To manage well that mighty government; But what can young ambitious souls confine? To the next realm she stretched her sway, For painture near adjoining lay, A plenteous province, and alluring prey.
A chamber of dependences was framed, (As conquerers will never want pretence, When armed, to justify th' offence), And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claimed.
The country open lay without defence; For poets frequent inroads there had made, And perfectly could represent The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament; And all the large domains which the dumb-sister swayed, All bowed beneath her government, Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.
Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed, And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind.
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks, And fruitful plains and barren rocks; Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear, The bottom did the top appear; Of deeper too and ampler floods Which as in mirrors showed the woods; Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, And perspectives of pleasant glades, Where nymphs of brightest form appear, And shaggy satyrs standing near, Which them at once admire and fear.
The ruins too of some majestic piece, Boasting the pow'r of ancient Rome or Greece, Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie, And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye; What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.
The scene then changed; with bold erected look Our martial king the sight with rev'rence strook: For, not content t' express his outward part, Her hand called out the image of his heart, His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-designing thoughts were figured there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our phoenix Queen was portrayed too so bright, Beauty alone could beauty take so right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands: Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the Queen! Thus nothing to her genius was denied, But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown, Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side.
What next she had designed, Heaven only knows: To such immod'rate growth her conquest rose, That Fate alone its progress could oppose.
Now all those charms, that blooming grace, That well-proportioned shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much-lamented virgin lies! Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life and beauty too; But, like a hardened felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow, And plundered first, and then destroyed.
O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relic, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died: Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, gen'rous youth! that wish forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wrecked at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations underground; When in the valley of Jehosaphat The judging God shall close the book of Fate; And there the last assizes keep For those who wake and those who sleep; When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky, When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound: For they are covered with the lightest ground; And straight with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the New Morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go, As harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learned below.
Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | Create an image from this poem

Mother and Poet

 I.
Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea.
Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me ! II.
Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; But this woman, this, who is agonized here, -- The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead.
III.
What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain ! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ? Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test.
IV.
What art's for a woman ? To hold on her knees Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat, Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat ; To dream and to doat.
V.
To teach them .
.
.
It stings there ! I made them indeed Speak plain the word country.
I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out.
VI.
And when their eyes flashed .
.
.
O my beautiful eyes ! .
.
.
I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not.
But then the surprise When one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, then one kneels ! God, how the house feels ! VII.
At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, -- of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me ; and, soon coming home to be spoiled In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.
VIII.
Then was triumph at Turin : `Ancona was free !' And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.
My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.
IX.
I bore it ; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy.
One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained.
X.
And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand, `I was not to faint, -- One loved me for two -- would be with me ere long : And Viva l' Italia ! -- he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint.
" XI.
My Nanni would add, `he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, -- was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest.
" XII.
On which, without pause, up the telegraph line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : -- Shot.
Tell his mother.
Ah, ah, ` his, ' ` their ' mother, -- not ` mine, ' No voice says "My mother" again to me.
What ! You think Guido forgot ? XIII.
Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ? I think not.
Themselves were too lately forgiven Through THAT Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below.
XIV.
O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say ! XV.
Both boys dead ? but that's out of nature.
We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.
'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ; And, when Italy 's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son ? XVI.
Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what then ? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short ? XVII.
When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead) -- XVIII.
What then ? Do not mock me.
Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly ! My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow : My Italy 's THERE, with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair ! XIX.
Forgive me.
Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this -- and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born.
XX.
Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea.
Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me ! [This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sonswere killed at Ancona and Gaeta.
]
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Minerva Jones

 I am Minerva, the village poetess,
Hooted at, jeered at by the Yahoos of the street
For my heavy body, cock-eye, and rolling walk,
And all the more when "Butch" Weldy
Captured me after a brutal hunt.
He left me to my fate with Doctor Meyers; And I sank into death, growing numb from the feet up, Like one stepping deeper and deeper into a stream of ice.
Will some one go to the village newspaper, And gather into a book the verses I wrote? -- I thirsted so for love! I hungered so for life!
Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

To The Pious Memory Of The Accomplished Young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew

 Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
 Made in the last promotion of the Blest;
Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race,
 Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
 Mov'd with the Heavens' majestic pace:
 Or, call'd to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss.
What ever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; (Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heav'n's eternal year is thine.
) Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first fruits of poesy were giv'n; To make thyself a welcome inmate there: While yet a young probationer, And Candidate of Heav'n.
If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, (An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.
) But if thy preexisting soul Was form'd, at first, with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll, Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, O Heav'n-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to fill or mend the choir, of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say, that at thy birth, New joy was sprung in Heav'n as well as here on earth.
For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And ev'n the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres! And if no clust'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that, such vulgar miracles, Heav'n had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy Holyday above.
O Gracious God! How far have we Profan'd thy Heav'nly gift of poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love? O wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubrique and adult'rate age, (Nay added fat pollutions of our own) T'increase the steaming ordures of the stage? What can we say t'excuse our Second Fall? Let this thy vestal, Heav'n, atone for all! Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd, Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child! Art she had none, yet wanted none: For Nature did that want supply, So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born.
Her morals too were in her bosom bred By great examples daily fed, What in the best of Books, her Father's Life, she read.
And to be read her self she need not fear, Each test, and ev'ry light, her Muse will bear, Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Ev'n love (for love sometimes her Muse express'd) Was but a lambent-flame which play'd about her breast: Light as the vapours of a morning dream, So cold herself, whilst she such warmth express'd, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.
Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought, she should have been content To manage well that mighty government; But what can young ambitious souls confine? To the next realm she stretch'd her sway, For painture near adjoining lay, A plenteous province, and alluring prey.
A chamber of dependences was fram'd, (As conquerors will never want pretence, When arm'd, to justify th'offence) And the whole fief, in right of poetry she claim'd.
The country open lay without defence: For poets frequent inroads there had made, And perfectly could represent The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament: And all the large domains which the Dumb-sister sway'd, All bow'd beneath her government, Receiv'd in triumph wheresoe'er she went, Her pencil drew, what e'er her soul design'd, And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in her mind.
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks, And fruitful plains and barren rocks, Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear, The bottom did the top appear; Of deeper too and ampler floods, Which as in mirrors, show'd the woods; Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, And perspectives of pleasant glades, Where nymphs of brightest form appear, And shaggy satyrs standing near, Which them at once admire and fear.
The ruins too of some majestic piece, Boasting the pow'r of ancient Rome or Greece, Whose statues, friezes, columns broken lie, And tho' defac'd, the wonder of the eye, What Nature, art, bold fiction e'er durst frame, Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, But when the peopl'd Ark the whole creation bore.
The scene then chang'd, with bold erected look Our martial king the sight with reverence strook: For not content t'express his outward part, Her hand call'd out the image of his heart, His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-designing thoughts, were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our phoenix queen was portray'd too so bright, Beauty alone could beauty take so right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observ'd, as well as heav'nly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands: Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen! Thus nothing to her genius was deny'd, But like a ball of fire the further thrown, Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side.
What next she had design'd, Heaven only knows, To such immod'rate growth her conquest rose, That fate alone its progress could oppose.
Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much lamented virgin lies! Not wit, not piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life, and beauty too; But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow, And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.
O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relique, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died: Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate, As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, generous youth, that wish forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far, Among the Pleiad's, a new-kindl'd star, If any sparkles, than the rest, more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air, the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When in the valley of Jehosophat, The Judging God shall close the book of fate; And there the last Assizes keep, For those who wake, and those who sleep; When rattling bones together fly, From the four corners of the sky, When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound: For they are cover'd with the lightest ground, And straight, with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go, As harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Doctor Meyers

 No other man, unless it was Doc Hill,
Did more for people in this town than l.
And all the weak, the halt, the improvident And those who could not pay flocked to me.
I was good-hearted, easy Doctor Meyers.
I was healthy, happy, in comfortable fortune, Blest with a congenial mate, my children raised, All wedded, doing well in the world.
And then one night, Minerva, the poetess, Came to me in her trouble, crying.
I tried to help her out -- she died -- They indicted me, the newspapers disgraced me, My wife perished of a broken heart.
And pneumonia finished me.



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