  Poetry
This week: Isabella Valancy Crawford Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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His Sweetheart
By Isabella Valancy Crawford
Sylvia's lattices were dark
Roses made them narrow.
In the dawn there came a Spark,
Armèd with an arrow:
Blithe he burst by dewy spray,
Winged by bud and blossom,
All undaunted urged his way
Straight to Sylvia's bosom.
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' he
Like a bee kept humming,
'Wake, my sweeting; waken thee,
For thy Soldier's coming!'
Sylvia sleeping in the dawn,
Dreams that Cupid's trill is
Roses singing on the lawn,
Courting crested lilies.
Sylvia smiles and Sylvia sleeps,
Sylvia weeps and slumbers;
Cupid to her pink ear creeps,
Pipes his pretty numbers.
Sylvia dreams that bugles play,
Hears a martial drumming;
Sylvia springs to meet the day
With her Soldier coming.
Happy Sylvia, on thee wait
All the gracious graces!
Venus mild her cestus plait
Round thy lawns and laces!
Flora fling a flower most fair,
Hope a rainbow lend thee!
All the nymphs to Cupid dear
On this day befriend thee!
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' hear
How he keeps a-humming,
Laughing in her jewelled ear,
'Sweet, thy Soldier's coming!'
The Rose
By Isabella Crawford
The Rose was given to man for this:
He, sudden seeing it in later years,
Should swift remember Love's first lingering kiss
And Grief's last lingering tears;
Or, being blind, should feel its yearning soul
Knit all its piercing perfume round his own,
Till he should see on memory's ample scroll
All roses he had known;
Or, being hard, perchance his finger-tips
Careless might touch the satin of its cup,
And he should feel a dead babe's budding lips
To his lips lifted up;
Or, being deaf and smitten with its star,
Should, on a sudden, almost hear a lark
Rush singing up–the nightingale afar
Sing through the dew-bright dark;
Or, sorrow-lost in paths that round and round
Circle old graves, its keen and vital breath
Should call to him within the yew's bleak bound
Of Life, and not of Death.
On Christmas day 1850 Isabella Valancy Crawford was born in Dublin, Ireland. She was the sixth child of Dr. Stephen Dennis Crawford and Sidney Scott Crawford. Dr. Crawford moved his family to Paisley, Ontario, in 1857. His alcoholism and embezzlement of the towns money forced him to move his family again and a again, finally moving to Peterborough in 1869. Good fortune did not follow the family through these years, they lost nine out of twelve children to disease. Her father died 1875 and left Isabella in charge of the earnings for her family.
Isabella Crawford published prose and poems in the American journals to earn a living for her and her mother over the next four years. Isabella moved her and her mother to Toronto and lived in a boarding house in 1879. In Toronto she published in the "Toronto Evening Telegram" and the "Toronto Globe. " She made just enough money for her and her mother to live on.
For many years Isabella tried to get her works published but literary journals rejected her leaving her no other choice but to continue to publish in the local newspapers. Crawford finally used her own money to publish her works in hopes to gain recognition. Her only book of poems "Old Spookses' Pass" received great reviews but didn't sell enough to get her fame or money. She died suddenly on February 12, 1887 from heart failure. In 1905 Mr. Stephen Crawford, Isabella's brother gave permission to an editor to publish Isabella's best poems in a volume over three hundred pages long.
Said the West Wind
by Isabella Valancy Crawford
1 I love old earth! Why should I lift my wings,
2 My misty wings, so high above her breast
3 That flowers would shake no perfumes from their hearts,
4 And waters breathe no whispers to the shores?
5 I love deep places builded high with woods,
6 Deep, dusk, fern-closed, and starred with nodding blooms,
7 Close watched by hills, green, garlanded and tall.
8 On hazy wings, all shot with mellow gold,
9 I float, I float thro' shadows clear as glass;
10 With perfumed feet I wander o'er the seas,
11 And touch white sails with gentle finger-tips;
12 I blow the faithless butterfly against
13 The rose-red thorn, and thus avenge the rose;
14 I whisper low amid the solemn boughs,
15 And stir a leaf where not my loudest sigh
16 Could move the emerald branches from their calm,--
17 Leaves, leaves, I love ye much, for ye and I
18 Do make sweet music over all the earth!
19 I dream by glassy ponds, and, lingering, kiss
20 The gold crowns of their lilies one by one,
21 As mothers kiss their babes who be asleep
22 On the clear gilding of their infant heads,
23 Lest if they kissed the dimple on the chin,
24 The rose flecks on the cheek or dewy lips,
25 The calm of sleep might feel the touch of love,
26 And so be lost. I steal before the rain,
27 The longed-for guest of summer; as his fringe
28 Of mist drifts slowly from the mountain peaks,
29 The flowers dance to my fairy pipe and fling
30 Rich odours on my wings, and voices cry,
31 "The dear West Wind is damp, and rich with scent;
32 We shall have fruits and yellow sheaves for this."
33 At night I play amidst the silver mists,
34 And chase them on soft feet until they climb
35 And dance their gilded plumes against the stars;
36 At dawn the last round primrose star I hide
37 By wafting o'er her some small fleck of cloud,
38 And ere it passes comes the broad, bold Sun
39 And blots her from the azure of the sky,
40 As later, toward his noon, he blots a drop
41 Of pollen-gilded dew from violet cup
42 Set bluely in the mosses of the wood.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
Winter's lurking round the bend,
Her icy fingers soon will send
White powder down upon the land,
Transforming landscape with her hand.
Now bright red autumn leaves are swirling,
Through the cool crisp air they're twirling.
One more dance, then autumn changes,
Winter once more rearranges.
Dance little leaves of brown and gold,
There's not much time until the cold,
Smothers you with it's frosty grip,
Paints you with it's fingertip.
The rustling of fallen leaves,
Stolen from those winter thieves,
Must wait until the fall returns,
For seasons must all take their turn.
I watch the children run and play,
In the snow out there today.
The cocoa's waiting hot and sweet,
A fire's lit to warm their feet.
And so it goes, until the Spring,
Its warm and gentle breezes bring,
Then best of all Summer's heat,
Once more returns, the world's complete.
Each season gives us pause for thought,
By what it takes or what its brought.
Likewise, take just what you need,
Don't let your life be ruled by greed.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: November 09, 2016 Issue [#7964]
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