Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ON THE LAST LEAF, by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL Poet's Biography First Line: Finished at last Last Line: Such as my god may give to me. Subject(s): Thought; Thinking | ||||||||
FINISHED at last! Yet for five years past My book on the dusty shelf hath lain, And I hardly thought that ever again My thoughts would follow the pleasant chime Of musical measure and ringing rhyme. I remember well when I laid it by, Closed with a sort of requiem sigh. Spring in her beauty had swept along, And left my spirit all full of song: The wakening depths of my heart were stirred, Voices within and without I heard, Whispering me That I might be A messenger of peace and pleasure; That in my careless minstrelsy Lay something of poetic treasure, Which, wrought with care, I yet some day At all my loved ones'feet might lay. Perhaps 'twas a vain and foolish dream, A fancy-lit, illusive gleam! And yet I cannot quite believe That such bright impulse could deceive. I felt I had so much to say, Such pleasant thoughts from day to day, Sang, lark-like, with each morning ray, Or murmured low in twilight gray, Like distant curfew pealing. And then, for each, fair Fancy brought A robe of language ready wrought, The smile of every wingèd thought Half veiling, half revealing. And I only waited, with longing gaze, For the golden leisure of summer days, Which I thought to crown with happiest lays. God thought not so! Ah no, He knew There was other work for me to do, There were other lessons for me to learn: Another voice fell, low and stern, Upon the too reluctant ear. Before the solemn voice of Pain My visions fled, nor came again, With all their glad and lovely train, My summer-tide to cheer. Well is it when, at high command Of wisest Love, she takes her stand At the heart's busy portal, And warns away each noisy guest Whose presence chases calm and rest, Our powers, the brightest and the best, Proclaiming weak and mortal. That so the way may be more clear For Him, the Prince of Peace, to come, That which is left all void and drear To make His palace and His home. And so the song of my heart was hushed, And the chiming thoughts were stilled: Summer flew by, but the hope was crushed, Swiftly onward my life-tide rushed, But my book remained unfilled. For an aching head and a weary frame, Poetry is but an empty name. Yet I am sure it was better so, I trusted then, and now I know. For ever, I think, the gift is fled Which once I fancied mine: So be it! A 'name' is not for me; Loving and loved I would rather be, With power to cheer and sympathize, Bearing new light for tear-dimmed eyes; But I do not care to shine. So if aught I write may tend to this, My fairest hope of earthly bliss, Content with humblest rhyme I'll be; And, striving less and trusting more, All simple, earnest thoughts outpour, Such as my God may give to me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MILLE ET UN SENTIMENTS (PREMIERS CENTS) by DENISE DUHAMEL SUNDAY AFTERNOON by CLARENCE MAJOR I BROOD ABOUT SOME CONCEPTS, FOR EXAMPLE by ALICIA SUSKIN OSTRIKER EASY LESSONS IN GEOPHAGY by KENNETH REXROTH GENTLEMEN, I ADDRESS YOU PUBLICLY by KENNETH REXROTH ON FLOWER WREATH HILL: 1 by KENNETH REXROTH CONSECRATION HYMN by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL I DID THIS FOR THEE! WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR ME? by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO MY FATHER, 1860 by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL |
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