Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MAKING POETRY, by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL Poet's Biography First Line: Little one, what are you doing Last Line: Suffering before you sing. Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Writing & Writers | ||||||||
LITTLE one, what are you doing, Sitting on the window-seat? Laughing to yourself and writing, Some right merry thought inditing, Balancing with swinging feet. "'T is some poetry I'm making, Though I never tried before: Four whole lines! I'll read them to you. Do you think them funny, do you? Shall I try to make some more? "I should like to be a poet, Writing verses every day; Then to you I'd always bring them, You should make a tune and sing them; 'T would be pleasanter than play." Think you, darling, nought is needed But the paper and the ink, And a pen to trace so lightly, While the eye is beaming brightly, All the pretty things we think? There's a secret -- can you trust me? Do not ask me what it is! Perhaps some day you too will know it, If you live to be a poet, All its agony and bliss. Poetry is not a trifle, Lightly thought and lightly made; Not a fair and scentless flower, Gayly cultured for an hour, Then as gayly left to fade. 'T is not stringing rhymes together In a pleasant true accord; Not the music of the metre, Not the happy fancies, sweeter Than a flower bell, honey-stored. 'T is the essence of existence, Rarely rising to the light; And the songs that echo longest, Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest, With your life-blood you will write. With your life-blood. None will know it, You will never tell them how. Smile! and they will never guess it: Laugh! and you will not confess it By your paler cheek and brow. There must be the tightest tension Ere the tone be full and true; Shallow lakelets of emotion Are not like the spirit-ocean, Which reflects the purest blue. Every lesson you shall utter, If the charge indeed be yours, First is gained by earnest learning, Carved in letters deep and burning On a heart that long endures. Day by day that wondrous tablet Your life-poem shall receive, By the hand of Joy or Sorrow; But the pen can never borrow Half the records that they leave. You will only give a transcript Of a life-line here and there, Only just a spray-wreath springing From the hidden depths, and flinging Broken rainbows on the air. Still, if you but copy truly, 'T will be poetry indeed, Echoing many a heart's vibration, Rather love than admiration Earning as your priceless meed. Will you seek it? Will you brave it? 'T is a strange and solemn thing, Learning long before your teaching, Listening long before your preaching, Suffering before you sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CELL, SELECTION by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 126: THE DOUBTING MAN by LYN HEJINIAN WAKING THE MORNING DREAMLESS AFTER LONG SLEEP by JANE HIRSHFIELD COMPULSIVE QUALIFICATIONS by RICHARD HOWARD DEUTSCH DURCH FREUD by RANDALL JARRELL LET THEM ALONE by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON BUILDING WITH STONE by ROBINSON JEFFERS 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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