Easter
I know the Summer fell asleep
Long weary months ago;
Heaped high above her grave I saw
The heavy winter snow;
Say, sparrow, then, what word you bring;
Is it her requiem you sing?
The meadow lark is mute, the wren
Forgets his late abode,
No throstle answering fluteth near,
Yet never prelude flowed
From ivied bosk or verdant slope
More brimming with delight and hope!
I, listening, seem to see the blooms
That were whilom so dear,
And voices loved and silent long
I, listening, seem to hear;
And longings in my breast confer,
And sweet, prophetic pulses stir.
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Cora
When through thy arching aisles,
O Nature, I perceive
What brooding stillness fills the lonesome choirs
Where, heaven'd late, thy sweet musicians sung;
What rude benumbing touch
Strips from reluctant boughs
The languid leaves, and bares to common view
The sacred nest,—the mute, expressive nest,
Whose state defenseless tells
Of fledgeling treasures flown,—
Then, like the prudent birds, my thoughts take
flight,
Winging o'er wintry fields to find the spring.
II
Somewhere on Earth's cold breast
The dauntless crocus glows,
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Veiled
Is the promise of day merely darkness,
Is sleep full fruition for strife,
Is the grave compensation for sorrow,
Is Nirvana the answer to life?
Is there no unobscured revelation
The evil of Earth to explain,—
No word of compassion to soften
The terrible riddle of pain?
In cold, imperturbable silence
The planets revolve in their course,
And Nature is deaf to entreaty,
Untroubled by doubt or remorse;
The snows, far outspread on her mountains,
Dissolve, nor her mandate gainsay,
And the cloud is consumed at her bidding,
And vanisheth quickly away.
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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The Liberty-Bell
With pomp attendant, and in garlands drest,
I journey from my sacred home once more;
Not this time to the new, triumphant West,
But to a land more dear to me of yore:
A land in memory sweet as the perfume
Of twining jasmine and magnolia bloom.
Though old and broken, for that memory's sake—
The memory of honored things gone by,
I will forget my length of years, and make
This pilgrimage unto her Southern sky,
So Georgia's children, too, my face may know,
And wreathe me proudly with their mistletoe.
Their fathers knew me, and in that great hour
When in the Hall of Freedom, since my home,
They signed the Charter, born of love and power,
That made them one, I, from the lofty dome
Above them, loudly rang the brave command,
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Alexander III
The world in mourning for a Russian Tsar!
A despot of the nineteenth century
Mourned by the nations that have made men free!
Ye captives of his rule! where'er ye be,
Whether in dungeons or in mines afar—
Wretches who mourn, yet mourn not for the Tsar,—
Forgive the tears that seem a wrong to grief
Barren of comfort and without relief!—
The Tsar was Russia's martyr,—as ye are!
He asked for peace, and she ordained him strife.
A Slav of simple heart, disliking show,
She bade him every lowly hope forego;
And placing on his brow her crown of woe,
Gave him a sovereignty with perils rife,
And 'neath his sceptre hid the assassin's knife.
So, masked as Fear, she broke his nerves of steel
Upon the circle of her racking wheel,
And set a horror at his door of life!
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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To the Tsar
O Thou into whose human hand is given
A godlike might! who, for thy earthly hour,
Above reproof, self-counseled and self-shriven,
Wieldest o'er regions vast despotic power!
Mortal, who by a breath,
A look, a hasty word, as soon forgot,
Commandest energies of life and death!—
Midst terrors dread, that darkly multiply,
Wilt thou thy vision blind, and listen not
Whilst unto Heaven ascends thy people's cry?
In vain, in vain! The injuries they speak
Down unto final depths their souls have stirr'd:
The aged plead through them, the childish-weak,
The mad, the dying,—and they shall be heard!
Thou wilt not hear them; but,
Though Heaven were hedged about with walls of
stone,
And though with brazen gates forever shut,
And sentried 'gainst petitions of despair,
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Lament of Brünnhilde
Midst rejoicings I have wept,
And in hours when others slept,
I have looked on Horror's face,
In this place.
Now midst wailings I alone
Hush the voice of mortal sorrow,
Gaze on thee, again mine own!—
Fear no parting for the morrow.
For we meet, love, as before,
By a flame-encircled shore.
Thou once more hast stemmed the tide,
To thy bride;
And I wake at thy command
From my agony of dreaming,
And thy ring is on my hand,
And I feel its clasp redeeming!
Heart to heart again responds,
Death asunder rends my bonds,
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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To France
Mother of Freedom! Mother and fond nurse!
Who, from thy mighty loins, with awful throes
And cries of anguish bore her! what new woes
Encompass thee? What long-forgotten curse
Revives to chill thy soul and dull its seeing?
Veiled are thy falcon-glances, as in death:
Thou bleedest, France! and, sobbing, drawest breath,
Sore smitten by the thing thou gavest being!
Is this thine offspring—once so nobly fair
That at her look were riven human chains,
And all men blessed thee for thy travail pains?
Behold! with serpents writhing in her hair
She stands, Medusa-like, the world appalling!
Her bloodless cheeks bespeak the vampire's lust;
Her victims fall before her in the dust;
Yet, unappeased, she still would see them falling.
Is this blest Liberty, this treacherous thing
That hides its venom 'neath a mask of flowers,
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Dryad Song
When the wolds of Lycaeus are silvery fair,
When Maenalian forests are doubtful and dim,
When the hound strains the leash and the wolf quits his lair,
And the startled fawn flies from the fountain's cool rim;
When with panting delight we impatiently follow
The shuddering stags over hillock and hollow,—
A form from the shadows comes bounding out,
And we know it is Pan by his horrid shout.
A form from the shadows comes bounding out,
At head of the Satyrs' impetuous rout,
And we know it is Pan, we know it is Pan,
We know it is Pan by his horrid shout!
When hidden with Dian in deep woodland bower,
We loosen her quiver, her sandals unbind,
Bathe her beautiful feet in the pearl-trickling shower,
Pellucid and pure; when we deftly enwind
The silvery fillet that clasps and caresses
The wonder and wealth of her shadowy tresses,—
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Daphnis
Hail, Solitude! hail, maiden coy and sweet!
The vesper veil descends,—hail, nymph discreet!
We would awhile forget the din and roar
Of feverous life, contending evermore,—
Lead to thy hush’d retreat!
Where shall we find thee, who desire thee so?
Where midst the lengthening shadows dost thou go?
Where slumberest thou when stars the night adorn?
Where glide thy feet at morn?
Seek they that rugged promontory
Where Athos towers lone above the sea?
Stray they where 'gainst the mountains hoary
Axenos moaning beats incessantly?
Or all the day in some shy sylvan nook,
Where cowslips pale and daffadillies blow,
Tread they the mellow turf, or weedy brook
Whose wimpling waters prattle as they flow?
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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