In the Wood
I woke in suffering, and sadly heard,
Hard by my tent, repeated cries of pain,
That to the wilderness, in wildest strain,
Proclaimed the trouble of a mother bird
Robbed of her young; and I, too deeply stirr'd,
Thought as above me fell the ceaseless rain,
Wherefore should one who slumbers wake again,
Since anguish is the universal word?
Then suddenly aloft the wood there rose
The holy anthem of the hermit thrush,
From depths of happiness toward Heaven swelling;
And o'er the forest came an awed repose,
And griefs that chid the stormy night grew hush,
List'ning that wondrous ecstasy upwelling!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Homeward
When I come to my Father's house he will hear me:
I shall not need
With words implore
Compassion at my Father's door;
With yearning mute my heart will plead,
And my Father's heart will hear me.
One thought all the day hath still caressed me:
Though cloud o'ercast
Is the way I go,
Though steep is the hill I must climb, yet, oh,
When evening falls and the light is past,
At my Father's house I will rest me!
For thither,—whatsoe'er betide me,
Howe'er I stray,
Beset by fears,
Wearied by effort, or blinded by tears,—
Ah, surely I shall find my way,
Though none there be to guide me!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Reveille
What frolic zephyr through the young leaves plays,
Scattering fragrance delicate and sweet?
What impulse new moves Robin to repeat
To pale Anemone his roundelays?
What winning wonder fills the world with praise
In this mysterious time? Lo, all things greet
A loved one, new redeemed from death's defeat—
A youth whose languid head fair nymphs upraise!
For him the crocus dons his bravery,—
And violets, for him, their censers swing;
For him the shy arbutus, blushfully,
Peeps through the mosses that about her cling;
Adonis wakes! Awake, earth's minstrelsy!
In swelling diapason hymn the Spring!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Water Lilies
I gathered them—the lilies pure and pale,
The golden-hearted lilies, virgin fair,
And in a vase of crystal, placed them where
Their perfumes might unceasingly exhale.
High in my lonely tent above the swale,
Above the shimmering mere and blossoms there,
I solaced with their sweetness my despair,
And fed with dews their beauteous petals frail.
But when the aspens felt the evening breeze,
And shadows 'gan across the lake to creep,
When hermit-thrushes to the Oreades
Sang vesper orisons, from cloisters deep,—
My lilies, lulled by native sympathies,
Upfolded their white leaves and fell asleep.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Memoria
If only in my dreams I may behold thee,
Still hath the day a goal;
If only in my dreams I may enfold thee,
Still hath the night a soul.
Leaden the hours may press upon my spirit
Nor one dear pledge redeem;
I will not chide, so they at last inherit
And crown me with the rapture of that dream.
Ten thousand blossoms earth's gay gardens cherish;
One pale, pale rose is mine.
Of frost or blight the rest may quickly perish;
Not so that rose divine:
Deathless it blooms in quiet realms Elysian,
And when toil wins me rest,
Forgetful of all else, in blissful vision
I breathe my rose, and clasp it to my breast!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Nansen
To drift with thee, not strive against thy tide,
All-powerful Nature! to pursue thy law,
Attentive—with devout and childlike awe
Heark'ning unto thy voice, and none beside:
To drift with thee! With thee for friend and guide
In fragile bark, careless of cold or thaw,
To brave the ice-pack and the dread sea-maw!—
So are man's conquests won, so glorified.
The truest compass is the seeing soul.
Oh, wond'ring earth! did not thy spirit glow,
Calling to mind the deathless Genoese,
As Nansen, pilot of the frozen Pole,
Like a young Viking rode the icy floe,
Wresting their secret from the Arctic Seas?
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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A Maid's Defense
'T were little to renounce what now I hold,
Such riches as make poor: a pomp that tires,
A vernal glow that kindles autumn fires,
A youth that, wasteful in its haste, grows old;
'T were little to relinquish pleasure doled
In meagre measure to my swift desires,
To give what nor delights me nor inspires,
In free exchange for Love's all-prizèd gold;
Yet there is something it were pain to yield,
Which I should part with, Love, in welcoming thee:
A shy uncertainty that dearer seems
Than e'en thy gifts, and is my fence and shield:
The dim ideal of my waking dreams,
The Love unknown, that distant, beckons me!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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First and Last
Hope smiles a welcome, if no other smiles,
Upon our entrance to this world of pain;
And on each purpose of our youth again,
With an inspiring sympathy, she smiles.
She leads us forth to battle, and beguiles
Our anguish when the long fight proves in vain;
Till, pierced by countless wounds, amongst the
slain
We leave her, while the victor foe reviles.
But even as we touch at ruin's verge,
And hear the voices of despair that urge
The fatal plunge to chaos, Hope alone,—
How healèd and how ransomed none may guess,—
Rising again in pallid loveliness,
Resumes her sway, a thousand times o'erthrown.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Life
Before we knew thee thou wert with us; ay,
In that far time, forgotten and obscure,
When, doubtful of ourselves, of naught secure,
We feebly uttered first our human cry.
We had not murmured hadst thou passed us by,
And now, with all our vaunted knowledge sure,
We know not from what source of bounty pure
Thou camest, our dull clay to glorify.
Yet—for thou didst awake us when but dust,
Careless of thee—one tender hope redeems
Each loss by the dark river: more and more
We feel that we who long for thee may trust
To wake again, as children do from dreams,
And find thee waiting on the farther shore.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Probation
Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate;
The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring,
But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait,—
For storms and tears, which season'd excellence
bring;
And Love doth fix his joyfullest estate
In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's
brooding wing.
Youth sues to Fame: coldly she answers, "Toil!"
He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserve
Responds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil."
Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,—
Thee only, blissful Love!" With proud recoil
The heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well,
deserve!"
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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