At Break of Day
I thought that past the gates of doom,
Where Orpheus played a strain divine
Of love importunate as mine,
Unto the dwellings of the dead I came through
paths of gloom.
Around me, looming dark through cloud,
Vast walls arose whence mournful fell
The shadow and the hush of hell;
And silence, brooding, palpable, inwrapped me like
a shroud.
Naught blossomed there; in that chill place
Where longing dwells divorced from hope,
Naught to a joyless horoscope
Lent prophecies of future grace, but—I beheld
thy face!
And I awoke,—songs trembling near,—
Awoke and saw day's chariot pass
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To the Victor
You have outstripped me in the race,
Your brow shall wear the laurel's grace;
But though on-speeding in your might
You pass beyond my straining sight,
My spirit shall with yours keep pace!
For I have dreamed your dream divine,
For I have worshiped at the shrine
Whose oracles your faith have moved,
For I have loved what you have loved—
Your victory is also mine!
Shall the grave gods pronounce their choice
And I not lift in praise my voice?
Or shall another win the goal
Whose vision hath illumed my soul,
And I, though distant, not rejoice?
Ah, no! Your greater gifts prevail;
But though to reach your side I fail,
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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There's a Spot in the Mountains
There's a spot in the mountains, where the dew,
dear,
Is laden with the odors of the pine,
Where the heavens seem unbounded, and their
blue, dear,
Is deepest where it mirrored seems to shine.
There, at morn and eve, with rapture old and new,
dear,
The thrushes sing their double song divine,
And the melody their voices breathe, of you, dear,
Speaks ever to this happy heart of mine.
There's a cabin in the mountains, where the fare,
dear,
Is frugal as the cheer of Arden blest;
But contentment sweet and fellowship are there,
dear,
And Love, that makes the feast he honors—
best!
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Israphel
A dreamer midst the stars doth dwell,
Known to the gods as Israphel.
His heart-strings are a lute;
And when, the magic notes outpouring,
He parts his lips, the gods, adoring,
Listen in transport mute,
Subdued and softened by the spell
Of the dreamer, Israphel!
And mortals, when they hear him, start,
And, full of wonder, call him—Art,
And, fain his gift to gain,
Essay to imitate the fashion
Of his rare song, and breathe its passion,—
But, ah, they strive in vain;
For his song is more than art,
Whose lute-strings are his heart!
And others, unto whom he wings
The sweetest melodies he sings,
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Near and Far
The air is full of perfume and the promise of the
spring,
From wintry mould the dainty blossoms come;
There's not a bird in all the boughs but 's eager
now to sing,
And from afar a ship is sailing home!
The cherry-blooms, all lightly blown about the ver-
dant sward,
With silver fleck the dandelion's gold;
The jasmine and arbutus breathe the fragrance
they have stored;
The crumpled ferns, like faery tents, unfold.
And low the rills are laughing, and the rivers in
the sun
Are gliding on, impatient for the sea;
The wintry days are past and gone, the summer is
begun,
And love from far is sailing home to me!
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Adieu
Adieu! I know that I no more
Shall behold you,
Your future lies beyond her door
Who consoled you;
The world has promised to redeem
Each new sorrow,
It beckons, and you lightly dream
Of a morrow.
I weep not, nor shall futile sighs
Hold you longer,
The pity in your loveless eyes
Makes me stronger,
For terrible, past loss of mine,
Hath arisen
The dread to know what was your shrine—
But your prison.
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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A Débutante
At last, for weariness,
She slept, yet breathed in dreams a fragrance of success
Sweeter to her desires than cooling showers,
Than honey hived in flowers,
Or than those notes which ere the night is done,
Are shyly fluted forth in worship of the sun.
The longed-for prize
Her own, again she heard delighted plaudits rise,
Again her conquest read in beaming eyes,
And scanned each upturned face, and missed but one!
"O love," she, dreaming, sighed,—
In joy grown sudden sad, and lonely in her pride,—
"O love, dost thou, of all the world, not care
These triumphs dear to share?
Dost thou, who sued in griefs to bear a part,
Who lightened discontent, and soothed with heavenly art,
Forbearing blame—
Remove when all besides with praises speak my name?"
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Tennyson
How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How beautiful to die as thou didst die,—
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh,
At rest in all the best that love could give!
How excellent to bear into old age
The poet's ardor and the heart of youth,
To keep to the last sleep the vow of truth,
And leave to lands that grieve a glowing page!
How glorious to feel the spirit's power
Unbroken by the near approach of death,
To breathe blest prophecies with failing breath,
Soul-bound to beauty in that latest hour!
How sweet to greet, in final kinship owned,
The master-spirit to thy dreams so dear,
At last from his immortal lips to hear
The dirge for Imogen, and thee, intoned!
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Man
I was born as free as the silvery light
That laughs in a Southern fountain;
Free as the sea-fed bird that nests
On a Scandinavian mountain,
Free as the wind that mocks at the sway
And pinioning clasp of another,
Yet in the slave they scourged to-day
I saw and knew—my brother!
Vested in purple I sat apart,
But the cord that smote him bruised me;
I closed my ears, but the sob that broke
From his savage breast accused me;
No phrase of reasoning judgement just
The plaint of my soul could smother,
A creature vile, abased to the dust,
I knew him still—my brother.
And the autumn day that had smiled so fair
Seemed suddenly overclouded;
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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In Winter
It will be long ere 'neath the sunlight dimpling,
The mountain snows melt back to earth's still breast,
Ere swallows build, and wayward brooklets wimpling
O'er pebbly beds, wind by the pewee's nest,
Ere swells the lily's cup, ere transport strong
Thrills in the bluebird's lay,—it will be long!
It will be long ere dews and fresh'ning showers
Descend where latticed roses languid burn,
Ere, pale from exile, nodding wayside flowers
And timid woodland darlings home return,
Ere vesper-sparrows chant their Delphian song,
And larks at sunrise sing,—it will be long!
But though fierce blow the winds through forests shrouded,
Where snows, for leafy verdure, cheerless cling,
Though seas moan wild, and skies are darkly clouded,—
Within the heart that loves 't is always spring!
There memories and hopes, fresh-budding, throng,
And faith forgets that Winter lingers long.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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