Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy
O'Shaughnessy was born on May 14, 1844 in London, England. At the age of seventeen he received the post of transcriber in the library of the British Museum. Two years later at the age of nineteen he was appointed to be an assistant in the natural history department, where he specialized in icthyology. However, his true passion was for literature. He published his Epic of Women in 1870, his first collection. He printed three collections of poetry between 1870 and 1874. When he was thirty he married and did not print any more volumes of poetry for the last seven years of his life. His last volume, Songs of a worker was published after his death the same year.
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Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy Poems
We Are the Music-Makers
We are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams.
We are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams;
The Fountain of Tears
If you go over desert and mountain, Far into the country of Sorrow, To-day and to-night and to-morrow, And maybe for months and for years;
A Love Symphony
Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek;
Summer Has Come Without the Rose
Has summer come without the rose, Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee, O world! or am I blind?
The stars are dimly seen among the shadows of the bay, And lights that win are seen in strife with lights that die away. The wave is very still -- the rudder loosens in our hand,
I Made Another Garden
I made another garden, yea, For my new love; I left the dead rose where it lay, And set the new above.
I made another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above.
Comments about Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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We Are the Music-Makers
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.