Edward Dowden was born in Cork, County Cork, Ireland.
Irish critic, biographer, and poet, noted for his critical work on Shakespeare.
Educated at Queen's College, Cork, and Trinity College, Dublin, Dowden became professor of English literature at Trinity in 1867 and lectured at Oxford (1890-93) and Cambridge (1893-96).
His Shakespeare: A Critical Study of His Mind and Art (1875) was the first book in English to attempt a unified and rounded picture of Shakespeare's development as an artist, studying him in terms of successive periods. His other works on Shakespeare include the primer Shakspere (1877), which was written for a nonacademic audience, and ... more »
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Edward Dowden Poems
In The Garden I: The Garden
PAST the town's clamour is a garden full Of loneness and old greenery; at noon When birds are hush'd, save one dim cushat's croon, A ripen'd silence hangs beneath the cool
My long first year of perfect love, My deep new dream of joy; She was a little chubby girl, I was a chubby boy.
UNDER the flaming wings of cherubim I moved toward that high altar. O, the hour! And the light waxed intenser, and the dim Low edges of the hills and the grey sea
A New Hymn for Solitude
I found Thee in my heart, O Lord, As in some secret shrine; I knelt, I waited for Thy word, I joyed to name Thee mine.
The Secret of the Universe
AN ODE (By a Western Spinning Dervish)
Leonardo's 'Monna Lisa'
MAKE thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair Of knowing thee be absolute; I wait Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of fate Hides 'twixt the lips which smile and still forbear?
Lord, I have knelt and tried to pray to-night, But Thy love came upon me like a sleep, And all desire died out; upon the deep Of Thy mere love I lay, each thought in light
In The Garden III: An Interior
THE grass around my limbs is deep and sweet; Yonder the house has lost its shadow wholly, The blinds are dropped, and softly now and slowly The day flows in and floats; a calm retreat
THE bow of promise, this lost flaring star, Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She, The mighty-wing'd crown'd Lady Melancholy, Heeds not. O to what vision'd goal afar
WHY do I make no poems? Good my friend Now is there silence through the summer woods, In whose green depths and lawny solitudes The light is dreaming; voicings clear ascend
In The Cathedral
THE altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair Hails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhume
In the Cathedral Close
IN the Dean's porch a nest of clay With five small tentants may be seen; Five solemn faces, each as wise As if its owner were a Dean.
SPRING scarce had greener fields to show than these Of mid September; through the still warm noon The rivulets ripple forth a gladder tune Than ever in the summer; from the trees
In The Garden VII: Early Autumn
IF while I sit flatter'd by this warm sun Death came to me, and kiss'd my mouth and brow, And eyelids which the warm light hovers through, I should not count it strange. Being half won
Comments about Edward Dowden
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
In The Garden I: The Garden
PAST the town's clamour is a garden full
Of loneness and old greenery; at noon
When birds are hush'd, save one dim cushat's croon,
A ripen'd silence hangs beneath the cool
Great branches; basking roses dream and drop
A petal, and dream still; and summer's boon
Of mellow grasses, to be levell'd soon
By a dew-drenched scythe, will hardly stop
At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees.
Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day,
And know all night in dusky placidness
It lies beneath the summer, while great ease
Broods in the leaves, and every light...