Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald was a Canadian poet.
She was born at Rockwood, Ontario, the daughter of Rev. William Wetherald, a Quaker minister. She was educated at the Friends' Boarding School in Union, New York, and at Pickering College. She sold her first poem to St. Nicholas Magazine at 17, and soon was contributing to many publications throughout Canada and the United States, including The Globe, The Week, and Rose-Belford's Canadian Magazine. She co-wrote a novel, An Algonquin Maiden (1887), with Graeme Mercer Adam, and in 1895 published her first volume of poetry.
She worked for several decades as a proofreader, journalist, and editorial assistant at newspapers in ... more »
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Ethelwyn Wetherald Poems
The Snow Storm
The Great soft downy snow storm like a cloak Descends to wrap the lean world head to feet; It gives the dead another winding sheet,
The Hay Field
With slender arms outstretching in the sun The grass lies dead; The wind walks tenderly and stirs not one Frail fallen head.
Now that the earth has hid her lovely brood Of green things in her breast safe out of sight,
The Indigo Bird
When I see, High on the tip-top twig of a tree, Something blue by the breezes stirred, But so far up that the blue is blurred,
Muck of the sty, reek of the trough, Blackened my brow where all might see, Yet while I was a great way off
Mother and Child
I saw a mother holding Her play-worn baby son, Her pliant arms enfolding The drooping little one.
How dear to hearts by hurtful noises scarred In the stillness of the many-leavèd trees, The quiet of green hills, the million-starred
In the Crowd
Here in the crowded city's busy street, Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng, Where Traffic's voice grows harsher and more strong,
If One Might Live
If one might live ten years among the leaves, Ten–only ten–of all a life's long day, Who would not choose a childhood 'neath the eaves
Hearing the strange night-piercing sound Of woe that strove to sing, I followed where it hid, and found A small soft-throated thing,
The House of the Trees
Open your doors and take me in, Spirit of the wood; Wash me clean of dust and din, Clothe me in your mood.
My orders are to fight; Then if I bleed, or fail, Or strongly win, what matters it?
The Wind of Death
The wind of death, that softly blows The last warm petal from the rose, The last dry leaf from off the tree,
Unto my friends I give my thoughts, Unto my God my soul, Unto my foe I leave my love– These are of life the whole.
Comments about Ethelwyn Wetherald
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Snow Storm
The Great soft downy snow storm like a cloak
Descends to wrap the lean world head to feet;
It gives the dead another winding sheet,
It buries all the roofs until the smoke
Seems like a soul that from its clay has broke.
It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat,
And visits all the trees in their retreat
To hood and mantle that poor shivering folk.
With wintry bloom it fills the harshest grooves
In jagged pine stump fences. Every sound
It hushes to the footstep of a nun.
Sweet Charity! that brightens where it moves
Inducing darkest bits of ...