George Edward Woodberry
George Edward Woodberry, Litt. D., LL. D. (1855–1930) was an American literary critic and poet. Born in Beverly, Massachusetts, Woodberry graduated from Harvard College in 1877, and became professor of English at the University of Nebraska. In 1891–1904 he was professor of comparative literature at Columbia University. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 1930 he was posthumously awarded one of the first three Frost Medals for lifetime achievement in poetry by the Poetry Society of America. He wrote a number of books as well. Other publications: He edited The complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1892); Lamb's Essays of Elia (1892); The Works of Edgar ... more »
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George Edward Woodberry Poems
I WILL rise, I will go from the places that are dark with passion and pain, From the sorrow-changëd woodlands and a thousand memories slain.
On the Italian Front MCMXVI
“I will die cheering, if I needs must die; So shall my last breath write upon my lips Viva Italia! when my spirit slips
On a Portrait of Columbus
WAS this his face, and these the finding eyes That plucked a new world from the rolling seas? Who, serving Christ, whom most he sought to please,
O, Struck Beneath The Laurel
O, STRUCK beneath the laurel, where the singing fountains are, I saw from heaven falling the star of love afar;
O, Inexpressible As Sweet
O, INEXPRESSIBLE as sweet, Love takes my voice away; I cannot tell thee when we meet What most I long to say.
SWEET names, the rosary of my evening prayer, Told on my lips like kisses of good-night To friends who go a little from my sight,
Immortal love, too high for my possessing,— Yet, lower than thee, where shall I find repose? Long in my youth I sang the morning rose,
I INTO the west of the waters on the living ocean’s foam, Into the west of the sunset where the young adventurers roam,
From My Country
O DESTINED Land, unto thy citadel, What founding fates even now doth peace compel, That through the world thy name is sweet to tell!
The world hath its own dead; great motions start In human breasts, and make for them a place In that hushed sanctuary of the race
TO tremble, when I touch her hands, With awe that no man understands; To feel soft reverence arise When, lover-sweet, I meet her eyes;
America to England
MOTHER of nations, of them eldest we, Well is it found, and happy for the state, When that which makes men proud first makest them great,
Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! --
I England, I stand on thy imperial ground, Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
Comments about George Edward Woodberry
(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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
I WILL rise, I will go from the places that are dark with passion and pain,
From the sorrow-changëd woodlands and a thousand memories slain.
O light gone out in darkness on the cliff I seek no more
Where she I worshipped met me in her girlhood at the door!
O, bright though years how many! fare-well, sweet guiding star—
The wild wind blows me seaward over the harbor-bar!
Better thy waste, gray Ocean, the homeless, heaving plain,
Than to choke the fount of life and the flower of honor stain!
I will seek thy blessed shelter, deep bosom of sun and storm,
From the fever...