Isabella Valancy Crawford
Isabella Valancy Crawford was an Irish-born Canadian writer and poet. She was one of the first Canadians to make a living as a freelance writer."
Crawford is increasingly being viewed as Canada’s first major poet." She is the author of "Malcolm's Katie," a poem that has achieved "a central place in the canon of nineteenth-century Canadian poetry."
She was the last surviving daughter of Dr. Stephen Crawford. She was born in Dublin, Ireland on Christmas Day, 1850. The family emigrated to Canada when she was five years of age.
Much of Isabella Crawford's early life is unknown; "so little remains of the usual ... more »
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Isabella Valancy Crawford Poems
My masters twain made me a bed Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
Joy's City hath high battlements of gold; Joy's City hath her streets of gem-wrought flow'rs; She hath her palaces high reared and bold,
His Wife and Baby
In the lone place of the leaves, Where they touch the hanging eaves, There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet and sturdy; And the baby in the bed
SLOWLY the Moon her banderoles of light Unfurls upon the sky; her fingers drip Pale, silvery tides; her armoured warriors
In the first dawn she lifted from her bed The holy silver of her noble head, And listened, listened, listened for his tread. 'Too soon, too soon !' she murmured, 'Yet I'll keep
Sylvia's lattices were dark Roses made them narrow. In the dawn there came a Spark, Armèd with an arrow:
The Mother's Soul
When the moon was horned the mother died, And the child pulled at her hand and knee, And he rubbed her cheek and loudly cried: 'O mother, arise, give bread to me!'
Canada To England
GONE are the days, old Warrior of the Seas, When thine armed head, bent low to catch my voice, Caught but the plaintive sighings of my woods,
Bite Deep And Wide, O Axe, The Tree!
'BITE deep and wide, O Axe, the tree! What doth thy bold voice promise me?'
A Harvest Song
THE noon was as a crystal bowl The red wine mantled through; Around it like a Viking's beard The red-gold hazes blew,
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean From her white altar and with goddess lip
The Dark Stag
A startled stag, the blue-grey Night, Leaps down beyond black pines. Behind--a length of yellow light-- The hunter's arrow shines:
LOUD trumpets blow among the naked pines, Fine spun as sere-cloth rent from royal dead. Seen ghostly thro' high-lifted vagrant drifts,
I SAW a fairy twine, Of star-white jessamine, A dainty seat, shaped like an airy swing, With two round yellow stars
Comments about Isabella Valancy Crawford
(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)
My masters twain made me a bed
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar;
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
With furry skins, and laughing said,
'Now she shall lay her polish'd sides,
As queens do rest, or dainty brides,
Our slender lady of the tides!'
My masters twain their camp-soul lit,
Streamed incense from the hissing cones,
Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl'd
Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl'd
Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones,
Half way about each grim bole knit,
Like a shy child that would ...