John Kenyon was born in Jamaica, the son of a wealthy West Indian landowner, but came to England while quite a boy, and was a conspicuous figure in literary society during the second quarter of the century. He published some volumes of minor verse, but is best known for his friendships with many literary men and women, and for his boundless generosity and kindliness to all with whom he was brought... more »
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John Kenyon Poems
Past And Future
Our Past—how strangely swift! Its years—mere months! Months—clipped to weeks! and longest day—an hour! But oh! how slow the Future; slow to all
To Mary Anning
Thee, Mary! first 'twas lightning struck, And then a water-vat half drowned; But I can't think 'twas mere blind luck
The Neglected Wife
They tell me that my face is fair, That sunny smiles are on my cheek— Yet sorrow hath been busy there, For many a day—for many a week—
Lucinda! Lucinda! why all this abstraction? May astronomy hold no communion with mirth? Stars—comets—eclipses have these such attraction
Thou wert born where huge Missouri, Rushing heretofore alone, Bears to Mississippi dowry
Hint To The Poets
Brother Bard! if dream thou nourish, Thro' new fancy or new truth, 'Mid the sons of fame to flourish, Thou must lean on heart of youth.
Lines For A Scrap-Book
Gay register of harmless mirth, Record of dear domestic hours;
Childhood - I
I judge not hardly childhood's giddy glee; For I remember when my mother died, Half-wondering at that age what death might be,
Champagne Rose - II
Praise who will the duller liquor Juice of Portugal or Spain; Fill for me with lighter—quicker— Fill for me with Rose Champagne.
Champagne Rose - I
Lily on liquid roses floating— So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne— Fain would I join such pleasant boating, And prove that ruby main,
Brook Of Sanguinetto,
We win, where least we care to strive; And where the most we strive—we miss. Old Hannibal, if now alive,
Graceful Palms of Bordighiera! Bending o'er the Riviëra; Tho' by Devon's wave we've seen
Chloris! I cannot help but blush To meet that dark and glancing eye; Sportive you mark the sudden flush,
The bees, Sir, wont sting you; then why this ado? And for honey—they'll never make honey of you—
Comments about John Kenyon
(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)
Past And Future
Our Past—how strangely swift! Its years—mere months!
Months—clipped to weeks! and longest day—an hour!
But oh! how slow the Future; slow to all
Of every age and being. Yon school-urchin,
Fresh from his Christmas-home, as now he bends him
With saddened brow o'er the black greasy slate;
Or strains himself, at stroke of early clock,
His all-unwelcome bedtime, to confront
Cold touch of wiry sheet, ah! not like home's;
How vainly would he pierce the dim half year
To his next holidays; and asks himself,
'And will they—will they—can they ever come?'
Youth too, ...