Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr
Biography of Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr
Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr (1825–1913) was an American author who published both prose and poetry. She was born at Charleston, South Carolina, but moved early in her life to New York City, then to Rutland, Vermont. There she married Hon. Seneca R. Dorr. Her earliest published writings appeared in 1848.
Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr's Works:
* Isabel Leslie (1848)
* Farmingdale (1854)
* Lanmere (1856)
* Sybil Huntingdon (1869)
* Expiation (1872)
* Bermuda (1884)
* The Flower of England's Face (1895)
* A Cathedral Pilgrimage (1896)
* In King's Houses (1898)
* Poems (1871)
* Friar Anselm and Other Poems (1879)
* Daybreak: An Easter Poem (1872)
* Afternoon Songs (1885)
* Afterglow (1900)
* Beyond the Sunset (1909)
* Last Poems (1913)
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Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr Poems
When you lay before me dead, In such pallid rest, On those passive lips of thine Not one kiss I pressed!
Nay, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown: One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the
The Legend Of The Organ Builder
Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought; Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought,
To A Late Comer
Why didst thou come into my life so late? If it were morning I could welcome thee With glad all-hails, and bid each hour to be
Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms! The sunset glory fadeth in the west; The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest;
A path across a meadow fair and sweet, Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet, A path worn wmooth by his impetuous feet.
With A Rose From Conway Castle
On hoary Conway's battlemented height, O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose! Through arch and court the sweet wind wandering goes;
O Wind That Blows Out Of The West
O wind that blows out of the West, Thou hast swept over mountain and sea, Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings The breath of my love to me?
Bird beneath the midnight sky As on my lonely couch I lie, I hear thee singing in the dark, Why sing not I?
To A Late Comer
Why didst thou come into my life so late? If it were morning I could welcome thee With glad all-hails, and bid each hour to be The willing servitor of thine estate,
O fair young queen, who liest dead to-day In thy proud palace o'er the moaning sea, With still, white hands that never more may be Lifted to pluck life's roses bright with May
I Mysterious One, inscrutable, unknown, A silent Presence, with averted face,
Nay, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown:
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.
Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say;
And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and 'made up' in play.
And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,-
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.