Lizette Woodworth Reese

Lizette Woodworth Reese Poems

1.

When I consider Life and its few years --
A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun;
A call to battle, and the battle done
Ere the last echo dies within our ears;
...

Wild rockets blew along the lane;
The tall white gentians too were there;
The mullein stalks were brave again;
Of blossoms was the bramble bare;
...

The spicewood burns along the gray, spent sky,
In moist unchimneyed places, in a wind,
That whips it all before, and all behind,
Into one thick, rude flame, now low, now high,
...

A rhyme of good Death's inn!
   My love came to that door;
And she had need of many things,
   The way had been so sore.
...

Oh, gray and tender is the rain,
That drips, drips on the pane!
A hundred things come in the door,
The scent of herbs, the thought of yore.
...

Love came back at fall o' dew,
Playing his old part;
But I had a word or two
That would break his heart.
...

Such special sweetness was about
   That day God sent you here,
I knew the lavender was out,
   And it was mid of year.
...

The little Jesus came to town;
The wind blew up, the wind blew down;
Out in the street the wind was bold;
Now who would house Him from the cold?
...

Stumble to silence, all you uneasy things,
That pack the day with bluster and with fret.
For here is music at each window set;
...

Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone,
The box dripped in the air;
Its odor through my house was blown
Into the chamber there.
...

Along the pastoral ways I go,
To get the healing of the trees,
The ghostly news the hedges know;
To hive me honey like the bees,
...

A long the thousand roads of France,
Now there, and here, swift as a glance,
A cloud, a mist blown down the sky,
Good Joan of Arc goes riding by.
...

13.

Oh, the littles that remain!
Scent of mint out in the lane;
Flare of window; sound of bees; —
These, but these.
...

14.

An apple orchard smells like wine;
A succory flower is blue;
Until Grief touched these eyes of mine,
Such things I never knew.
...

It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
...

Bathsheba came out to the sun,
Out to our wallèd cherry-trees;
The tears adown her cheek did run,
Bathsheba standing in the sun,
...

Glad that I live am I;
That the sky is blue;
Glad for the country lanes,
And the fall of dew.
...

The old house stands deserted, gray,
With sharpened gables high in air,
And deep-set lattices, all gay
With massive arch and framework rare;
...

19.

A serviceable thing
Is fennel, mint, or balm,
Kept in the thrifty calm
Of hollows, in the spring;
...

Battles nor songs can from oblivion save,
But Fame upon a white deed loves to build:
From out that cup of water Sidney gave,
Not one drop has been spilled.
...

Lizette Woodworth Reese Biography

Born in the Waverly section of Baltimore, Maryland, she was a school teacher from 1873 to 1918 at the Western High School in Baltimore. During the 1920s, she became a prominent literary figure, receiving critical praise and recognition, in particular from H. L. Mencken, himself from Baltimore. Her poetry, remarkable for its intensity and concision, has been compared to that of Emily Dickinson. She is probably best remembered for the sonnet "Tears." Her volumes of poetry include A Branch of May (1887), A Handful of Lavender (1891), A Quiet Road (1896), Spicewood (1920), and Selected Poems (1926).)

The Best Poem Of Lizette Woodworth Reese

Tears

When I consider Life and its few years --
A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun;
A call to battle, and the battle done
Ere the last echo dies within our ears;
A rose choked in the grass; an hour of fears;
The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat;
The burst of music down an unlistening street, --
I wonder at the idleness of tears.
Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight,
Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the sheep,
By every cup of sorrow that you had,
Loose me from tears, and make me see aright
How each hath back what once he stayed to weep:
Homer his sight, David his little lad!

Lizette Woodworth Reese Comments

Suzanne 24 October 2018

Read TEARS, for the line about music

1 0 Reply
Linda Daywalt 14 May 2012

I am looking for a poem by Lizette Reese that includes these phrases describing life: -a blast of music down an unlistening street -a flight of uncarpeted stairs Can someone direct me to this poem? Linda

1 1 Reply
Frieda Werden 18 December 2005

After reading the poems on this site, I think there must be others of hers that are better and less sentimental - otherwise I can't believe an old atheist cynic like Mencken would be so fond of her.

2 4 Reply
Frieda Werden 18 December 2005

'Lizette Woodworth Reese...has written more sound poetry, more genuinely eloquent and beautiful poetry, than all the New Poets put together - more than a whole posse of Masterses and Lindays, more than a hundred Amy Lowells.' -H.L. Mencken, in 'The New Poetry Movement' (found in the book: Prejudices, First Series, published in 1919 by Knopf)

5 1 Reply

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