Richard Henry Stoddard
Richard Henry Stoddard was an American critic and poet. He was born on July 2, 1825, in Hingham, Massachusetts. His father, a sea-captain, was wrecked and lost on one of his voyages while Richard was a child, and the lad went in 1835 to New York City with his mother, who had married again. He attended the public schools of that city. He became a blacksmith and later an iron moulder, reading much poetry at the same time. In 1849 he gave up his industrial trades and began to write for a living. He contributed to the Union Magazine, the Knickerbocker Magazine, Putnam's Monthly Magazine and the New York Evening Post. In 1853 Nathaniel Hawthorne helped him to secure the appointment of inspector ... more »
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Richard Henry Stoddard Poems
It Never Comes Again
There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts,
Day And Night My Thoughts Incline
Day and night my thoughts incline To the blandishments of wine: Jars were made to drain, I think, Wine, I know, was made to drink.
The Flight Of The Arrow
THE LIFE of man Is an arrow’s flight, Out of darkness Into light,
The Flight Of Youth
THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts,
Last night, when my tired eyes were shut with sleep, I saw the one I love, and heard her speak,— Heard, in the listening watches of the night,
This man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of nature s masterful, great men; Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won;
Melodies And Catches
SONGS HOW are songs begot and bred? How do golden measures flow? From the heart, or from the head?
An Old Song Reversed
“THERE are gains for all our losses.” So I said when I was young. If I sang that song again, ’T would not be with that refrain,
THE ANGEL came by night (Such angels still come down), And like a winter cloud Passed over London town;
The Witch’s Whelp
ALONG the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn, Covered with thick green scum; the billows rise, And fill them to the brim with clouded foam,
The Lover - (Japan)
IT is dark and lonesome here, Beneath the windy eaves:— The cold, cold ground my bed, My coverlet dead leaves,
THE DIVAN A LITTLE maid of Astrakan, An idol on a silk divan
No, Poplar, No!
The poplar tree that guards my house Looks in on me tonight, As if it would divide my shade, Though based itself in light.
Birds are singing round my window, Tunes the sweetest ever heard, And I hang my cage there daily, But I never catch a bird.
Comments about Richard Henry Stoddard
(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)
It Never Comes Again
There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain,
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.
We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain;
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.