Rose Hartwick Thorpe
Biography of Rose Hartwick Thorpe
Rose Hartwick Thorpe (July 18, 1850 – July 19, 1939), American poet and writer, remembered largely for a single narrative poem that gained national popularity. She was born in Mishawaka, Indiana. Among her poems were Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight. She died in San Diego, California. The poem was written while Thorpe resided in Litchfield, Michigan, a small rural town. A bell in the center of the town commemorates the poem and Thorpe's time spent in the town. Litchfield has adopted the title of the poem as something of a symbol, having firetrucks and city website show the symbol of a bell reading "Curfew Shall not Ring Tonight."
Rose Hartwick Thorpe Poems
Down The Track
In the deepening shades of twilight Stood a maiden, young and fair; Rain-drops gleamed on cheek and forehead, Rain-drops glistened in her hair.
Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight
Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair ― He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
The Station Agent's Story
Take a seat in the shade here, lady; It's tiresome, I know, to wait; But when the train reaches Verona It's always sure to be late, ―
In The Mining Town
''Tis the last time, darling,' he gently said, As he kissed her lips like the cherries red, While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown: 'My own is the prettiest girl in town.
Sunset. A ball of fire suspended Low o'er a molten sea;
Remember The Alamo
Two student lads one morning met Under the blue-domed Texas skies; Strangers by birth and station, yet Youth's heart lies close beneath youth's eyes.
The Soldier's Reprieve
'My Fred! I can't understand it,' And his voice quivered with pain, While the tears kept slowly dropping On his trembling hands like rain.
The Last Night
They stand in the shadow which darkly falls When the Day-god sleeps in his glory, Shut in by the gloom of the Alamo walls, Those heroes who live in Fame's story.
The Little Bells
A legend of the fuchsia. Clasping her close in his strong young arms, As his blue eyes met her own,
'Madam, we miss the train at B_____.' 'But can't you make it, sir?' she gasped. 'Impossible! it leaves at three, And we are due a quarter past.'
Fair Margaret! beautiful Margaret! In the hush of the twilight cold. The sun on a dazzling throne has set In a cloud of amber and gold;
How The Flowers Came
'Twas seed-time in Heaven; the angel whose care Is for Eden's blossoms, - that angel more fair Than all her fair sisters, twin spirits of air, - That angel whose footsteps, wherever they tread,
Little child, when twilight shadows Close the western gates of gold, Then those loving arms of mother's Tenderly about thee fold.
Lost At Sea
I stood where the starlit heavens Spread away over field and glen, Like the hands of loving angels Reaching down to the hearts of men.
Dear heart of my heart,
Throbbing close to my breast
With fondest and truest pulsation,
List while I repeat
The old story, my sweet,
In the language of love's adoration!
O, life of my life,
All the purest and best
Of my manhood warms in thy presence,