Rose Terry Cooke
Rose Terry Cooke (née Terry) was an American writer born in West Hartford, Connecticut to Henry Wadsworth Terry and Anne Wright Hurlbut.
She went to the Hartford Female Seminary where "For her own entertainment she wrote poems and dramas for her friends". She graduated from the seminary at age sixteen and that same year became a member of the Congregational Church and began teaching at a Presbyterian church in Burlington, New Jersey and worked as a governess for the family of clergyman William Van Rensselaer.
Terry's first published poem appeared in the New York Daily Tribune in 1851 and received high praise from the editor Charles A. Dana. In 1860 she ... more »
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Rose Terry Cooke Poems
There comes a time of rest to thee, Whose laden boughs droop heavily Toward earth, thou golden-fruited tree!
I watch her in the corner there, As, restless, bold, and unafraid, She slips and floats along the air
When I am a sea-flower Under the cool green tide, Where the sunshine slants and quivers, And the quaint, gray fishes glide,
In a gleam of sunshine a gentian stood, Dreaming her life away, While the leaves danced merrily through the wood, And rode on the wind for play.
Singer of priceless melody, Underguerdoned chorister of air, Who from the lithe top of the tree Pourest at will thy music rare, As if a sudden brook laughed down the hill-side there.
Once, when the new moon glittered So slender in the West, I looked across my shoulder, And a wild wish stirred my breast.
There's a bluebird sits on the apple-tree bough, Singing merrily and gay. Come, little blossoms, the Spring's here now, And the sun shines warm all day.
With eager steps I go Across the valleys low, Where in deep brakes the writhing serpents hiss. Above, below, around, I hear the dreadful sound Of thy calm breath, eternal Nemesis!
Night Comes Creeping
Night comes creeping slowly o'er me, Like a vapor cold and gray; Dim the track that lies before me, Lost the lingering smile of day.
PUT every tiny robe away! The stitches all were set with tears, Slow, tender drops of joys; to-day Their rain would wither hopes or fears:
Fair and peaceful daisies, Smiling in the grass, Who hath sung your praises? Poets by you pass, And I alone am left to celebrate your mass.
Ebb and Flow
'Tis something to have turned the tide That ebbed and ebbed and slid away, Till all the sands lay bare and wide, A dreary level, bleak and gray.
IF I were a cloud in heaven, I would hang over thee; If I were a star of even, I ’d rise and set for thee;
A silent, odor-laden air, From heavy branches dropping balm; A crowd of daisies milky fair, That sunward turn their faces calm. So rapt, a bird alone may dare To stir their rapture with his psalm.
Comments about Rose Terry Cooke
(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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
There comes a time of rest to thee,
Whose laden boughs droop heavily
Toward earth, thou golden-fruited tree!
A time when wind and tempest cease
To spoil and stain thy fair increase:
After fruition deepest peace.
The tender bloom that decked thee, bride,
The jewels of thy matron pride,
And purple robes,-all laid aside.
The slow, red sunshine, o'er thee cast,
In sweet, sad kisses for thy last,
And shadow-haunted from the past.
Green, leafy, quiet, freed from care,
No heavier weight thy lithe limbs bear
Than dripping rain and sunny ...