Biography of Virna Sheard
Virna Sheard (1865-1943) is a Canadian poet and novelist.
She was born Virna Stanton in Coburg, Ontario, and was educated in Coburg and Toronto. She married Dr. Charles Sheard of Toronto in 1885, and bore him four sons.
She began publishing stories and poems in 1898, and publishing several novels and a collection of poetry.
The Globe (Toronto): "A study of The Miracle and Other Poems shows at once that the author is not merely a Canadian poet; her outlook and her range know little of time or place; she belongs to the readers of poetry at large.... Though Mrs. Sheard's poems are by no means of uniform quality, there are enough of the best to ensure her a high place in Canadian poetry. Her tender sympathy with small or helpless things, her interpretation of the music of nature, her spiritual quality and her rendering of reverent Biblical subjects reflect the mind of an idealist, and are the inspired lines of one deeply moved. Often there is a touch of sadness or of the whimsical, but never a suggestion of triviality or flippancy. There is little of incident or action: most of the poems are pure lyrics. In many cases there is a strong appeal to the aesthetic."
Virna Sheard's Works:
Trevelyan's Little Daughters. Toronto: William Briggs, 1898. Montreal: C.W. Coates, 1898.
A Maid of Many Moods. Toronto: Copp Clark, 1902. New York: J. Pott, 1902.
By the Queen's Grace. Toronto: William Briggs, 1904.
The Man at Lone Lake. London, UK: Cassell, 1912.
Carry On!. Toronto: Warwick & Rutter, 1917.
The Miracle and Other Poems. Toronto: J.M. Dent, 1913.
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Virna Sheard Poems
When April Comes!
When April comes with softly shining eyes, And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair, Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies,
April again! the willow wands are yellow Rose-red the brambles that the passing wind knows, Comes a robin's note like the note of a 'cello, And across the valley, the calling of the crows,- 'April again!'
A Song Of Roses
'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow, To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low,
April! April! April! With a mist of green on the trees-- And a scent of the warm brown broken earth On every wandering breeze;
Windy March weather, with a lone crow flying, A little ebony airship careening down the blue, And high, high above him a wild goose crying, The leading cry, the clarion cry, that guides his grey lines through!
A Song Of Poppies
I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies! Sun-worshippers are they; Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers They live one little day.
Hark! Hark to the wind! 'Tis the night, they say, When all souls come back from the far away-- The dead, forgotten this many a day!
A Song Of Love
Love reckons not by time--its May days of delight Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight.
Love maketh its own summer time, 'Tis June, Love, when we are together, And little I care for the frost in the air,
A Southern Lullaby
Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight;-- (Shadow-man is comin' from de moon!)-- You's as sweet as roses if dey is so pink an white;
The Lily Pond
ON this little pool where the sunbeams lie, This tawny gold ring where the shadows die, God doth enamel the blue of His sky.
A War Chant
O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long, And his hate is a deadly thing; It was held in his heart till its growth was strong, Now, words have woven it into a song
Oh! little pink and white god of love, With your tender smiling mouth, And eyes as blue as the blue above, Afar in the sunny south.
Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free! The blue of the sky, the shade of a tree, And the unowned leagues of the shining sea.
Love maketh its own summer time,
'Tis June, Love, when we are together,
And little I care for the frost in the air,
For the heart makes its own summer weather.
Love maketh its own winter time,
And though the hills blossom with heather,
If you are not near, 'tis December, my dear,
For the heart makes its own winter weather.