Biography of Beatrice Redpath
Beatrice Redpath (died 1937) was a Canadian poet.
She was born Beatrice Peterson in Montreal, Quebec. Her father, Alexander Peterson, was Chief Engineer of the Canadian Pacific Railway. She was educated in private schools in Montreal. At 17 she moved to Goderich, Ontario, where she lived for five years. She married William Redpath of Montreal in 1910; the couple had one son.
T.P.'s Weekly: "Beatrice Redpath in Drawn Shutters can be commonplace in the noble contemplation of essential life: a virtue in poetry. She comes down at times to the minor level of 'The Dancer'. But 'To One Lying Dead' is a poem of true loveliness, elegiac without dullness, eloquent without gush.... Beatrice Redpath feels the passions of rebellion and indignation. But to her they imply more than mere dissatisfaction and chafing. Indeed, one might make the quality of those passions the supreme test of character, certainly of poetic power.... There is evidence in the volume of life lived at first hand, of the discipline of actuality that forces people either to a calm, strong normality, or to hectic agony, and disquietness of spirit. And it is because the poet soul rises to the reality of experience that her poems will not depress. Of her brief songs it may be said that they come like sunshine amid clouds, themselves noble and impressive."
Beatrice Redpath's Works:
Drawn Shutters. London, UK; New York, NY: John Lane, 1914. Toronto: S.B. Gundy, 1914.
White Lilac. London, UK; New York, NY: John Lane, 1922. Toronto: S.B. Gundy, 1922.
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Beatrice Redpath Poems
My thoughts are as a flock of sheep Upon a windy wold, At eventide they homeward creep To shelter from the cold;
The Daughter Of Jairus
I have fashioned soft raiment for her to wear And have laid her embroidered sandals in her room, I have said I would braid and bind her heavy hair, But she has gone out to the orchard to gather bloom.
The earth lay wrapped in pale low hanging mist, As some white tomb all ready for its dead I thought, and shudderingly forward pressed Into that shadowed house where night still hung Darkly, as though it yet were loath to leave
To One Lying Dead
Strange that thou liest so, void of all will For loving; so content with thy long sleep That neither word nor sound may stir the still Calm quiet of the dream that thou dost keep.
God, in Thy Heaven hast Thou ever known Toil, when the heart and hand were fused in one, The sweet bruised scent of grasses newly mown, The sharp delight to see each dawn the sun
My thoughts are as a flock of sheep
Upon a windy wold,
At eventide they homeward creep
To shelter from the cold;
And when I lay me down to sleep
They rest within the fold.