Frank Dempster Sherman
Biography of Frank Dempster Sherman
SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER. Born in Peekskill, New York, May 6, 1860; died September 19, 1916. He took the degree of Ph.B. from Columbia University in 1884, and was Professor of Graphics in Columbia School of Architecture from 1904 until his death. He was the author of "Madrigals and Catches" (1887); "Lyrics for a Lute" (1890); "Little Folk Lyrics" (1892); "Lyrics of Joy" (1904); and "A Southern Flight" (with Clinton Scollard), (1906).
Frank Dempster Sherman Poems
At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadow of the Night.
Bees don't care about the snow; I can tell you why that's so:
Give me the room whose every nook Is dedicated to a book: Two windows will suffice for air And grant the light admission there,—
My heart was winter-bound until I heard you sing; O voice of Love, hush not, but fill My life with Spring!
Little drop of dew, Like a gem you are; I believe that you Must have been a star.
When I spin round without a stop And keep my balance like the top, I find that soon the floor will swim Before my eyes; and then, like him,
The Rose’s Cup
Down in a garden olden,— Just where, I do not know,— A buttercup all golden Chanced near a rose to grow;
HARK at the lips of this pink whorl of shell And you shall hear the ocean’s surge and roar:
On Some Buttercups
A LITTLE way below her chin, Caught in her bosom’s snowy hem, Some buttercups are fastened in,— Ah, how I envy them!
On A Greek Vase
DIVINELY shapen cup, thy lip Unto me seemeth thus to speak: “Behold in me the workmanship, The grace and cunning of a Greek!
See, yonder, the belfry tower That gleams in the moon’s pale light; Or is it a ghostly flower That dreams in the silent night?
A Pacific Dawn
When pale Selene in her crescent boat Sails down into the margin of the West Through shoals of stars that twinkle in unrest,
A Butterfly In Wall Street
Winged wanderer from clover meadows sweet, Where all day long beneath a smiling sky You drained the wild-flowers' cups of honey dry
Listen to the tawny thief, Hid beneath the waxen leaf, Growling at his fairy host, Bidding her with angry boast
Out of the purple drifts,
From the shadow sea of night,
On tides of musk a moth uplifts
Its weary wings of white.
Is it a dream or ghost
Of a dream that comes to me,
Here in the twilight on the coast,
Blue cinctured by the sea?