Frederick George Scott
Frederick George Scott Poems
|7.||British War Song||3/31/2012|
|8.||The Poet's Song||3/31/2012|
|10.||On The Cliff||3/31/2012|
|11.||Lines Written On Finishing The Life Of Milton||3/31/2012|
|19.||Under The Pines||3/31/2012|
|22.||On Darwin's Tomb In Westminster Abbey||3/31/2012|
|23.||Epitaph On Dr. Jenner||3/31/2012|
|25.||A Wayside Cross||3/31/2012|
|27.||Across The Sea||3/31/2012|
|29.||On Being Given A Piece Of Edelweiss Before Visiting Switzerland||3/31/2012|
|32.||The Poet's Empire||3/31/2012|
|33.||In Memoriam E.S.||3/31/2012|
|36.||At Madame Tussaud's||3/31/2012|
|37.||The Soul's Quest||3/31/2012|
|39.||New Year's Eve||3/31/2012|
Comments about Frederick George Scott
O little hands, long vanished in the night--
Sweet fairy hands that were my treasure here--
My heart is full of music from some sphere,
Where ye make melody for God's delight.
Though autumn clouds obscure the starry height,
And winds are noisy and the land is drear,
In this blank room I feel my lost love near,
And hear you playing--hands so small and white.
The shadowy organ sings its songs again,
The dead years turn to music at its voice,
And all the dreams come back my brain did store.
Once more, dear hands, ye soothe me in my pain,
Once more ...
I saw Time in his workshop carving faces;
Scattered around his tools lay, blunting griefs,
Sharp cares that cut out deeply in reliefs
Of light and shade; sorrows that smooth the traces
Of what were smiles. Nor yet without fresh graces
His handiwork, for ofttimes rough were ground
And polished, oft the pinched made smooth and round;
The calm look, too, the impetuous fire replaces.
Long time I stood and watched; with hideous grin