George Edward Woodberry
Biography of George Edward Woodberry
George Edward Woodberry, Litt. D., LL. D. (1855–1930) was an American literary critic and poet. Born in Beverly, Massachusetts, Woodberry graduated from Harvard College in 1877, and became professor of English at the University of Nebraska. In 1891–1904 he was professor of comparative literature at Columbia University. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 1930 he was posthumously awarded one of the first three Frost Medals for lifetime achievement in poetry by the Poetry Society of America. He wrote a number of books as well. Other publications: He edited The complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1892); Lamb's Essays of Elia (1892); The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, with E. C. Stedman (1894); and Select Poems of Aubrey de Vere (1894). He wrote compositions in the "National Studies in American Letters," and Columbia University Studies in Comparative Literature, (nine volumes). "Defeat is not the worst of failures. Not to have tried is the true failure.
George Edward Woodberry Poems
O WILD heart, track the land’s perfume, Beach-roses and moor-heather! All fragrances of herb and bloom Fail, out at sea, together.
I WILL rise, I will go from the places that are dark with passion and pain, From the sorrow-changëd woodlands and a thousand memories slain.
On The Italian Front Mcmxvi
“I will die cheering, if I needs must die; So shall my last breath write upon my lips Viva Italia! when my spirit slips
On A Portrait Of Columbus
WAS this his face, and these the finding eyes That plucked a new world from the rolling seas? Who, serving Christ, whom most he sought to please,
O, Struck Beneath The Laurel
O, STRUCK beneath the laurel, where the singing fountains are, I saw from heaven falling the star of love afar;
O, Inexpressible As Sweet
O, INEXPRESSIBLE as sweet, Love takes my voice away; I cannot tell thee when we meet What most I long to say.
SWEET names, the rosary of my evening prayer, Told on my lips like kisses of good-night To friends who go a little from my sight,
Immortal love, too high for my possessing,— Yet, lower than thee, where shall I find repose? Long in my youth I sang the morning rose,
I INTO the west of the waters on the living ocean’s foam, Into the west of the sunset where the young adventurers roam,
From My Country
O DESTINED Land, unto thy citadel, What founding fates even now doth peace compel, That through the world thy name is sweet to tell!
The world hath its own dead; great motions start In human breasts, and make for them a place In that hushed sanctuary of the race
TO tremble, when I touch her hands, With awe that no man understands; To feel soft reverence arise When, lover-sweet, I meet her eyes;
America To England
MOTHER of nations, of them eldest we, Well is it found, and happy for the state, When that which makes men proud first makest them great,
Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! --
America To England
MOTHER of nations, of them eldest we,
Well is it found, and happy for the state,
When that which makes men proud first makest them great,
And such our fortune is who sprang from thee,
And brought to this new land from over sea
The faith that can with every household mate,
And freedom whereof law is magistrate,
And thoughts that make men brave, and leave them free.
O Mother of our faith, our law, our lore,