Helen Gray Cone

(1859-1934 / United States)

Helen Gray Cone Poems

1. The Ride To The Lady 1/4/2003
2. A Chant Of Love For England 4/22/2010
3. A Mystery 4/22/2010
4. A Nest In A Lyre 4/22/2010
5. At The Parting Of The Ways 4/22/2010
6. Compensation 4/22/2010
7. Comrades 4/22/2010
8. Fair England 4/22/2010
9. In Winter, With The Book We Read In Spring 4/22/2010
10. Isolation 4/22/2010
11. Ivo Of Chartres 4/22/2010
12. King Raedwald 4/22/2010
13. Kinship 4/22/2010
14. Love Unsung 4/22/2010
15. The Encounter 4/22/2010
16. The Fair Gray Lady 4/22/2010
17. The First Guest 4/22/2010
18. The Gifts Of The Oak 4/22/2010
19. The Glorious Company 4/22/2010
20. The Going Out Of The Tide 4/22/2010
21. The House Of Hate 4/22/2010
22. The Immortal Word 4/22/2010
23. The Lost Dryad 4/22/2010
24. The Spring Beauties 4/22/2010
25. The Story Of The 4/22/2010
26. The Strayed Singer 4/22/2010
27. The Torch-Race 4/22/2010
28. The Trumpeter 4/22/2010
29. The Wish For A Chaplet 4/22/2010
30. Thisbe 4/22/2010
31. To Sleep 4/22/2010
32. Triumph 4/22/2010
33. Two Moods Of Failure 4/22/2010
34. When Willows Green 4/22/2010
35. Retrospect 4/22/2010
36. Sere Wisdom 4/22/2010
37. Silence 4/22/2010
38. Sister Snow 4/22/2010
39. Summer Hours 4/22/2010
40. The Contrast 4/22/2010
Best Poem of Helen Gray Cone

A Memory

Though pent in stony streets, 'tis joy to know,
'Tis joy, although we breathe a fainter air,
The spirit of those places far and fair
That we have loved, abides; and fern-scents flow
Out of the wood's heart still, and shadows grow
Long on remembered roads as warm days wear;
And still the dark wild water, in its lair,
The narrow chasm, stirs blindly to and fro.

Delight is in the sea-gull's dancing wings,
And sunshine wakes to rose the ruddy hue
Of rocks; and from her tall wind-slanted stem
A soft bright plume the goldenrod outflings
Along the breeze, above...

Read the full of A Memory

A Mystery

That sunless day no living shadow swept
Across the hills, fleet shadow chasing light,
Twin of the sailing cloud: but, mists wool white,
Slow-stealing mists, on those heaved shoulders crept,
And wrought about the strong hills while they slept
In witches' wise, and rapt their forms from sight.
Dreams were they; less than dream, the noblest height
And farthest; and the chilly woodland wept.

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