Henry Timrod

(8 December 1828 - 7 October 1867 / Charleston, South Carolina)

Comments about Henry Timrod

  • zudrejigna (9/24/2019 3:20:00 PM)

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  • Terry the Cork (4/13/2019 9:27:00 PM)

    We read this poem in High School in Charleston in 1970, never really giving it any credence. It is the perfect poem for a military funeral of ANY kind. At my funeral, I want this poem read and Gordon Lightfoot's " Don Quixote" played to a silent congregation.

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  • Asmus (8/17/2018 5:22:00 AM)

    Hi there,
    I find it hard to understand the poem starting with these lines:
    I stooped from star-bright regions where/ Thou canst not enter even in prayer...
    Can anybody give me a clue what is hidden in these lines? What did Henry Timrod stand for in his lifetime?
    I am grateful for a kind reply.
    Best wishes from Cologne/Germany
    Asmus

    1 person liked.
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  • Heyyyyyyy (12/14/2017 9:10:00 AM)

    You suck nikka ggg bbb cc

    1 person liked.
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  • MEhhhh (12/14/2017 9:05:00 AM)

    Mehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

    1 person liked.
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  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (10/14/2015 1:30:00 PM)

    '' Timrod is, after Poe, the most important Southern poet of the nineteenth century. The quality of his best work, though small in bulk, exceeds that of Sidney Lanier and Hayne, and his contributions to war and nature poetry also exceed theirs. He is not a major poet, but he is a significant minor poet. ''
    [Rayburn S. Moore, University of Georgia]

    6 person liked.
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Best Poem of Henry Timrod

An Exotic

Not in a climate near the sun
Did the cloud with its trailing fringes float,
Whence, white as the down of an angel's plume,
Fell the snow of her brow and throat.

And the ground had been rich for a thousand years
With the blood of heroes, and sages, and kings,
Where the rose that blooms in her exquisite cheek
Unfolded the flush of its wings.

On a land where the faces are fair, though pale
As a moonlit mist when the winds are still,
She breaks like a morning in Paradise
Through the palms of an orient hill.

Her beauty, perhaps, were all too ...

Read the full of An Exotic

Sonnet 10

Were I the poet-laureate of the fairies,
Who in a rose-leaf finds too broad a page;
Or could I, like your beautiful canaries,
Sing with free heart and happy, in a cage;
Perhaps I might within this little space
(As in some Eastern tale, by magic power,
A giant is imprisoned in a flower)
Have told you something with a poet's grace.
But I need wider limits, ampler scope,

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