Henry Timrod Poems
|81.||The Two Armies||1/1/2004|
|82.||A Year's Courtship||1/1/2004|
|85.||The Unknown Dead||1/1/2004|
|87.||A Common Thought||1/1/2004|
|88.||A Cry To Arms||1/1/2004|
|89.||Youth And Manhood||1/1/2004|
|92.||A Rhapsody Of A Southern Winter Night||1/1/2004|
|93.||A Mother Gazes Upon Her Daughter||1/1/2004|
Comments about Henry Timrod
She came with April blooms and showers;
We count her little life by flowers.
As buds the rose upon her cheek,
We choose a flower for every week.
A week of hyacinths, we say,
And one of heart's-ease, ushered May;
And then because two wishes met
Upon the rose and violet --
I liked the Beauty, Kate, the Nun --
The violet and the rose count one.
A week the apple marked with white;
A week the lily scored in light;
Red poppies closed May's happy moon,
And tulips this blue week in June.
Here end as yet the flowery links;
To-day begins the week of ...
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,