Henry Timrod Poems
|83.||The Unknown Dead||1/1/2004|
|85.||The Two Armies||1/1/2004|
|86.||A Common Thought||1/1/2004|
|88.||A Cry To Arms||1/1/2004|
|90.||A Rhapsody Of A Southern Winter Night||1/1/2004|
|91.||A Mother Gazes Upon Her Daughter||1/1/2004|
|92.||Youth And Manhood||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 ...
Life ever seems as from its present site
It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past
It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast,
Into a purple cloud! Across the night
Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light
All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn.
Not the near daisies, but yon distant height
Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn.
And always, be the landscape what it may --