Josephine Preston Peabody
Biography of Josephine Preston Peabody
Josephine Preston Peabody (1874 - December 4, 1922) was an American poet and dramatist. She was born in New York and educated at the Girls' Latin School, Boston, and at Radcliffe College.
From 1901 to 1903 she was instructor in English at Wellesley. In 1906 she married Prof. L. S. Marks from Harvard University. The Stratford-on-Avon prize went to her in 1909 for her drama The Piper, which was produced in England in 1910; and in America at the New Theatre, New York City, in 1911.
Her other work includes The Wayfarers: A Book of Verse (1898); Fortune and Men's Eyes: New Poems, with a Play (1900); The Wings (1905), a drama; The Book of the Little Past (1908); The Singing Man (1911), poems; The Wolf of Gubbio (1913), and a drama, New Poems (1915).
Josephine Preston Peabody Poems
I Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice When at last a little boy's
Spinning In April
Moon in heaven's garden, among the clouds that wander, Crescent moon so young to see, above the April ways,
The Nightingale Unheard
Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time We followed on, from moon to golden moon; From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon, And the far rose of Paestum once did climb.
Three women crept at break of day A-grope along the shadowy way Where Joseph's tomb and garden lay.
Men Have Wings At Last
'Wolf, Wolf-stay-at-home, Prowler, -- scout, Clanless and castaways, And ailing with the drought,
The House And The Road
The little Road says, Go, The little House says, Stay: And O, it's bonny here at home, But I must go away.
The winds have blown more bitter Each darkening day of fall; High over all the house-tops The stars are far and small
The islands called me far away, The valleys called me home. The rivers with a silver voice Drew on my heart to come.
Over the twilight field, Over the glimmering field And bleeding furrows, with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe,
The Enchanted Sheepfold
The hills far-off were blue, blue, The hills at hand were brown; And all the herd-bells called to me As I came by the down.
Beloved, till the day break, Leave wide the little door; And bless, to lack and longing, Our brimming more-and-more.
The Nightingale Unheard
Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time
We followed on, from moon to golden moon;
From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon,
And the far rose of Paestum once did climb.
All the white way beside the girdling blue,
Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime,
We listened; -- from the old year to the new.
Brown bird, and where were you?