Biography of Leonora Speyer
Leonora Speyer, Lady Speyer (née von Stosch) (7 November 1872 – 10 February 1956) was an American poet and violinist.
She was born in Washington, D.C., the daughter of Count Ferdinand von Stosch of Mantze in Silesia, who fought for the Union.
She studied music in Brussels, Paris, and Leipzig, and played the violin professionally under the batons of Arthur Nikisch and Anton Seidl, among others. She first married Louis Meredith Howland in 1894, but they divorced in Paris in 1902. She then married banker Edgar Speyer (later Sir Edgar), of London, where the couple lived until 1915. That year, they came to the United States and took up residence in New York, where Speyer began writing poetry. She won the 1927 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for her book of poetry "Fiddler's Farewell".
Leonora Speyer Poems
I am afraid to go into the woods, I fear the trees and their mad, green moods. I fear the breezes that pull at my sleeves,
Suddenly flickered a flame, Suddenly fluttered a wing: What, can a dead bird sing? Somebody spoke your name.
If I could sing the song of the dawn, The carolling word of leaf or bird, And the sun-waked fern uncurling there
The squall sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills, And the startled lake seems to run before it; From the wood comes a clamor of leaves, Tugging at the twigs,
They dip their wings in the sunset, They dash against the air As if to break themselves upon its stillness: In every movement, too swift to count,
The wood is talking in its sleep. — Have a care, trees! You are heard by the brook and the breeze And the listening lake;
Sekhmet The Lion-Hearted
In the dark night I heard a stirring, Near me something was purring. A voice, deep-throated, spoke:
Crickets At Dawn
All night the crickets chirp, Like little stars of twinkling sound In the dark silence. They sparkle through the summer stillness
April On The Battlefields
April now walks the fields again, Trailing her tearful leaves And holding all her frightened buds against her heart: Wrapt in her clouds and mists,
A Note From The Pipes
Pan, blow your pipes and I will be Your fern, your pool, your dream, your tree! I heard you play, caught your swift eye,
I am afraid to go into the woods,
I fear the trees and their mad, green moods.
I fear the breezes that pull at my sleeves,
The creeping arbutus beneath the leaves,
And the brook that mocks me with wild, wet words:
I stumble and fall at the voice of birds.