Philip Henry Savage

Philip Henry Savage Poems

Philip Henry Savage Biography

Philip Henry Savage (February 11, 1868 - June 4, 1899) was an American poet. Born in North Brookfield, Massachusetts on February 11, 1868, he was the son of Minot Judson Savage, a well-known Unitarian minister, and Ella A. Dodge. The family moved several times during his early life: to Framingham, then to Chicago and finally to Boston in 1874. He graduated from the English High School of Boston in 1885. He worked at the leather and shoe company Bachfelder and Lincoln, spending "a number of years drumming boots and shoes in the northeastern states" before he began attending Harvard in 1889 at age 21. He graduated there in 1893, and was conferred the degree of A.M. in 1896. During his time there, he edited the Harvard Monthly for three years, as well as editing a bi-weekly literary periodical, The Mahogany Tree, which was published out of Boston. After spending a year (1893-1894) at the Harvard Divinity School, he became an English instructor in Harvard's English department, and was able to publish his first volume of poems, First Poems and Fragments, in 1895. Refusing a position as an English instructor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, he began work at the Boston Public Library as Secretary to the Librarian (who was, at the time, Herbert Putnam), becoming a Clerk of the Corporation in 1899. On May 31, 1899, he was stricken with appendicitis, and after a weeklong illness, he died on June 4th at Massachusetts General Hospital. In 1901, his collected poems were posthumously edited and released by his friend, well-known composer and musicologist, Daniel Gregory Mason, as the Poems of Philip Henry Savage. Mason praised Savage for "delicate idealism." Savage's nature poetry won the most praise from critics of his time. He was a close friend of another Harvard poet, William Vaughn Moody, who he entered Harvard with in 1889. Savage is often linked with a group known as the Harvard poets (or the Harvard Pessimists), many of whom died young (such as Trumbull Stickney, George Cabot Lodge and Hugh McCulloch).)

The Best Poem Of Philip Henry Savage

The Hedgerow

THE sun is up, Great God, the sun is up,
High o'er the eastern hill among white clouds
Insufferable! I thank Thee for the call.
Deep in the Woodstock meadows on a morn
Pleasant it is to wander ere the sun
Has burned the dewdrops off the bending grass;
When each small area seems a world complete,
When every forest stem beneath the sun
Shoots out a light, and every meadow span
Is dowered with moving radiance; and the hills!
I had not known their power till I had seen,
Limned by the early morn, their mystic heads
White in the eastern circuit. From the town
The path led out across the dew-wet lands,
Crossed the cold river in the river-mist,
And turned aside before the columned elms,
Heavy with morning light; three things remain
In joy, of all the pleasant things I saw
Along this early path: the glowing elms,
Far off, the line of hills, and suddenly
(That rose abrupt and claimed its character)
A straight and tangled row of heavy green,
A hedge, till then unguessed, where loftier trees
Stood up amid a world of clustering things,
Brambles and slender vines and, stiffly held,
The heads of little, sturdy, hopeful trees.
Along one maple branch some colder wisp
Of passing wind had struck an early blow
And pressed the green life back; the kindlier airs
Had after gathered round and now caressed
The broken hope into a golden death.
This was a passing fancy, but the elms
Are living elms and must forever live,
Rich in the willing burden of that morn;
I never see beneath the golden mist
Of peaceful afternoon, or in the time
Of open daylight such an upland slope
Without the gentle coming of this one,
This morning picture and the further thought
Of all the hidden chambers whence are drawn
The veils, lights, shadows, colors of the world
That spread across the poorest piece of ground
To form and to transform; then at the last
I saw the tangled hedgerow by the wall,
My mind woke to a fancy and at once
I found it wandering over English fields
And lodging with the primrose and the lark;
For here there was a hedge! The pioneer
Had built his roadside wall of labored stone,
And through his fields had led this simple line
Rough-set of rounded rock, to part his herd
Of cattle and his flock (perhaps) of sheep,
What time they browsed in Woodstock. Early grass
Had pushed a carpet in among the stones
And here the scythe had stopped; chance-drifted dust,
Holding the promise and the hope of life,
Seeds, the small looms of nature's garment, here
Found an untroubled resting-place and ran
Through all their changes. Years passed by and here
The squirrel found a harbor and a home;
For overhead the angled beechnut hung,
And hazels stood at hand. Here in the spring
The gold of summer's sunrise — dandelions —
And daisies, starry oxeyes, clustered near;
The earlier violets were not absent nor
In later days the modest, showy bell,
Blue, slender-hanging. So the summers passed,
Rising and falling; as his homestead grew
The farmer mowed more widely, nor his flocks
Demanded less his care in fold and field
To bound; and so as ever each day more
He saw the need for labor, this one wall,
Now old and overgrown, he eyed with pleasure;
The stones might fall away, the flooding rains
That drove the stream up on the meadow-lands
Might roll and still displace them, and the vines,
The wild grape and the bramble, force their way
Disintegrating, still no care was his;
For over all the green was gathered close
And densely massed, so that no glimpse beyond
Greeted the searching eye; and here I found
The hedgerow standing as the sun had shaped it,
Richly confused and prodigal and wild,
And yet a straight, well-guided hedge and serving
Its master better than he served himself,
Adding to service beauty and a soul.

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