Trumbull Stickney Poems
|1.||And, The Last Day Being Come||1/3/2003|
|3.||I Hear A River Thro' The Valley Wander||1/3/2003|
|4.||I Used To Think||1/3/2003|
|5.||In A City Garden||1/3/2003|
|7.||In The Past||8/29/2014|
|8.||Leave Him Now Quiet By The Way||1/3/2003|
|14.||On Some Shells Found Inland||1/3/2003|
|17.||Sir, Say No More||1/3/2003|
|19.||The Melancholy Year Is Dead With Rain||1/3/2003|
|20.||The Passions That We Fought With||1/3/2003|
|21.||They Lived Enamoured Of The Lovely Moon||1/3/2003|
|22.||Tho' Lack Of Laurels||1/3/2003|
|23.||You Say, Columbus With His Argosies||1/3/2003|
Comments about Trumbull Stickney
These autumn gardens, russet, gray and brown,
The sward with shrivelled foliage strown,
The shrubs and trees
By weary wings of sunshine overflown
And timid silences,--
Since first you, darling, called my spirit yours,
Seem happy, and the gladness pours
From day to day,
And yester-year across this year endures
Unto next year away.
Now in these places where I used to rove
And give the dropping leaves my love
And weep to them,
They seem to fall divinely from above,
Like to a diadem
Closing in one with the disheartened ...
That day her eyes were deep as night.
She had the motion of the rose,
The bird that veers across the light,
The waterfall that leaps and throws
Its irised spindrift to the sun.
She seemed a wind of music passing on.
Alone I saw her that one day
Stand in the window of my life.