The Literary Maiden

A compendium of obscure 19th century writing.

Taking a Break

Hi, folks. I’ll be on hiatus again for an indefinite amount of time. In the meantime, look forward to some poems I’ve pre-scheduled to post within the next few months. Until then!

“Thoughts In Autumn” by Anna Peyre Dinnies

 

 

Thoughts In Autumn
Anna Peyre Dinnies
From the Poets and Poetry of America by Rufus Griswold, 1842, pg. 385.

Yes, thou art welcome, Autumn! all thy changes,
From fitful gloom, to sunny skies serene,
The starry vaults, o’er which the charm’d eye ranges,
And cold, clear moonlight, touching every scene
With a peculiar sadness, are sweet things,
To which my heart congenial fondly clings.

There is a moral in the wither’d wreaths
And faded garlands that adorn thy bowers;
Each blighted shrub, chill’d flower, or sear’d leaf breathes
Of parted days, and brighter by-gone hours,
Contracting with the present dreary scene
Spring’s budding beauties, pleasures which have been.

“Autumn Leaves” by Jones Very

Autumn Leaves.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE leaves, though thick, are falling: one by one
Decayed they drop from off their parent tree;
Their work with Autumn’s latest day is done,—
Thou see’st them borne upon the breezes free.
They lie strewn here and there, their many dyes
That yesterday so caught thy passing eye;
Soiled by the rain each leaf neglected lies,
Upon the path where now thou hurriest by.
Yet think thee not their beauteous tints less fair
Than when they hung so gayly o’er thy head;
But rather find thee eyes, and look thee there
Where now thy feet so heedless o’er them tread,
And thou shalt see, where wasting now they lie,
The unseen hues of immortality.

“Never” by William Winter

Never
By William Winter
From The Poems of William Winter, pg. 140

THE sere leaves rustle in the moaning blast,
The dreary rain is pattering on the roof,
Sad bless, far off, toll through the twilight hours—
And I shall never see thy face again!

The shadows deepen, but there comes no dawn;
And through the dark I hear the rustling robe
Of the grim angel that has veiled my eyes—
Never to see thy glorious face again!

“Autumn Days” by Jones Very

Autumn Days.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE winds are out with loud increasing shout,
Where late before them walked the biting frost,
Whirling the leaves in their wild sport about,
And twig and limb athwart our path are tost.
But still the sun looks kindly on the year,
And days of summer warmth will linger yet;
And still the birds amid the fields we hear,
For the ripe grain and scattered seeds they get.
The shortening days grow slowly less and less,
And Winter comes with many a warning on;
And still some day with kindly smile will bless,
Till the last hope’s deceit is fledged and gone,
Before the deepening snows block up the way,
And the sweet fields are made of howling blasts
the prey.

“Sonnet: ‘Some Fell by the Wayside'” by Elizabeth Oakes Smith

Sonnet: “Some Fell by the Wayside”
Also known as “The Pilgrim”
Elizabeth Oakes Smith
From Graham’s Magazine, April, 1844, pg. 150

Not yet, not yet, oh pilgrim! cast aside
The dusty sandal, and the well-worn staff;
Athirst and fainting, yet must thou abide
One peril more—and strength in thy behalf
Shall once again be born—it is the last!
Thou sinkest by the lonely wayside down,
And life, o’erspent and weary, ebbeth past.
The lengthening shadows on thy path are thrown,
And thou wouldst rest, forgetful of life’s dream,
Deluding, vain, and empty, and here die.
Not yet! not yet! there still is left one gleam
To onward lure thy too despairing eye;
Gird on thy staff, the shrine is yet unworn;
Oh! lose not thou the prize, by this last work undone.