The Literary Maiden

A compendium of obscure 19th century writing.

Tag: Jones Very

“The Frost” by Jones Very

The Frost.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE frost is out, and in the open fields,
And late within the woods, I marked his track;
The unwary flower his icy fingers feels,
And at their touch the crispëd leaf rolls back;—
Look, how the maple o’er a sea of green
Waves in the autumnal wind his flag of red!
First struck of all the forest’s spreading screen,
Most beauteous, too, the earliest of her dead.
Go on: thy task is kindly meant by Him
Whose is each flower and richly covered bough;
And though the leaves hang dead on every limb,
Still will I praise his love, that early now
Has sent before this herald of decay
To bid me heed the approach of Winter’s sterner

“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.

“Morning” by Jones Very

By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very.

THE light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object—hill, and stream, and skies—
Rejoice within th’ encircling line to be.
‘T is day,—the field is filled with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen’s din,
The traveler with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently, too, within the breast,—
Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,—it is no day
To those who find on earth their place to stay.

“The Invitation” by Jones Very

The Invitation.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

STAY where thou art, thou need’st not further go,
The flower with me is pleading at thy feet;
The clouds, the silken clouds, above me flow,
And fresh the breezes come thy cheek to greet.
Why hasten on;—hast thou a fairer home?
Has God more richly blest the world than here,
That thou in haste would’st from thy country roam,
Favored by every month that fills the year?
Sweet showers shall on thee here, as there, descend;
The sun salute thy morn and gild thy eve:
Come, tarry here, for Nature is thy friend,
And we an arbor for ourselves will weave;
And many a pilgrim, journeying on as thou,
Will grateful bless its shade, and list the wind-struck bough.

“The silent moon is rising…” by Jones Very

“All is hushed and still”—which better words are there to describe Jones Very’s piece than this calming sentence derived from his own poem, “The silent moon is rising…” Although simplistic, minimal, and to the point, Jones’ poem provides enough staging to create a vivid Winter evening. He, at first, showcases scenery of quiet snow resting by a “silent river;” however, he next describes busy, bustling workers turning homeward from their work day. And thus, with the removal of society, and supplemented by such imagery as, again, “The silent [river] flowing,” the reader is returned to a snowy world lain in a hushed state.

Because of its simplicity, it is in my opinion that this poem provides enough barebone context to allow any reader the ability to further flesh out the tiny narrative. He reminds me of Robert Frost in this way. What do you think? Am I giving him too much credit? Feel free to comment below.

“The silent moon is rising…”
The silent moon is rising
O’er the hills of purest snow,
The silent river’s flowing
In its deep bed below.

The bustle too is dying,
Around the noisy mill;
The workmen home are hying,
All is hushed and still.

(From Jones Very: The Effective Years, 1833-1840 by Edwin Gittleman, pg. 34.)