11.29.14

I don't have much to contribute, so here is something beautiful. 



Closed by Elizabeth Drew Stoddard



The crimson dawn breaks through the clouded east,
And waking breezes round the casement pipe;
They blow the globes of dew from opening buds,
And steal the odors of the sleeping flowers.
The swallow calls its young ones from the eaves,
To dart above their shadows on the lake,
Till its long rollers redden in the sun,
And bend the lances of the mirrored pines.
Who knows the miracle that brings the morn?
Still in my house I linger, though the night—
The night that hides me from myself is gone.
Light robes the world, but strips me bare again.
I will not follow on the paths of day.
I know the dregs within its crystal hours;
The bearers of my cups have served me well;
I drained them, and the bearers come no more.
Rise, morning, rise, for those believing souls
Who seek completion in day’s garish light.
My casement I will close, keep shut my door,
Till day and night are only dreams to me.


Elizabeth Stoddard is better known (at least to me) as Elizabeth Barstow, a 19th century novelist and poet from the US. From wiki: "Her work combines the narrative style of the popular nineteenth-century male-centered bildungsroman with the conventions of women's romantic fiction in this revolutionary exploration of the conflict between a woman's instinct, passion, and will, and the social taboos, family allegiances, and traditional New England restraint that inhibit her." Her style is compared to the Bronte sisters and Nathaniel Hawthorne. On account of curiosity, here is something slightly different from the first. 


Nameless Pain

I should be happy with my lot:

A wife and mother – is it not

Enough for me to be content?

What other blessing could be sent?

A quiet house, and homely ways,

That make each day like other days;

I only see Time’s shadow now

Darken the hair on baby’s brow!

No world’s work ever comes to me,

No beggar brings his misery;

I have no power, no healing art

With bruised soul or broken heart.

I read the poets of the age,

’Tis lotus-eating in a cage;

I study Art, but Art is dead

To one who clamors to be fed

With milk from Nature’s rugged breast,

Who longs for Labor’s lusty rest.

O foolish wish! I still should pine

If any other lot were mine.