Arthur Albert Dawson Bayldon, poet, was born on 20 March 1865 at Leeds, Yorkshire, England, son of Charles Henry Bayldon, solicitor, and Matilda Maria, née Dawson. As a student at Leeds Grammar School, he won prizes for swimming, and developed an appreciation of poetry through the scholar J. R. Tutin. His parents having died while he was young, he travelled widely in Europe and, he claimed, in the United States of America and India. In his early twenties he published two volumes of verse which, in their conventional evocation of delight and despair, display a bookish regard for nineteenth-century English poets and an attraction towards Victorian Romantic diction.
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Arthur Bayldon Poems
A Woman's Mood
I think to-night I could bear it all, Even the arrow that cleft the core, -- Could I wait again for your swift footfall, And your sunny face coming in at the door.
An Old Bush Road
Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Barred with shadow and with sunshine, Misty vistas drawn between.
Poisonous, bloated, crab-like shapes Crawl in gangs around these capes— Stopping here and feeding there;
The patient stars are shining large and clear; The crescent moon hangs like a tilted bowl; So calm, so still, that I can almost hear
The weary wind is slumbering on the wing: Leaping from out meek twilight's purpling blue Burns the proud star of eve as though it knew It was the big king jewel quivering
With eastern banners flaunting in the breeze Royal processions, sounding fife and gong And showering jewels on the jostling throng, March to the tramp of Marlowe's harmonies.
These vessels of verse, O Great Goddess, are filled with invisible tears, With the sobs and sweat of my spirit and her desolate brooding for years; See, I lay them -- not on thine altar, for they are unpolished and plain, Not rounded enough by the potter, too much burnt in the furnace of pain;
Ere Greece soared, showering sovranties of light, Ere Rome shook earth with her tremendous tread, Ere yon blue-feasting sun-god burst blood-red, Beneath thee slept thy prodigy, O Night!
Why I am Poor
Because, my friends I have a savage glee In drinking to the dregs the draughts of life And love to feel my spirit spreading free, Stretching itself through every calm and strife
To America in 1915
We watch your attitudes with candid eyes: Plain men are we, not given much to prate, Bluntly sincere, keenly compassionate But lions in our wrath at treacheries;
Poisonous, bloated, crab-like shapes Crawl in gangs around these capes- Stopping here and feeding there, Listening, crawling everywhere;
The Dead Poet
Never again shall he with wizard sleight Ensare on threshold of his soul the bright Unearthly splendors that would oft alight, And in the magic web of melody
Comments about Arthur Bayldon
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
A Woman's Mood
I think to-night I could bear it all,
Even the arrow that cleft the core, --
Could I wait again for your swift footfall,
And your sunny face coming in at the door.
With the old frank look and the gay young smile,
And the ring of the words you used to say;
I could almost deem the pain worth while,
To greet you again in the olden way!
But you stand without in the dark and cold,
And I may not open the long closed door,
Nor call thro' the night, with the love of ...