Charles Hanson Towne
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Charles Hanson Towne Poems
Of One Self-Slain
When he went blundering back to God, His songs half written, his work half done, Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod, What hills of peace or pain he won?
Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find Your spirit mine; if, seeking you, life wins New wonder, with old splendor let us bind Our hearts when Love's high sacrament begins.
Around The Corner
Around the corner I have a friend, In this great city that has no end, Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover? Sad folk, bad folk, and many a glowing lover; Wise people, simple people, children of despair -- Roof-tops, roof-tops, hiding pain and care.
When, sick of all the sorrow and distress That flourished in the City like foul weeds, I sought blue rivers and green, opulent meads, And leagues of unregarded loneliness
The Quiet Singer
(Ave! Francis Thompson) He had been singing -- but I had not heard his voice; He had been weaving lovely dreams of song,
The Harvest Of The Sea
The jealous Sea moaned in the April night: 'Lo! there are comrades hidden in my heart,
I need so much the quiet of your love, After the day's loud strife; I need your calm all other things above, After the stress of life.
Pale flowers are you, that scarce have known the sun! Your little faces like sad blossoms seem, Shut in some room, there helplessly to dream
A Broken Friendship
If this be friendship--that one broken hour (O fragile link in all the loving years!)
Beyond The Stars
Three days I heard them grieve when I lay dead, (It was so strange to me that they should weep!) Tall candles burned about me in the dark,
Unto a soul there came the spectre Strife, To teach him of the bitterness of life; And then came Grief, to mock his old-time peace,
In The Meadows Of The Sky
When the great sower, Night, Lets down his sable bars, He goes into his endless fields To plant his seed, the stars.
City I love—and hate!—how can I sing The miracles of your might in such a mood? How can I still the anger in my heart,
(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)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Of One Self-Slain
When he went blundering back to God,
His songs half written, his work half done,
Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod,
What hills of peace or pain he won?
I hope God smiled and took his hand,
And said, "Poor truant, passionate fool!
Life's book is hard to understand:
Why couldst thou not remain at school?"