Edith Matilda Thomas
Edith Matilda Thomas was an American poet who "was one of the first poets to capture successfully the excitement of the modern city."
Born in Chatham Center, Ohio, Edith Thomas was educated at the normal school of Geneva, Ohio, and attended Oberlin College (though she had to drop out). She taught school for two years, and then became a typesetter.
She began writing early for the local newspapers, then was encouraged by author Helen Hunt Jackson to send verse to more important periodicals. She "gained national attention with her poetry.... Scribner's, The Atlantic Monthly, The Century and other prominent magazines published her poems."... more »
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Edith Matilda Thomas Poems
Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star . . . And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will, Frost to-night -- so clear and dead-still."
I know it must be winter (though I sleep) -- I know it must be winter, for I dream I dip my bare feet in the running stream, And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep.
The Inverted Torch
Threading a darksome passage all alone, The taper's flame, by envious current blown, Crouched low, and eddied round, as in affright, So challenged by the vast and hostile night,
Nature and Man
Oh, the glance of the dew! Oh, the flame of the rose springing forth of the thorn! Oh, the song of the arrow-marked finch singing love in the front of the morn!
The Red Cross Nurse
THE battle-smoke still fouled the day, With bright disaster flaming through; Unchecked, absorbed, she held her way— The whispering death still past her flew.
The Mother Who Died Too
She was so little—little in her grave, The wide earth all around so hard and cold— She was so little! therefore did I crave My arms might still her tender form enfold.
The Masquerade of Time
I heard the New Year whisper, passing by, 'I am the Old Year, and did never die. 'As phenix bird, that from the sunset springs, Next in the East replumes his wondrous wings,
The Blessed Present
Pluck me yon rose, but say not, '‘T will not last!' Or that 'To-morrow’s rose may be more sweet.' Say not, the darling bird I hear, will fleet When its green summer home yields to the blast.
Ride through the land, Vigilantes, ride! From this bound of the East where the inrolling tide With more than the red of the sunrise is dyed, As crimson the foam is borne to our strand! Ride!
Run up your Black Flag, Skull and crossbones display! Why should you palter—why should you lag?— For never was freebooting crew,
The War Of Bread
Of all the wars that waste this world, Where the life of man has bled, This is the war I most abhor— The theft of the people's bread!
Comments about Edith Matilda Thomas
(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)
Apple-green west and an orange bar,
And the crystal eye of a lone, one star . . .
And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will,
Frost to-night -- so clear and dead-still."
Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud,
And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd,
The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied, --
The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.
The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!
A gleam of the shears in the fading light,
And I gathered them all, -- the splendid throng,
And in one great sheaf I bore them along.
. . ....