Elizabeth Akers Allen
Elizabeth Chase Akers Allen (October 9, 1832, Strong, Maine – August 7, 1911, Tuckahoe, New York) was an American author, journalist and poet. Born Elizabeth Anne Chase, she grew up in Farmington, Maine, where she attended Farmington Academy. She began to write at the age of fifteen, under the pen name Florence Percy, and in 1855 published under that name a volume of poems entitled Forest Buds. In... more »
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Elizabeth Akers Allen Poems
Rock Me To sleep
Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight; Make me a child again, just for tonight! Mother, come back from that echoless shore;
At last, when all the summer shine That warmed life's early hours is past, Your loving fingers seek for mine
The last lone aster in the wood has died, And taken wings, and flown; The sighing oaks, the evergreens' dark pride, And shivering beeches, keep their leaves alone.
Two little feet, so small that both may nestle In one caressing hand, - Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life's mysterious land.
Oh, dainty daughters of the dawn, most delicate of flowers, How fitly do ye come to deck day's most delicious hours! Evoked by morning's earliest breath, your fragile cups unfold Before the light has cleft the sky, or edged the world with gold.
My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow, But often and often will memory go, Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow,
Truth And Beauty
Strange Truth and Beauty are enemies, Treading forever on each other's toes! Strange rhymes are always made of that which is
Bringing Our Sheaves with Us
The time for toil is past, and night has come, The last and saddest of the harvest-eves; Worn out with labor long and wearisome, Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, Each laden with his sheaves.
Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend, To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, And love no other till thy days shall end -
It was the autumn of the year; The strawberry-leaves were red and sere; October's airs were fresh and chill, When, pausing on the windy hill,
In a Garret
THIS realm is sacred to the silent past; Within its drowsy shades are treasures rare Of dust and dreams; the years are long since last
Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, Born of the soft and slumbrous snow! Gradual, silent, slowly wrought;
The Last Landlord
YOU who dread the cares and labors Of the tenant’s annual quest, You who long for peace and rest,
O lonesome sea-gull, floating far Over the ocean's icy waste, Aimless and wide thy wanderings are, Forever vainly seeking rest: -
Comments about Elizabeth Akers Allen
(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)
Rock Me To sleep
Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight;
Make me a child again, just for tonight!
Mother, come back from that echoless shore;
Take me again in your heart as of yore --
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair,
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep --
Rock me to sleep, mother -- rock me to sleep!
Backward, turn backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears --
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain --
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and...