George Edward Woodberry
George Edward Woodberry Poems
Nightingales warble about it,
All night under blossom and star;
The wild swan is dying without it,
And the eagle crieth afar;
...
I
England, I stand on thy imperial ground,
Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
...
Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying,
In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming?
We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying;
Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! --
...
MOTHER of nations, of them eldest we,
Well is it found, and happy for the state,
When that which makes men proud first makest them great,
...
TO tremble, when I touch her hands,
With awe that no man understands;
To feel soft reverence arise
When, lover-sweet, I meet her eyes;
...
The world hath its own dead; great motions start
In human breasts, and make for them a place
In that hushed sanctuary of the race
...
O DESTINED Land, unto thy citadel,
What founding fates even now doth peace compel,
That through the world thy name is sweet to tell!
...
I
INTO the west of the waters on the living ocean’s foam,
Into the west of the sunset where the young adventurers roam,
...
Immortal love, too high for my possessing,—
Yet, lower than thee, where shall I find repose?
Long in my youth I sang the morning rose,
...
SWEET names, the rosary of my evening prayer,
Told on my lips like kisses of good-night
To friends who go a little from my sight,
...
O, INEXPRESSIBLE as sweet,
Love takes my voice away;
I cannot tell thee when we meet
What most I long to say.
...
O, STRUCK beneath the laurel, where the singing fountains are,
I saw from heaven falling the star of love afar;
...
WAS this his face, and these the finding eyes
That plucked a new world from the rolling seas?
Who, serving Christ, whom most he sought to please,
...
“I will die cheering, if I needs must die;
So shall my last breath write upon my lips
Viva Italia! when my spirit slips
...
I WILL rise, I will go from the places that are dark with passion and pain,
From the sorrow-changëd woodlands and a thousand memories slain.
...
THE RAINBOW on the ocean
A moment bright,
The nightingale’s devotion
That dies on night
...
WHEN love in the faint heart trembles,
And the eyes with tears are wet,
Oh, tell me what resembles
...
I
AWAKE, ye nations, slumbering supine,
Who round enring the European fray!
Heard ye the trumpet sound? “The Day! the Day!
...
It was only the clinging touch
Of a child’s hand in the street,
But it made the whole day sweet;
Caught, as he ran full-speed,
...
O WILD heart, track the land’s perfume,
Beach-roses and moor-heather!
All fragrances of herb and bloom
Fail, out at sea, together.
...
George Edward Woodberry Biography
George Edward Woodberry, Litt. D., LL. D. (1855–1930) was an American literary critic and poet. Born in Beverly, Massachusetts, Woodberry graduated from Harvard College in 1877, and became professor of English at the University of Nebraska. In 1891–1904 he was professor of comparative literature at Columbia University. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 1930 he was posthumously awarded one of the first three Frost Medals for lifetime achievement in poetry by the Poetry Society of America. He wrote a number of books as well. Other publications: He edited The complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1892); Lamb's Essays of Elia (1892); The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, with E. C. Stedman (1894); and Select Poems of Aubrey de Vere (1894). He wrote compositions in the "National Studies in American Letters," and Columbia University Studies in Comparative Literature, (nine volumes). "Defeat is not the worst of failures. Not to have tried is the true failure.)
The Best Poem Of George Edward Woodberry
The Secret
Nightingales warble about it,
All night under blossom and star;
The wild swan is dying without it,
And the eagle crieth afar;
The sun he doth mount but to find it,
Searching the green earth o'er;
But more doth a man's heart mind it,
Oh, more, more, more!
Over the gray leagues of ocean
The infinite yearneth alone;
The forests with wandering emotion
The thing they know not intone;
Creation arose but to see it,
A million lamps in the blue;
But a lover he shall be it
If one sweet maid is true.
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