Karle Wilson Baker
an American poet and author, born in Little Rock, Ark. to Kate Florence Montgomery Wilson and William Thomas Murphey Wilson. Educated at the University of Chicago, she studied under poet William Vaughn Moody and novelist Robert Herrick, and later went on to write her own poems and novels. In spite of the frequent mordant bits, her poems have visions of real beauty.
When Dr. Birdwell convinced Karle Wilson Baker to teach Contemporary Poetry for the summer sessions in 1924, he added to his faculty Texas' most prestigious poet. No other faculty member had the national recognition which she enjoyed; indeed, no other college or university in Texas could boast a poet of such acclaim. By... more »
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Karle Wilson Baker Poems
Let Me Grow Lovely
Let me grow lovely, growing old-- So many fine things do: Laces, and ivory, and gold, And silks need not be new;
Within the Alamo
He drew a straight line Across the dirt floor: Within, it was death-still-- Without, was a roar
Some days my thoughts are just cocoons- all cold, and dull and blind, They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind; And other days they drift and shine - such free and flying things!
Apple and Rose
My little daughter is a tea-rose, Satin to the touch, Wine to the lips, And a faint, delirious perfume.
I Shall Be Loved As Quiet Things
I shall be loved as quiet things Are loved--white pigeons in the sun, Curled yellow leaves that whisper down One after one;
A Clear Night
The flame of my life burns low Under the cluttered days, Like a fire of leaves. But always a little blue, sweet-smelling smoke
To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees, The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine.
My life is a tree, Yoke-fellow of the earth; Pledged, By roots too deep for remembrance,
Dropp’d feather from the wings of God My little songs and snatches are, So light He does not hear them fall As He goes by, from star to star.
From garden-beds I tend, it is not far To those great ranges where he used to ride; Time’s shadowy Door still stands a rift ajar, And Fancy, glancing backward and aside,
The Cardinal And His Lady
I was The Gateway. Here they came, and passed, The homespun centaurs with their arms of steel And taut heart-strings: wild wills, who thought to deal Bare-handed with jade Fortune, tracked at last
They held a great prayer-service in Berlin, And augured German triumph from some words Said to be spoken by the Jewish God
(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)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Let Me Grow Lovely
Let me grow lovely, growing old--
So many fine things do:
Laces, and ivory, and gold,
And silks need not be new;
And there is healing in old trees,
Old streets a glamour hold;
Why may not I, as well as these,
Grow lovely, growing old?