Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop Poems

Touch gently, friend, and slow, the violin, So sweet and low,
That my dreaming senses may be beckoned so
...

Where spells were wrought he sat alone,
The wizard touching minds of men
Through far-swung avenues of power,
...

What shall I say, my friend, my own heart healing,
When for my love you cannot answer me?
This earth would quake, alas! might I but see
...

DESPAIR

DEAR, when you see my grave,
Oh, shall you weep?
...

Somewhere, somewhere in this heart
There lies a jewel from the sea,
Or from a rock, or from the sand,
Or dropped from heaven wondrously.
...

6.

Ill-wrought life we look at as we die!
Mistaken, selfish, meagre, and unmeet;
So graven on the hearts that cruelly
...

I.
There was a maiden in a land
Was buried with all honor fine,
For they said she had dared her pulsing life
...

I dreamed within a dream the sun was gold;
And as I walked beneath this golden sun,
The world was like a mighty play-room old,
...

We are moving on in silence,
Save for rattling iron and steel,
And a skirmish echoing round us,
Showering faintly, peal on peal.
...

Here is a world of changing glow,
Where moods roll swiftly far and wide;
Waves sadder than a funeral's pride,
Or bluer than the harebell's blow!
...

My graveyard holds no once-loved human forms,
Grown hideous and forgotten, left alone,
But every agony my heart has known,-
...

All to herself a woman never sings
A happy song. Oh no! but it is so
As when the thrush has closed down his wings
...

Gray towers make me think of thee,
Thou girl of olden minstrelsy,
Young as the sunlight of to-day,
Silent as tasselled boughs in May!
...

O soul of life, 't is thee we long to hear,
Thine eyes we seek for, and thy touch we dream;
Lost from our days, thou art a spirit near,-
...

The sanctity that is about the dead
To make us love them more than late, when here,
Is not it well to find the living dear
...

Turn thy face to me, my love,
I come from out the morning;
Give thy hand to me, my love,
I'm dewy from the dawning.
...

The thanking heart can only silence keep;
The breaking heart can only die alone:
Our happy love above abysses deep
...

We speak of the world that passes away,-
The world of men who lived years ago,
And could not feel that their hearts' quick glow
...

So ancient to myself I seem,
I might have crossed grave Styx's stream
A year ago;-
...

'I love the Lady of Merle,' he said.
'She is not for thee!' her suitor cried.
And in the valley the lovers fought
...

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop Biography

Born in Lenox, Massachusetts to Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife Sophia Peabody, she was educated in London, Paris, Rome and Florence. She married author George Parsons Lathrop in 1871; both converted to Roman Catholicism in 1891. The couple had a son, Francis, who died from diphtheria at the age of 5. Rose and George Lathrop separated permanently in 1895. After her father's death in 1864, she tried to become an author, like him. She did write a handful of poems, but she was never very successful as a writer. She later decided to rededicate her life to restoring her family's reputation after her brother's illegal activities. She was known for her service near and within New York City, caring for impoverished cancer patients by founding St. Rose's Free Home for Incurable Cancer in the Lower East Side. After the death of her husband in 1898, she became a nun, and as Mother Mary Alphonsa, she founded a community of Dominican religious, now known as the Dominican Sisters of Hawthorne. Rose Hawthorne Lathrop was awarded an honorary Master of Arts (postgraduate) from Bowdoin College in 1925. She died a year later on July 9, 1926. In 2003, Edward Egan, Cardinal Archbishop of the Archdiocese of New York approved the movement for Lathrop's canonization. She now has the title "Servant of God" in the Catholic Church.)

The Best Poem Of Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

The Violin

Touch gently, friend, and slow, the violin, So sweet and low,
That my dreaming senses may be beckoned so
Into a rest as deep as the long past 'years ago!'
So softly, then, begin;

And ever gently touch the violin,
Until an impulse grows of a sudden, like wind
On the brow of the earth,
And the voice of your violin shows its wide-swung girth
With a crash of the strings and a medley of rage and mirth;
And my rested senses spring
Like juice from a broken rind,
And the joys that your melodies bring
I know worth a life-time to win,
As you waken to love and this hour your violin!

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