Joseph Trumbull Stickney was born in Geneva on June 20, 1874, and grew up in many cities and countries as his parents travelled widely ... Wiesbaden, Florence, Nice, London, and New York.
He was educated by his father, Austin at home in both Latin and Greek, and then entered Harvard University in 1891. He graduated magna cum laude in June 1895. The following eight years were spent studying for the degree of Doctorat ès Lettres at the Sorbonne in Paris. For this he wrote two theses, one on the letters of Ermolao Barbaro, a 15th-century ambassador to Rome, and the other on aphorisms in Greek verse. His Dramatic Verses was published in Boston in 1902, dedicated from Paris to his ... more »
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Trumbull Stickney Poems
These autumn gardens, russet, gray and brown, The sward with shrivelled foliage strown, The shrubs and trees By weary wings of sunshine overflown
The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain
The melancholy year is dead with rain. Drop after drop on every branch pursues. From far away beyond the drizzled flues A twilight saddens to the window pane.
And, the Last Day Being Come
And, the last day being come, Man stood alone Ere sunrise on the world's dismantled verge, Awaiting how from everywhere should urge The Coming of the Lord. And, behold, none
Sir, Say No More
Now burst above the city's cold twilight The piercing whistles and the tower-clocks: For day is done. Along the frozen docks The workmen set their ragged shirts aright.
I Used to Think
I used to think The mind essential in the body, even As stood the body essential in the mind: Two inseparable things, by nature equal
It 's autumn in the country I remember. How warm a wind blew here about the ways! And shadows on the hillside lay to slumber
They Lived Enamoured of the Lovely Moon
They lived enamoured of the lovely moon, The dawn and twilight on their gentle lake. Then Passion marvellously born did shake Their breast and drave them into the mid-noon.
The Passions that We Fought With
I Hear a River Thro' the Valley Wander
Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord, Who was the Future, died full long ago. Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go, Poor child, and be not to thyself abhorred.
You Say, Columbus with His Argosies
You say, Columbus with his argosies Who rash and greedy took the screaming main And vanished out before the hurricane Into the sunset after merchandise,
On Some Shells Found Inland
These are my murmur-laden shells that keep A fresh voice tho' the years be very gray. The wave that washed their lips and tuned their lay Is gone, gone with the faded ocean sweep,
In a City Garden
How strange that here is nothing as it was! The sward is young and new, The sod there shapes a different mass, The random trees stand other than I knew.
Comments about Trumbull Stickney
(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)
These autumn gardens, russet, gray and brown,
The sward with shrivelled foliage strown,
The shrubs and trees
By weary wings of sunshine overflown
And timid silences,--
Since first you, darling, called my spirit yours,
Seem happy, and the gladness pours
From day to day,
And yester-year across this year endures
Unto next year away.
Now in these places where I used to rove
And give the dropping leaves my love
And weep to them,
They seem to fall divinely from above,
Like to a diadem
Closing in one with the disheartened ...