Biography of Trumbull Stickney
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 friend "Bay" (George) Lodge, who would co-edit Stickney's collected poems in 1905.
In 1903 his second thesis was published as Les Sentences dans la Poésie Grècque this won him the first Sorbonne Doctorat awarded to an American. Stickney then took on a position as instructor in Greek at Harvard in 1903 and travelled abroad in Greece from April to June that year. A brain tumor caused headaches and partial blindness from early in 1904 and led to his death in Boston on October 11th 1904.
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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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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.
By such an all-embalming summer day As sweetens now among the mountain pines Down to the cornland yonder and the vines, To where the sky and sea are mixed in gray,
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream That over Persian roses flew to kiss The curlèd lashes of Semiramis. Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.
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,
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.
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
And similar, and in creation's song
Halving the total scale: it is not so.
Unlike and cross like driftwood sticks they come
Churned in the giddy trough: a chunk of pine,
A slab of rosewood: mangled each on each