William Canton (27 October 1845 – 2 May 1926) was a British poet, journalist and writer, now best known for his contributions to children's literature. These include his series of three books, beginning with The Invisible Playmate, written for his daughter Winifred Vida (1891-1901). In his lifetime he was known for his use of recent archeological evidence of prehistory in his ... more »
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William Canton Poems
With rakish eye and plenished crop, Oblivious of the farmer's gun, Upon the naked ash-tree top
Crying Abba, Father
Abba, in Thine eternal years Bethink Thee of our fleeting day; We are but clay; Bear with our foolish joys, our foolish tears,
The Sweet Pea
Oh, what has been born in the night To bask in this blithe summer morn? She peers, in a dream of delight, For something new-made or new-born.
Enormous sea; immeasurable night! The shoreless waters, heaving spectral-white, Vibrate with showers and chains of golden sparks.
In praise of little children I will say God first made man, then found a better way For woman, but his third way was the best.
In the heart of the white summer mist lay a green little piece of the world; And the tops of the beeches were lost in the mist, and the
Heights and Depths
He walked in glory on the hills; We dalesmen envied from afar The heights and rose-lit pinnacles Which placed him nigh the evening star.
Last June—how slight a thing to tell!— One straggling leaf beneath the limes Against the sunset rose and fell,
Did you ever read or hear How the Aid—(God bless the Aid! More earnest prayer than that was never prayed.)
East of Eden
Far down upon the plain the large round moon Sank red in jungle mist; but on the heights The cold clear darkness burned with restless stars:
When the herds were watching In the midnight chill, Came a spotless lambkin From the heavenly hill.
By the Fireside II
In the April sun at baby-house she plays. Her rooms are traced with stones and bits of bricks; For warmth she lays a hearth with little sticks,
In the orchard blithely waking, Through the blossom, loud and clear, Pipes the goldfinch, “Day is breaking; Waken, Babsie; May is here!
A New Poet
I WRITE. He sits beside my chair, And scribbles, too, in hushed delight; He dips his pen in charméd air: What is it he pretends to write?
Comments about William Canton
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
With rakish eye and plenished crop,
Oblivious of the farmer's gun,
Upon the naked ash-tree top
The Crow sits basking in the sun.
An old ungodly rogue, I wot!
For, perched in black against the blue,
His feathers, torn with beak and shot,
Let woeful glints of April through.
The year's new grass, and, golden-eyed,
The daisies sparkle underneath,
And chestnut-trees on either side
Have opened every ruddy sheath.
But doubtful still of frost and snow,
The ash alone stands stark and bare,
And on its topmost twig the Crow
Takes the glad morning's...