William Herbert Carruth

Rating: 4.33
Rating: 4.33

William Herbert Carruth Poems

A fire-mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jelly-fish and a saurian,
...

We are all of us dreamers of dreams,
On visions our childhood is fed;
And the heart of a child is unhaunted, it seems,
...

Somewhere out West there lies a sloping plain
That looks across the winding river track
A mile away to northward, bluish-black
...

4.

Poor, homely, unloved things beside the way,
That strive in voiceless ignominy, still
Undaunted though downtrodden, to fulfill
...

When you've struggled hard and long
And the battle has gone wrong
And a world of cares oppress you,
Like cool water from a spring,
...

Had he been made of such poor clay as we,
Who, when we feel a little fire aglow
'Gainst wrong within us, dare not let it grow,
...

I.

I dug a little flower
From out the forest-shade,
...

Dear phantoms of my summer's golden
dream!
Across the gulf of miles and years I fling
This ghostly greeting, trusting it may
...

Who knows where the graveyard is
Where the fox and the eagle lie?
Who has seen the obsequies
...

Come out with me, O maiden mine,
Come out and roam the campus;
I'll wield the fairy bug-net thine,
And flounder through the bindweed vine,
...

The Best Poem Of William Herbert Carruth

Each In His Own Tongue

A fire-mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jelly-fish and a saurian,
And caves where the cave-men dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty
And a face turned from the clod -
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky,
The ripe rich tint of the cornfileds,
And the wild geese sailing high -
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the golden-rod -
Some of us call it Autumn
And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in -
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod, -
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty,
A mother starved for her brood,
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the rood;
And millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathway plod, -
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.

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