William Wilfred Campbell
William Wilfred Campbell was born 15 June 1860 in Newmarket, Upper Canada (present-day Ontario). There is some doubt as to the date and place of his birth. His father, Rev. Thomas Swainston Campbell, was an Anglican clergyman who had been assigned the task of setting up several frontier parishes in "Canada West", as Ontario was then called. Consequently, the family moved frequently.
In 1871, the Campbells settled in Wiarton, Ontario, where Wilfred grew up, attending high school in nearby Owen Sound. The school later be renamed Owen Sound Collegiate and Vocational Institute). Campbell would look back on his childhood with fondness.
Campbell taught in Wiarton before ... more »
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William Wilfred Campbell Poems
An October Evening
The woods are haggard and lonely, The skies are hooded for snow, The moon is cold in Heaven, And the grasses are sere below.
Along the line of smoky hills The crimson forest stands, And all the day the blue-jay calls Throughout the autumn lands.
How one Winter Came in the Lake Region
For weeks and weeks the autumn world stood still, Clothed in the shadow of a smoky haze; The fields were dead, the wind had lost its will, And all the lands were hushed by wood and hill,
Not Unto Endless Dark
Not unto endless dark do we go down, Though all the wisdom of wide earth said yea, Yet my fond heart would throb eternal nay.
The End of the Furrow
When we come to the end of the furrow, When our last day's work is done, We will drink of the long red shaft of light That slants from the westering sun.
Spring In Canada
SEASON of life's renewal, love's rebirth, And all hope's young espousals; in your dream, I feel once more the ancient stirrings of Earth.
There dwells a spirit in the budding year- As motherhood doth beautify the face- That even lends these barren glebes a grace,
ENGLAND, England, England, Girdled by ocean and skies, And the power of a world, and the heart of a race, And a hope that never dies.
Out of Pompeii
She lay, face downward, on her beaded arm, In this her new, sweet dream of human bliss, Her heart within her fearful, fluttering, warm, Her lips yet pained with love's first timorous kiss.
Pan the Fallen
He wandered into the market With pipes and goatish hoof; He wandered in a grotesque shape, And no one stood aloof.
We are what nature made us; soon or late, Life's art that fadeth passeth slow away, With iron eatings of our sordid day,
Carven in leathern mask or brazen face, Were I time's sculptor, I would set this man. Retreating from the truth, his hawk-eyes scan The platforms of all public thought for place.
On Christmas Eve
In byre and barn the mows are brim with sheaves, Where stealeth in with phosphorescent tread The glimmering moon, and, ’neath his wattled eaves, The kennelled hound unto the darkness grieves
Home of the pure in heart and tranquil mind, Temple of love's white silence, holy Night; Greater than splendid thought or iron might,
Comments about William Wilfred Campbell
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
An October Evening
1 The woods are haggard and lonely,
2 The skies are hooded for snow,
3 The moon is cold in Heaven,
4 And the grasses are sere below.
5 The bearded swamps are breathing
6 A mist from meres afar,
7 And grimly the Great Bear circles
8 Under the pale Pole Star.
9 There is never a voice in Heaven,
10 Nor ever a sound on earth,
11 Where the spectres of winter are rising
12 Over the night's wan girth.
13 There is slumber and death in the silence,
14 There is hate in the...