William Winter
William Winter Poems
Out in the dark it throbs and glows--
The wide, wild sea, that no man knows!
The wind is chill, the surge is white,
...
The apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
...
Set your face to the sea, fond lover,-
Cold in the darkness the sea-winds blow!
Waves and clouds and the night will cover
...
Beneath the midnight moon of May,
Through dusk on either hand,
One sheet of silver spreads the bay,
One crescent jet the land;
...
I
WHITE sail upon the ocean verge,
Just crimsoned by the setting sun,
Thou hast thy port beyond the surge,
...
He knelt beside her pillow, in the dead watch of the night,
And he heard her gentle breathing, but her face was still and white,
...
THE DIRGE is sung, the ritual said,
No more the brooding organ weeps,
And, cool and green, the turf is spread
...
With a glimmer of plumes and a sparkle of lances,
With blare of the trumpets and neigh of the steed,
...
He loves not well whose love is bold!
I would not have thee come too nigh:
The sun’s gold would not seem pure gold
...
Sweet bell of Stratford, tolling slow,
In summer gloaming’s golden glow,
I hear and feel thy voice divine,
And all my soul responds to thine.
...
One other bitter drop to drink,
And then - no more!
One little pause upon the brink,
And then - go o'er!
...
FAIRY spirits of the breeze—
Frailer nothing is than these.
Fancies born we know not where—
In the heart or in the air;
...
FAIRY spirits of the breeze—
Frailer nothing is than these.
Fancies born we know not where—
In the heart or in the air;
...
Snow and stars, the same as ever
In the days when I was young,--
But their silver song, ah never,
Never will be sung!
...
AND oh, to think the sun can shine,
The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom,
And she, whose soul was all divine,
...
William Winter Biography
Born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, Winter graduated from Harvard Law School in 1857. He then chose literature as his field of endeavor, and moved to New York City (1859), where he became literary critic of the Saturday Press, then (1861-65) of the New York Albion, and for more than 40 years (1865-1909) was a drama critic of the New York Tribune. He died in New York City in 1917 and was buried at Silver Mount Cemetery. Brooks Atkinson, in his history of the American Theater Broadway, accused Winters of being an intolerant prude for denouncing modern dramatists like Henrik Ibsen and George Bernard Shaw, and foreign stars like Sarah Bernhardt and Eleanor Duse, for their personal lives. However, Atkinson credited Winter for having a remarkable memory, wherein he left a treasure trove of written descriptions of stars like Edwin Booth and Sir Henry Irving. To this one may add that Winter had some degree of common sense that was missing from many of the dramatists of his day. His review of the ever-popular drama East Lynne showed that he considered the work a piece of claptrap, which most people these days agree is a correct assessment.[citation needed] In 1886, in commemoration of the death of his son, he founded a library at the academy in Stapleton, New York)
The Best Poem Of William Winter
On The Verge
Out in the dark it throbs and glows--
The wide, wild sea, that no man knows!
The wind is chill, the surge is white,
And I must sail that sea to-night.
You shall not sail! The breakers roar
On many a mile of iron shore,
The waves are livid in their wrath,
And no man knows the ocean path.
I must not bide for wind or wave;
I must not heed, though tempest rave;
My course is set, my hour is known,
And I must front the dark, alone.
Your eyes are wild, your face is pale,--
This is no night for ships to sail!
The hungry wind is moaning low,
The storm is up—you shall not go!
’T is not the moaning wind you hear--
It is a sound more dread and drear,
A voice that calls across the tide,
A voice that will not be denied.
Your words are faint, your brow is cold,
Your looks grow sudden gray and old,
The lights burn dim, the casements shake,--
Ah, stay a little, for my sake!
Too late! Too late! The vow you said
This many a year is cold and dead,
And through that darkness, grim and black,
I shall but follow on its track.
Remember all fair things and good
That e’er were dreamed or understood,
For they shall all the Past requite,
So you but shun the sea to-night!
No more of dreams! Nor let there be
One tender thought of them or me,--
For on the way that I must wend
I dread no harm and need no friend!
The golden shafts of sunset fall
Athwart the gray cathedral wall,
While o’er its tombs of old renown
The rose-leaves softly flutter down.
No thought of holy things can save
One relic now from Memory’s grave,
And, be it sun or moon or star,
The light that falls must follow far!
I mind the ruined turrets bold,
The ivy, flushed with sunset gold,
The dew-drenched roses, in their sleep,
That seemed to smile, and yet to weep.
There ’ll be nor smile nor tear again;
There ’ll be the end of every pain;
There ’ll be no parting to deplore,
Nor love nor sorrow any more.
I see the sacred river’s flow,
The barge in twilight drifting slow,
While o’er the daisied meadow swells
The music of the vesper bells.
It is my knell—so far away!
The night wears on—I must not stay!
My canvas strains before the gale--
My cables part, and I must sail!
Loud roars the sea! The dark has come:
He does not move—his lips are dumb.--
Ah, God receive, on shores of light,
The shattered ship that sails to-night!
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4/18/2024 10:49:04 PM # 1.0.0.1119
