A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal; But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul. Moira O'Neill Moira O'Neill is known chiefly by a remarkable little collection of only twenty-five lyrics, Songs from the Glens of Antrim (1900), simple tunes as unaffected as the peasants of whom she sings. The best of her poetry is dramatic without being theatrical; it is melodious without falling into the tinkle of most "popular" sentimental verse. A BROKEN SONG "Where am I from?" From the green hills of Erin. "If she was tall?" "If she was fair?" Like a king's own daughter. When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather, When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day. "Where did she dwell?” Where one'st I had my dwellin'. "Who loved her best?" There's no one now will know. "Where is she gone?" Och, why would I be tellin'! Where she is gone there I can never go. Ralph Hodgson This exquisite poet was born in Northumberland in 1871. One of the most graceful of the younger word-magicians, Ralph Hodgson will retain his freshness as long as there are lovers of such rare songs as his "Eve," the lengthier "The Song of Honor," and that memorable snatch of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." Hodgson's verses, full of the love of all natural things, a love that goes out to "an idle rainbow No less than laboring seas," were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed by Flying Fame. A collected Poems appeared in America in 1917. THE BIRDCATCHER When flighting time is on, I go I lurk among the thickets of TIME, YOU OLD GYPSY MAN Time, you old gypsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan All things I'll give you Oh, and sweet girls will Last week in Babylon, Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein― Only a moment, And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gypsy man, AFTER "How fared you when you mortal were? It went for me where mortals are! "I saw blue flowers and the merlin's flight, Blue doves I saw and summer light THE MYSTERY He came and took me by the hand He kept His meaning to Himself I did not pray Him to lay bare The mystery to me, Enough the rose was Heaven to smell, And His own face to see. John McCrae John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. He was graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine in 1898. He finished his studies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and returned to Canada, joining the staff of the Medical School of McGill University. He was a lieutenant of artillery in South Africa (1899-1900) and was in charge of the Medical Division of the McGill Canadian General Hospital during the World War. After serving two years, he died of pneumonia, January, 1918, his volume In Flanders Fields (1919) appearing posthumously. Few who read the title poem of his book, possibly the most widely-read poem produced by the war, realize that it is a perfect rondeau, one of the loveliest (and strictest) of the French forms. IN FLANDERS FIELDS In Flanders fields the poppies blow That mark our place; and in the sky We are the Dead. Short days ago Take up our quarrel with the foe: Walter De la Mare The author of some of the most haunting lyrics in contemporary poetry, Walter (John) De la Mare, was born in 1873. |