A Song.

        I shouldn't like to say, I'm sure,
            I shouldn't like to say,
        Why I think of you more, and more, and more
            As day flits after day.
        Nor why I see in the Summer skies
        Only the beauty of your sweet eyes,
            The power by which you sway
        A kingdom of hearts, that little you prize
            I shouldn't like to say.

        I shouldn't like to say, I'm sure,
            I shouldn't like to say
        Why I hear your voice, so fresh and pure,
            In the dash of the laughing spray.
        Nor why the wavelets that all the while,
        In many a diamond-glittering file,
            With truant sunbeams play,
        Should make me remember your rippling smile
            I shouldn't like to say.

        I shouldn't like to say, I'm sure,
            I shouldn't like to say,
        Why all the birds should chirp of you,
            Who live so far away.
        Robin and oriole sing to me
            From the leafy depths of our apple-tree,
            With trunk so gnarled and gray
        But why your name should their burden be
            I shouldn't like to say.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

No biography available

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

The "Stay-At-Home's" Plaint.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

Chivalrie.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

A Reformer.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

Making New Year's Calls.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Song.

        Spring-time is coming again, my dear;
            Sunshine and violets blue, you know;
        Crocuses lifting their sleepy heads
            Out of their sheets of snow.
        And I know a blossom sweeter by far
        That violets blue, or crocuses are,
            And bright as the sunbeam's glow.
        But how can I dare to look in her eyes,
            Colored with heaven's own hue?
        That wouldn't do at all, my dear,
            It really wouldn't do.

        Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea;
            In its golden depths the fairies play,
        Beckoning, dancing, mocking there,
            Luring my heart away.
        And her merry lips are the ripest red
        That ever addled a poor man's head,
            Or...

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

De Lunatico.

        The squadrons of the sun still hold
            The western hills, their armor glances,
        Their crimson banners wide unfold,
            Low-levelled lie their golden lances.
        The shadows lurk along the shore,
            Where, as our row-boat lightly passes,
        The ripples startled by our oar,
            Hide murmuring 'neath the hanging grasses.

        Your eyes are downcast, for the light
            Is lingering on your lids forgetting
        How late it is for one last sight
            Of you the sun delays his setting.
        One hand droops idly from the boat,
            And round the white and swaying fingers,
        Like half-blown lilies gone afloat,
            The amorous water, toying, lingers.

       ...

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

An Afterthought.

        Vine leaves rustled, moonbeams shone,
            Summer breezes softly sighed;
        You and I were all alone
            In a kingdom fair and wide
            You, a Queen, in all your pride,
            I, a vassal, by your side.

        Fairy voices in the leaves
            Ceaselessly were whispering:
        "'Tis the time to garner sheaves
            Let your heart its longing sing;
            Place upon her hand a ring;
            Then our Queen shall know her King."

        E'en the moonbeams seemed to learn
            Speech when they had kissed your face,
        Passing fair my lips did yearn
            To be moonbeams for a space
            "Lo, 'tis fitting time and place!
            Speak, and courage will fin...

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 05: The Bitter Love-Song

No, I shall not say why it is that I love you,
Why do you ask me, save for vanity?
Surely you would not have me, like a mirror,
Say yes, your hair curls darkly back from the temples,
Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness,
Your eyes are April grey. . . .with jonquils in them?
No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . .
Ill say, my childhood broke through chords of music
Or were they chords of sun? wherein fell shadows,
Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight;
Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me
With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. .
I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning,
My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover,
And drowsed there like a bee. . . .blue days behind me
Stretched like a chain...

Conrad Aiken

O Jay!

O jay -
Blue-jay!
What are you trying to say?
I remember, in the spring
You pretended you could sing;
But your voice is now still queerer,
And as yet you've come no nearer
To a song.
In fact, to sum the matter,
I never heard a flatter
Failure than your doleful clatter.
Don't you think it's wrong?
It was sweet to hear your note,
I'll not deny,
When April set pale clouds afloat
O'er the blue tides of sky,
And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums
You, in your white and azure coat,
A herald proud, came forth to cry,
"The royal summer comes!"

But now that autumn's here,
And the leaves curl up in sheer
Disgust,
And the cold rains fringe the pine,
You really must
Stop that supercilious whine - -
Or you'll be shot, b...

George Parsons Lathrop

Lake Mahopac Saturday Night.

        "Yes, I'm here, I suppose you're delighted:
            You'd heard I was not coming down!
        Why I've been here a week! 'rather early'
            I know, but it's horrid in town

        A Boston? Most certainly, thank you.
            This music is perfectly sweet;
        Of course I like dancing in summer;
            It's warm, but I don't mind the heat.

        The clumsy thing! Oh! how he hurt me!
            I really can't dance any more
        Let's walk see, they're forming a Lancers;
            These square dances are such a bore.

        My cloak oh! I really don't need it
            Well, carry it, so, in the folds
        I hate it, but Ma made me bring it;
            She's frightened to death about colds.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.