Agostino Di Duccio.

The chime of silver bells; the sweet
Wild rush of fairy wings and feet;
The fluting birds of dawn; the small
And crystal music of the waterfall.
Or piping of some lone and hidden faun;
All this you were, and suddenly were not
A moment's Ariel, centuries forgot!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Margaret Steele Anderson was an American poet and author, born on October 8, 1867. She is known for her lyrical and expressive poetry, which often explores themes of nature, emotion, and personal reflection. Anderson's works include several published collections of poetry and prose that garnered critical acclaim during her lifetime. Though not as widely recognized today, her contributions to American literature remain significant. She passed away on October 7, 1921.

Margaret Steele Anderson

Lines Written To A Translator Of Greek Poetry.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

Autumn.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

Song. The Fallen Leaves.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Lesser Beauty.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Violinist.

But that one air for all that throng! And yet
How wondrously the magic strain went through
Those thousand hearts! I saw young eyes, that knew
Only the fairest sights, grow dim and wet,
While eyes long fed on visions of regret
Beheld life's rose, upspringing from its rue;
For some, the night-wind in thy music blew,
For some, the spring's celestial clarinet!

And each heart knew its own : the poet heard.
Ravished, the song his lips could never free;
The girl, her lover's swift, impassioned word;
The mother thought, "O little, buried face!"
And one, through veil of doubt and agony,
Saw Christ, alone in the dim garden-place!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Putto.

No child, no mortal child am I,
No angel from the blue on high,
And, though I gayly dance and shout,
No Cupid, from a Bacchic rout.

But I am all young innocence.
So young I do not know offence.
So very young I think that I
Will catch that bird, that butterfly.

Madonna, Lady, Queen of Heaven,
Or Mother, whose red wounds are seven,
Or waiting Virgin, mild and fair.
See, I will hide behind thy chair!

And round thy pulpit, friar gray,
Lo, I will frolic all the day!
My ways, perchance, are not divine.
But cannot hurt thee, no, nor thine!

And thou, little darling Christ,
'Tis long ere thou be sacrificed;
Do beckon me, thou pretty One,
And we will sing and laugh and run!

And at the last, why then will I
The earth...

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Lesser Beauty.

You are the first wild violet of the year;
Young grass you are, and apple-bloom, and spray
Of honeysuckle; you are dawn of day.
And the first snow-fall! It is you I hear
When the March robin calls me loud and clear.
Or lonely rill goes singing on its way
Like some small flute of heav'n; or when the gray
Sad wood-dove calls and early stars appear.

And you it is within the wayside shrine
Carved tenderly; and in the folded wings
On some neglected tomb; and in the vine
And leaf and saint of old imaginings
On some forgotten missal, little things
We would not barter for things more divine!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Sotto Voce

(To EDWARD THOMAS)


The haze of noon wanned silver-grey,
The soundless mansion of the sun;
The air made visible in his ray,
Like molten glass from furnace run,
Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stone
And the flower of the gorse burned on,
Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hair
Along each spiky spray, and shed
Almond-like incense in the air
Whereon our senses fed.

At foot, a few sparse harebells: blue
And still as were the friend's dark eyes
That dwelt on mine, transfixèd through
With sudden ecstatic surmise.

'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,
Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,
I heard a whispering music flow
From guileful throat of bird, unseen:
So delicate, the straining ear
Scarce carried its faint sy...

Walter De La Mare

The Blue-Bells On The Lea.

FAIRY KING.


"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
If you will give yourself to me,
Within the fairy ring,
At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
On slender stems they swing.

"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
Upon the wind,
The Blue-bells seem to play--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Lest we should go astray.

"So gay that fairy music,
So jubilant those bells,
How days and wee...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Madison Cawein

The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill;
I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake;
And roaming mournfully from hill to hill
The maenads all are silent for his sake!

He loved thy pipe, O wreathed and piping Pan!
So play'st thou sadly, lone within thine hollow;
He was thy blood, if ever mortal man,
Therefore thou weepest - even thou, Apollo!

But O, the grieving of the Little Things,
Above the pipe and lyre, throughout the woods!
The beating of a thousand airy wings,
The cry of all the fragile multitudes!

The moth flits desolate, the tree-toad calls,
Telling the sorrow of the elf and fay;
The cricket, little harper of the walls,
Puts up his harp - hath quite forgot to play!

And risen on these winter paths anew,
The wilding b...

Margaret Steele Anderson