Ay Me!

    Silent, with hands crost meekly on his breast,
        Long time, with keen and meditative eye,
        Stood the old painter of Siena by
    A canvas, whose sign manual him confest.

    His head droopt low, his eye ceased from its quest,
        As tears filled full the fountains long since dry;
        And from his lips there broke the haunting cry:
    "May God forgive me - I did not my best!"

Theodore Harding Rand

Theodore Harding Rand was a Canadian educator, poet, and the first chief superintendent of education for New Brunswick, and later Nova Scotia. Born on February 8, 1835, in Carleton County, New Brunswick, Rand had a profound influence on the educational systems in both provinces. He was also a noted poet, contributing significantly to Canadian literature in the 19th century. He passed away on May 29, 1900.

Theodore Harding Rand

Glory-Roses.

Theodore Harding Rand, Simple Poetry

The Years.

Theodore Harding Rand, Simple Poetry

To Emeline.

Theodore Harding Rand, 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.

To Longfellow.

I.

Pensive within the Colosseum's walls
I stood with thee, O Poet of the West! -
The day when each had been a welcome guest
In San Clemente's venerable halls: -
Ah, with what pride my memory now recalls
That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest,
When with thy white beard falling on thy breast -
That noble head, that well might serve as Paul's
In some divinest vision of the saint
By Raffael dreamed, I heard thee mourn the dead -
The martyred host who fearless there, though faint,
Walked the rough road that up to Heaven's gate led:
These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint
In golden hues that here perchance have fled.


II.

Yet take the colder copy from my hand,
Not for its own but for THE MASTER'S sake, -
Take it, as ...

Denis Florence MacCarthy

Brother Artist!

Brother artist, help me; come!
    Artists are a maimed band:
    I have words but not a hand;
Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Had I thine, when words did fail--
    Vassal-words their hasting chief,
    On the white awaiting leaf
Shapes of power should tell the tale.

Had I hers of music-might,
    I would shake the air with storm
    Till the red clouds trailed enorm
Boreal dances through the night.

Had I his whose foresight rare
    Piles the stones with lordliest art,
    From the quarry of my heart
Love should climb a heavenly stair!

Had I his whose wooing slow
    Wins the marble's hidden child,
    Out in passion undefiled
Stood my Psyche, white as snow!

Maimed, a little help I pray;
    Words ...

George MacDonald

At The Ford.

    I.

    A death-like dew was falling
        On the herbs and the grassy ground;
    The stars to their bournes prest forward,
        Night cloaked the hills around.

    He thought of a night long past, -
        Of the ladder that reached to heaven,
    The Face that shone above it,
        The pillar, his pillows of even.


    II.

    From out of the sleeve of the darkness
        Was thrust an arm of strength, -
    Long he wrestled for mastery,
        But begged for blessing at length.

    White fear fell on him at dawn,
        As the Nameless spake with him then;
    "Prevailer and Prince," called He him,
        "A power with God and with men."

    And, alone, the lame wrestler mused:
        ...

Theodore Harding Rand

Repose.

    A mossy footfall in this wood
        A peal of thunder were,
    Or autumn tempest-shriek, compared
        With the unwhispered stir
    Of massy fluids lift in air,
    To build these leafy pillars fair.

    Lavished at wordless wish or mute
        Command, the chemic wealth
    Upsprings to meet the builders' hands,
        All hushed as dusky stealth.
    Noiseless as love, as silent prayer
    Mysterious, the builders are.


    Ah, sure, these silences are works
        Of God's sabbatic rest,
    A music perfect as the calm
        Of wave's unbroken crest!
    These woven leaves that stilly nod,
    These violets, ope their eyes on God.

    The deep serene that worketh here
        Works, too, 'mid human tears...

Theodore Harding Rand

Gaspar Becerra

By his evening fire the artist
    Pondered o'er his secret shame;
Baffled, weary, and disheartened,
    Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.

'T was an image of the Virgin
    That had tasked his utmost skill;
But, alas! his fair ideal
    Vanished and escaped him still.

From a distant Eastern island
    Had the precious wood been brought
Day and night the anxious master
    At his toil untiring wrought;

Till, discouraged and desponding,
    Sat he now in shadows deep,
And the day's humiliation
    Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master!
    From the burning brand of oak
Shape the thought that stirs within thee!"
    And the startled artist woke,--

Woke, and from the smoking embers
  ...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sonnet LX.

Io son sì stanco sotto 'l fascio antico.

HE CONFESSES HIS ERRORS, AND THROWS HIMSELF ON THE MERCY OF GOD.


    Evil by custom, as by nature frail,
I am so wearied with the long disgrace,
That much I dread my fainting in the race
Should let th' original enemy prevail.
Once an Eternal Friend, that heard my cries,
Came to my rescue, glorious in his might,
Arm'd with all-conquering love, then took his flight,
That I in vain pursued Him with my eyes.
But his dear words, yet sounding, sweetly say,
"O ye that faint with travel, see the way!
Hopeless of other refuge, come to me."
What grace, what kindness, or what destiny
Will give me wings, as the fair-feather'd dove,
To raise me hence and seek my rest above?

BASIL KENNET.

Francesco Petrarca