Donatello.

Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes
How brood and burn the restless mysteries!
Blooded of Hellas, thy dark brows between,
That spray of antique laurel, how serene!

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

The Violinist.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

Lost Youth.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

Odes Of A Boy.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Trees.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Italian Renaissance.

How splendid and how vain in thee
The ancient quest, Italy!
Too strange that wreath, too strangely worn,
Apollo's laurel, Christ's red thorn!

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

Imagination.

With the old gods thou walkest, 'mid the leaf
And bloom of ancient morning and of light;
Thou die'st with Christ, and with the nailed thief
That dies upon his left hand and his right.

Yea, thou descendest into hell, and then
To the last heaven dost take thy road sublime;
Thine hostelries the secret souls of men,
Thy servants all the fleeting things of time!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Night-Watches.

The laurel withers on your brow,
victor, weary of the race!
And you, who sit in mighty place,
How heavy is your scepter now!

Flushed with the kiss your lips have known,
"Woman, this is your hour to wake.
And know that flesh and heart may break
When love hath entered on its own.

And you, who knew where angels trod.
And marked the path for duller eyes.
In this lone hour are you still wise?
Do you not quail before your God?

God, to whom the dark is day.
Forget not these, the strong, the right.
The happy souls, for. Lord, at night
They tremble in their tents of clay!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Church.

Still, still thy garden hath its fruits and spices,
        My Lord, my Lord!
Still hath its wells and pools of thy devices,
        My Lord!
White, in a stranger soil, thy lily stands, the close
        Breathes with thy rose!

Wild feet, mad feet, thy lovely paths have beaten,
        My Lord, my Lord!
And sinful lips thy holy fruits have eaten,
        My Lord!
Strange hands have tended me and tended ill, yet thou
        Lovest me, now!

So to thy feet I offer my waste places.
        My Lord, my Lord!
walk them till they spring in verdant graces,
        My Lord!
With new trees plant, and from the fruits divine
        Tread out thy wine!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Doubter.

O friendly, that I never knew for friend,
O flame, that never warmed me from the cold,
O light, that never beckoned to an end,
Give me but once thy beauty to behold!

Thou, Faith! Who never held before mine eyes
Or wreath of bay or life's diviner rose,
Lift up thy face against my sombre skies
And let me see thee ere mine eyelids close!

Come, lighten mine as thou dost other ways.
Come, conquer me if only for an hour!
O beckon with that shadowy wreath of bays!
O lift to me that unimagined flow'r!

Margaret Steele Anderson