June Longings.

Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown
Light vapors white, like thistle-down,
That from their softened silver heaps opaque
Scatter delicate flake by flake,
Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving
Forms of fancies past believing,
And, with fantastic show of mute despair,
As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair,
Melt in the silent voids of sunny air.

All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune:
Half sunk i' th' blue, the powdery moon
Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it,
Far and faint as a fairy spirit!
Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging,
Leaves a heart-ache for his singing,
A frustrate passion haunts me evermore
For that which closest dwells to beauty's core.
O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore?

George Parsons Lathrop

George Parsons Lathrop (August 25, 1851 – April 19, 1898) was an American poet, novelist, and editor. He was closely associated with the literary world of New England and was a prominent figure in the late 19th century. Lathrop was also known for his marriage to Rose Hawthorne, the daughter of famed novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, and for his efforts in editing and preserving Hawthorne's works. His contributions spanned various literary forms including poetry and prose.

George Parsons Lathrop

Christening

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Singing Wire

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

Helen At The Loom.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Lover's Year

George Parsons Lathrop, 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.

An April Aria.

When the mornings dankly fall
    With a dim forethought of rain,
And the robins richly call
To their mates mercurial,
    And the tree-boughs creak and strain
    In the wind;
When the river's rough with foam,
    And the new-made clearings smoke,
And the clouds that go and come
Shine and darken frolicsome,
    And the frogs at evening croak
    Undefined
Mysteries of monotone,
    And by melting beds of snow
Wind-flowers blossom all alone;
    Then I know
That the bitter winter's dead.
    Over his head
The damp sod breaks so mellow, -
Its mosses tipped with points of yellow, -
    I cannot but be glad;
Yet this sweet mood will borrow
Something of a sweeter sorrow,
    To touch and turn me sad.

George Parsons Lathrop

South-Wind

Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease
(Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!)
Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed
'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these
Loth blushes faint and maidenly: - rich breeze,
Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade
Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid
The power to build or blight the fruit of trees,
The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain.

Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe,
Both measureless, but either counted gain
Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow
Like tides upon us of the self-same sea.
Tears are the gems of joy and misery.

George Parsons Lathrop

June

We thought that winter, love, would never end,
    That the dark year had slain the innocent May,
    Nor hoped that your soft hand, this summer day,
Would lie, as now, in mine, beloved friend;
    And, like some magic spring, your dream-deep eyes
    Hold all the summer skies.

But lo! the world again is mad with flowers,
    The long white silence spake, small bird by bird,
Blade after blade, amid the song of showers,
    The grass stole back once more, and there was heard
The ancient music of the vernal spheres,
Half laughter and half tears.

Ah! love, and now too swiftly, like some groom,
    Raining hot kisses on his bride's young mouth,
    The mad young year, delirious with the South,
Squanders his fairy treasure, bloom on bloom;
    Too soon ...

Richard Le Gallienne

From "A Rhapsody"

Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone--
In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours.
Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone
To see glad butterflies and smiling flowers.
Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places,
Where not the voice of man our pleasure mars,
To see the little bees with coal black faces
Gathering sweets from little flowers like stars.

The wind seems calling, though not understood.
A voice is speaking; hark, it louder calls.
It echoes in the far-outstretching wood.
First twas a hum, but now it loudly squalls;
And then the pattering rain begins to fall,
And it is hushed--the fern leaves scarcely shake,
The tottergrass it scarcely stirs at all.
And then the rolling thunder gets awake,
And from black clouds the lightning flashes break.<...

John Clare

June

Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn
That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread
Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed
Woke the arbutus with her silver horn;
And now May, too, is fled,
The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,
With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet,
Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay
With tulips and the scented violet.

Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue
And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more
The snowy trilliums crowd the forest's floor;
The purpling grasses are no longer young,
And summer's wide-set door
O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth
Lets in the torrent of the later bloom,
Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,
The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder pl...

Archibald Lampman

South-Wind Song. (Moods Of Love.)

Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease
    (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!)
    Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed
'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these
Loth blushes faint and maidenly - rich Breeze,
    Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade
    Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid
The power to build or blight rich fruit of trees,
The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain.

Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe,
    Both measureless, but either counted gain
Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow
    Like tides upon us of the self-same sea.
    Tears are the gems of joy and misery!

George Parsons Lathrop