Madrigal

Like the Idalian queen,
Her hair about her eyne,
With neck and breasts ripe apples to be seen,
At first glance of the morn
In Cyprus gardens gathering those fair flowrs
Which of her blood were born,
I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.
The Graces naked danced about the place,
The winds and trees amazed
With silence on her gazed,
The flowers did smile, like those upon her face;
And as their aspen stalks those fingers band,
That she might read my case,
A hyacinth I wishd me in her hand.

William Henry Drummond

William Henry Drummond was a Canadian poet, best known for his humor-filled verse that captured the dialect and lifestyle of French Canadian habitants. Born on April 13, 1854, in Ireland, he immigrated to Canada during his childhood. Drummond pursued a career in medicine but garnered fame for his poetry, which was rich with character and wit. He passed away on April 6, 1907, leaving behind a cherished legacy in Canadian literature.

William Henry Drummond

The Wreck Of The Julie Plante

William Henry Drummond, Simple Poetry

De Nice Leetle Canadienne

William Henry Drummond, Simple Poetry

M'Sieu Smit

William Henry Drummond, Simple Poetry

Change Should Breed Change

William Henry Drummond, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Spring Bereaved III

Alexis, here she stayd; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
She set her by these muskèd eglantines,
The happy place the print seems yet to bear:
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugard lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did oerspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
And I first got a pledge of promised grace:
But ah! what served it to be happy so?
Sith passèd pleasures double but new woe?

William Henry Drummond

Summons To Love

Phoebus, arise!
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red:
Rouse Memnons mother from her Tithons bed
That she may thy career with roses spread:
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
Make an eternal spring!
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn,
That day, long-wished day,
Of all my life so dark,
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn,
And fates my hopes betray),
Which, purely white, deserves
An everlasting diamond should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this ...

William Henry Drummond

A Madrigal

The lily-bells ring underground,
    Their music small I hear
When globes of dew that shine pearl round
    Hang in the cowslip's ear
And all the summer blooms and sprays
    Are sheathed from the sun,
And yet I feel in many ways
    Their living pulses run.

The crowning rose of summer time
    Lies folded on its stem,
Its bright urn holds no honey-wine,
    Its brow no diadem,
And yet my soul is inly thrilled,
    As if I stood anear
Some legal presence unrevealed,
    The queen of all the year.

Oh Rose, dear Rose! the mist and dew
    Uprising from the lake,
And sunshine glancing warmly through,
    Have kissed the flowers awake--
The orchard blooms are dropping balm,
    The tulip's gorgeous cup
More slender than a ...

Kate Seymour Maclean

A Madrigal

Dream days of fond delight and hours
As rosy-hued as dawn, are mine.
Love's drowsy wine,
Brewed from the heart of Passion flowers,
Flows softly o'er my lips
And save thee, all the world is in eclipse.

There were no light if thou wert not;
The sun would be too sad to shine,
And all the line
Of hours from dawn would be a blot;
And Night would haunt the skies,
An unlaid ghost with staring dark-ringed eyes.

Oh, love, if thou wert not my love,
And I perchance not thine--what then?
Could gift of men
Or favor of the God above,
Plant aught in this bare heart
Or teach this tongue the singer's soulful art?

Ah, no! 'Tis love, and love alone
That spurs my soul so surely on;
Turns night to dawn,
And thorns to roses fairest blown;<...

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Invocation

Phoebus, arise!
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;
Rouse Memnons mother from her Tithons bed,
That she thy càreer may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing;
Make an eternal spring!
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,
That day, long wishèd day
Of all my life so dark
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
And fates not hope betray),
Which, only white, deserves
A diamond for ever should it mark:
This is the morn should bring into this grove
My ...

William Henry Drummond

In The South. [Serenade.]

    The dim verbena drugs the dusk
        With heavy lemon odors rare;
    Wan heliotropes Arabian musk
        Exhale into the dreamy air;
    A sad wind with long wooing husk
        Swoons in the roses there.

    The jasmine at thy casement flings
        Star-censers oozing rich perfumes;
    The clematis, long petaled, swings
        Deep clusters of dark purple blooms;
    With flowers like moons or sylphide wings
        Magnolias light the glooms.

    Awake, awake from sleep!
        Thy balmy hair,
    Unbounden deep on deep,
        Than blossoms fair,
    Who sweetest fragrance weep,
        Will fill the night with prayer.
    Awake, awake from sleep!

    And dreaming here it seems to me
        Some dryad's b...

Madison Julius Cawein