Now!

        Her brown hair knew no royal crest,
            No gems nor jeweled charms,
        No roses her bright cheek caressed,
            No lilies kissed her arms.
        In simple, modest womanhood
            Clad, as was meet, in white,
        The fairest flower of all, she stood
            Amid the softest light.

        It had been worth a perilous quest
            To see the court she drew,--
        My rose, my gem, my royal crest,
            My lily moist with dew;
        Worth heaven, when, with farewells from each
            The gay throng let us be,
        To see her turn at last and reach
            Her white hands out to me.

John Charles McNeill

John Charles McNeill was a prominent American poet known for his works that vividly depicted the landscapes and spirit of North Carolina. Born on July 26, 1874, in Wagram, North Carolina, he won acclaim with his book 'Songs Merry and Sad,' which won the Patterson Cup in 1905. His poetry primarily reflects rural life and Southern traditions. Sadly, McNeill's promising career was cut short when he died on October 17, 1907, at the young age of 33.

John Charles McNeill

For Jane's Birthday

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

At Sea

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

The Old Clock

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Home Songs

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

English

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Chrysanthemum's Court.

    They lift their faces to the light,
    And aye they are a gallant band;
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    A stately thing, and tall and grand.

    See, close beside, in yellow drest,
    Is the prince consort of the hour;
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    And mark the courtiers' noble grace -
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    Each maid-in-waiting is most fair -
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The White Flag.

I sent my love two roses, - one
    As white as driven snow,
And one a blushing royal red,
    A flaming Jacqueminot.

I meant to touch and test my fate;
    That night I should divine,
The moment I should see my love,
    If her true heart were mine.

For if she holds me dear, I said,
    She'll wear my blushing rose;
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    As white as winter's snows.

My heart sank when I met her:    sure
    I had been over bold,
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Yet with low words she greeted me,
    With smiles divinely tender;
Upon her cheek the red rose dawned. -
    The white rose meant surrender.

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The Bride

        The little white bride is left alone
        With him, her lord; the guests have gone;
                The festal hall is dim.
        No jesting now, nor answering mirth.
        The hush of sleep falls on the earth
                And leaves her here with him.

        Why should there be, O little white bride,
        When the world has left you by his side,
                A tear to brim your eyes?
        Some old love-face that comes again,
        Some old love-moment sweet with pain
                Of passionate memories?

        Does your heart yearn back with last regret
        For the maiden meads of mignonette
                And the fairy-haunted wood,
        That you had not withheld from love,
        A little while, the fre...

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The Loveliest Face And The Wild Rose

The loveliest face! I turned to her
Shut in 'mid savage rocks and trees; -
'Twas in the May-time of the year,
And our two hearts were filled with ease -
And pointed where a wild-rose grew,
Suddenly fair in that grim place:
"We should know all, if we but knew
Whence came this flower, and whence - this face."

The loveliest face!    My thoughts went around:
"Strange sister of this little rose,
So softly 'scaped from underground;
O tell me if your beauty knows,
Being itself so fair a thing,
How came this lovely thing so fair,
How came it to such blossoming,
Leaning so strangely from the air?

"The wonder of its being born,
So lone and lovely - even as you -
Half maiden-moon, half maiden-morn,
And delicately sad with dew;
How came it ...

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Isabel

        When first I stood before you,
                Isabel,
        I stood there to adore you,
                In your spell;
        For all that grace composes,
        And all that beauty knows is
        Your face above the roses,
                Isabel.

        You knew the charm of flowers,
                Isabel,
        Which, like incarnate hours,
                Rose and fell
        At your bosom, glowed and gloried,
        White and pale and pink and florid,
        And you touched them with your forehead,
                Isabel.

        Amid the jest and laughter,
                Isabel,
        I saw you, and thereafter,
                Ill or well,
        There was nothing else worth seeing,
        Wor...

John Charles McNeill

Roses Of June.

She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down
On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet
As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet,
White royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

And one is clasped in her slender hand, and one on her bosom lies,
And two rare blushing buds loop up her light brown hair,
Ah, roses of June, you never looked on a face so white and fair,
Such perfectly moulded lips, such sweet and heavenly eyes.

This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day
From the lordly groves of her palace home afar,
But not to stay; there's a light on her brow like the light of a star,
And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.

She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of sp...

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