Pardon Time

        Give over now; forbear.    The moonlight steeps
        In silver silence towered castle-keeps
            And cottage crofts, where apples bend the bough.
        Peace guards us round, and many a tired heart sleeps.
            Let me brush back the shadow from your brow.
            Give over now.

        On such a night, how sweet, how sweet is life,
        Even to the insect piper with his fife!
            And must your troubled face still bear the blight
        Of strength that runs itself to waste in strife?
            For love's own heart should throb through all the light
            Of such a night.

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

The Prisoner

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Oh, Ask Me Not

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Sonnet

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

The Wife

John Charles McNeill, 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.

A Prayer

        If many years should dim my inward sight,
            Till, stirred with no emotion,
        I might stand gazing at the fall of night
            Across the gloaming ocean;

        Till storm, and sun, and night, vast with her stars,
            Would seem an oft-told story,
        And the old sorrow of heroic wars
            Be faded of its glory;

        Till, hearing, while June's roses blew their musk,
            The noise of field and city,
        The human struggle, sinking tired at dusk,
            I felt no thrill of pity;

        Till dawn should come without her old desire,
            And day brood o'er her stages,--
        O let me die, too frail for nature's hire,
            And rest a million ages.

John Charles McNeill

Then And Now

Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.

John McCrae

October

        The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes,
        O, month of memories!
        Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of,
        Old joy, dead hope, dear love,

        I see thee stand where all thy sisters meet
        To cast down at thy feet
        The garnered largess of the fruitful year,
        And on thy cheek a tear.

        Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf
        To blind the eyes of grief;
        Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit
        That sorrow may be mute;

        A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep,
        Ere the gray dusk may creep
        Sober and sad along thy dusty ways,
        Like a lone nun, who prays;

        High and faint-heard thy passing migrant calls;<...

John Charles McNeill

Then And Now

                    Beneath her window in the fragrant night
                    I half forget how truant years have flown
                    Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
                    Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
                    Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
                    Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
                    And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
                    Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
                    Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
                    When all is still, as if the very trees
                    Were listening for the coming of her feet
                    That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
                    Sings some forgo...

John McCrae

A Song of Comfort

        "Sleep, weary ones, while ye may --
            Sleep, oh, sleep!"
                    Eugene Field.


        Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,
        The soft wind sang to the dead below:
        "Think not with regret on the Springtime's song
        And the task ye left while your hands were strong.
        The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,
        And the task that was joyous be weary at last."

        To the winter sky when the nights were long
        The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:
        "Do ye think with regret on the sunny days
        And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?
        The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown
        And the path grow rough when the night came down."...

John McCrae

A Song Of Comfort

"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
Eugene Field.



Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,
The soft wind sang to the dead below:
"Think not with regret on the Springtime's song
And the task ye left while your hands were strong.
The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,
And the task that was joyous be weary at last."

To the winter sky when the nights were long
The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:
"Do ye think with regret on the sunny days
And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?
The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown
And the path grow rough when the night came down."

In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,
It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:
"Ye think with regret that th...

John McCrae