The Ultimate Joy

I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet's mystic book
And I've lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook;
I've felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reach
For upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech.
And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades away
As I think upon the fortune that befell the other day,
As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh,
That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

Oh, eerie hour of drowsiness - 'twas like a fairy spell,
That respite from the terrors we have known, alas, so well,
The malevolent mosquito, with a limp and idle bill,
Hung supinely from the ceiling, all exhausted by his chill.
And the early morning sunbeam lost his customary leer
And brought a gracious greeting and a prophecy of cheer;
A generous affability reached up from earth to sky,
When I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

In every life there comes a time of happiness supreme,
When joy becomes reality and not a glittering dream.
'Tis less appreciated, but it's worth a great deal more
Than tides which taken at their flood lead on to fortune's shore.
How vain is Art's illusion, and how potent Nature's sway
When once in kindly mood she deigns to waft our woes away!
And the memory will cheer me, though all other pleasures fly,
Of how I woke and needed extra covers in July.

                                Unknown.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. DCXXXI. Relics.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CLXXX. Songs.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DIX. Natural History.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. LIX. Tales.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Life's Joys.

I have been pondering what our teachers call
    The mystery of Pain; and lo! my thought
    After it's half-blind reaching out has caught
This truth and held it fast. We may not fall
    Beyond our mounting; stung by life's annoy,
    Deeper we feel the mystery of Joy.

Sometimes they steal across us like a breath
    Of Eastern perfume in a darkened room,
    These joys of ours; we grope on through the gloom
Seeking some common thing, and from its sheath
    Unloose, unknowing, some bewildering scent
    Of spice-thronged memories of the Orient.

Sometimes they dart across our turbid sky
    Like a quick flash after a heated day.
    A moment, where the sombrous shadows lay
We see a glory. Though it passed us by
    No earthly power can filch that ...

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Mid-August

From the upland hidden,
Where the hill is sunny
Tawny like pure honey
In the August heat,
Memories float unbidden
Where the thicket serries
Fragrant with ripe berries
And the milk-weed sweet.

Like a prayer-mat holy
Are the patterned mosses
Which the twin-flower crosses
With her flowerless vine;
In fragile melancholy
The pallid ghost flowers hover
As if to guard and cover
The shadow of a shrine.

Where the pine-linnet lingered
The pale water searches,
The roots of gleaming birches
Draw silver from the lake;
The ripples, liquid-fingered,
Plucking the root-layers,
Fairy like lute players
Lulling music make.

O to lie here brooding
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At Belvoir

My thoughts go back to last July,
Sweet happy thoughts and tender;
The bridal of the earth and sky,
A day of noble splendour;
A day to make the saddest heart
In joy a true believer;
When two good friends we roamed apart
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A maiden like a budding rose,
Unconscious of the golden
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Deep in her heart infolden;
A Poet old in years and thought,
Yet not too old for pleasance,
Made young again and fancy-fraught
By such a sweet friend's presence.

The other two beyond our ken
Most shamefully deserted,
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Their stealthy steps averted:
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There's Joy, &C.

There's joy when the rosy morning floods
    The purple east with light,
When the zephyr sweeps from a thousand buds
    The pearly tears of night.
There's joy when the lark exulting springs
    To pour his matin lay,
From the blossomed thorn when the blackbird sings,
    And the merry month is May.

There's joy abroad when the wintry snow
    Melts as it ne'er had been,
When cowslips bud and violets blow,
    And leaves are fresh and green.
There's joy in the swallow's airy flight,
    In the cuckoo's blithesome cry,
When the floating clouds reflect the light
    Of evening's glowing sky.

There's joy in April's balmy showers
    'Mid gleam of sunshine shed,
When May calls forth a thousand flowers
    To deck the earth's green bed.

Susanna Moodie

Weariness.

This April sun has wakened into cheer
    The wintry paths of thought, and tinged with gold
    These threadbare leaves of fancy brown and old.
This is for us the wakening of the year
    And May's sweet breath will draw the waiting soul
    To where in distance lies the longed-for goal.

The summer life will still all questioning,
    The leaves will whisper peace, and calm will be
    The wild, vast, blue, illimitable sea.
And we shall hush our murmurings, and bring
    To Nature, green below and blue above,
    A whole life's worshipping, a whole life's love.

We will not speak of sometime fretting fears,
    We will not think of aught that may arise
    In future hours to cloud our golden skies.
Some souls there are who love their woes and tears,

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Heaven Is But The Hour

Eyes wide for wisdom, calm for joy or pain,
Bright hair alloyed with silver, scarcely gold.
And gracious lips flower pressed like buds to hold
The guarded heart against excess of rain.
Hands spirit tipped through which a genius plays
With paints and clays,
And strings in many keys -
Clothed in an aura of thought as soundless as a flood
Of sun-shine where there is no breeze.
So is it light in spite of rhythm of blood,
Or turn of head, or hands that move, unite -
Wind cannot dim or agitate the light.
From Plato's idea stepping, wholly wrought
From Plato's dream, made manifest in hair,
Eyes, lips and hands and voice,
As if the stored up thought
From the earth sphere
Had given down the being of your choice
Conjured by the dream long sought.

  ...

Edgar Lee Masters