HEART-ROOM, a poem

THE heart has room for gladness,
     None for joyless things and dull;
Such a very little sadness
     Fills it over-full.
So, with boundless space for loving,
     Enmity it deems excess,
Just a little hatred proving
     Too great bitterness.

"Heart-Room" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Poems (1916) Volume II.

On Alexander III of Russia

TO THE TSAR (1890)

O THOU into whose human hand is given
     A godlike might! who, for thy earthly hour,
Above reproof, self-counseled and self-shriven,
     Wieldest o'er regions vast despotic power!
               Mortal, who by a breath,
     A look, a hasty word, as soon forgot,
Commandest energies of life and death!—
Midst terrors dread, that darkly multiply,
     Wilt thou thy vision blind, and listen not
Whilst unto Heaven ascends thy people's cry?

In vain, in vain!  The injuries they speak
     Down unto final depths their souls have stirr'd:
The aged plead through them, the childish-weak,
     The mad, the dying,—and they shall be heard!
               Thou wilt not hear them; but,
     Though Heaven were hedged about with walls of stone,
And though with brazen gates forever shut,
And sentried 'gainst petitions of despair,
     'T were closely guarded as thy fearful throne,
That cry of helpless wrong should enter there!

O Majesty!  'T is great to be a king,
     But greater is it yet to be a man!
The exile by far Lena perishing,
     The captive in Kara who bears thy ban,
               Ransomed at length and free,
     Shall rise from torments that make heroes strong;
Shall rise, as equal souls, to question thee;
And for defense there nothing shall endure
     Of all which to thy lofty state belong,
Save that thou hast of human, brave, and pure!

Cæsar, thou still art man, and serv'st a King
     Who wields a power more terrible than thine!
Slow, slow to anger, and long-suffering,
     He hears his children cry, and makes no sign:
               He hears them cry, but, oh!
     Imagine not his tardy judgments sleep,
Or that their agonies He doth not know
Who, hidden, waste where tyrants may not see!
     Eternal watch He over them doth keep,—
Eternal watch,—and Russia shall be free!

"To the Tsar (1890)" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Century Magazine (January 1890) and Poems (1898).

Funeral of Alexander III

ALEXANDER III

(LIVADIA, NOVEMBER 1, 1894)

THE world in mourning for a Russian Tsar!
     A despot of the nineteenth century
     Mourned by the nations that have made men free!
     Ye captives of his rule! where'er ye be,
Whether in dungeons or in mines afar—
Wretches who mourn, yet mourn not for the Tsar,—
     Forgive the tears that seem a wrong to grief
     Barren of comfort and without relief;
The Tsar was Russia's martyr—as ye are!

He asked for peace, and she ordained him strife.
     A Slav of simple heart, disliking show,
     She bade him every lowly hope forego;
     And placing on his brow her crown of woe,
Gave him a sovereignty with perils rife,
And 'neath his sceptre hid the assassin's knife.
     So, masked as Fear, she broke his nerves of steel
     Upon the circle of her racking wheel,
And set a horror at his door of life!

Humanity but sorrows for her own;
     The Autocrat she mourns not, but the man,
     Who, loving Russia, lived beneath her ban,
     Powerless to soften fate or change the plan
That called him all unwilling to a throne,
Hereditary evils to atone.
     She mourns not Cæsar, but the pathos old
     Of a quick conscience driven to uphold
A dynasty the world had long outgrown.

Omitted from the 1916 version (rendered above), the 1898 rendering of this poem includes the following last stanza:

Woe to the Tsar!—Livadia's cannon boom,
     Proclaiming that the Tsar from woe is free!
     Peace to the Tsar! but, Russia, woe to thee!
     Still he who rules thee shall thy victim be,
Tortured by griefs that shall his heart consume,
Till he and thou, risen as from the tomb,
     Shall see the light on Liberty's calm face,
     Shall know that tyranny must yield its place
To the great spirit that hath breathed its doom!

"Alexander III" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

SIBERIA, a poem

THE night-wind drives across the leaden skies,
     And fans the brooding earth with icy wings;
     Against the coast loud-booming billows flings,
And soughs through forest-deeps with moaning sighs.
Above the gorge, where snow, deep-fallen lies,
     A softness lending e'en to savage things—
     Above the gelid source of mountain springs,
A solitary eagle, circling, flies.

O pathless woods, O isolating sea,
     O steppes interminable, hopeless, cold,
O grievous distances, imagine ye,
     Imprisoned here, the human soul to hold?
Free, in a dungeon,—as yon falcon free,—
     It soars beyond your ken its loved ones to enfold!

"Siberia" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Century Magazine (March 1889), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

THE CHRIST OF THE ANDES, a poem

FAR, far the mountain-peak from me
Where lone he stands, with look caressing;
     Yet from the valley, wistfully
     I lift my dreaming eyes, and see
His hand stretched forth in blessing.

     Never bird sings nor blossom blows
Upon that summit chill and breathless
     Where throned he waits amid the snows;
     But from his presence wide outflows
Love that is warm and deathless!

     O Symbol of the great release
From war and strife!—unfailing fountain
     To which we turn for joy's increase,
     Fain would we climb to heights of Peace—
Thy peace upon the mountain!

"The Christ of the Andes" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

BUFFALO, a poem

McKinley assassination
Wikimedia Commons

On 6 September 1901, President William McKinley was shot and fatally wounded by an anarchist in Buffalo, New York.

SEPTEMBER 6, 1901

 A TRANSIENT city, marvelously fair,—
     Humane, harmonious, yet nobly free,—
     She built for pure delight and memory.
At her command, by lake and garden rare,
Pylon and tower majestic rose in air,
     And sculptured forms of grace and symmetry.
     Then came a thought of God, and, reverently,—
"Let there be Light!" she said; and Light was there.

O miracle of splendor! Who could know
     That Crime, insensate, egoist and blind,
          Destructive, causeless, caring but to smite,
     Would in its dull Cimmerian gropings find
A sudden way to fill those courts with woe,
     And swallow up that radiance in night?

"Buffalo" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Independent (10 October 1901), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

McKINLEY

Peace!—mourn no more the martyr's fate!
Death came—though by the hand of hate,
His faithful life to vindicate,
     His name to set apart.
No more assailed, misunderstood,
He sleeps where love his grave hath strewed,
Safe sentinelled by gratitude,—
     The memory of the heart.

"McKinley" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Era (October 1901).

INDIAN-PIPE, a poem

IN the heart of the forest arising,
     Slim, ghostly, and fair,
Ethereal offspring of moisture,
     Of earth and of air;
With slender stems anchored together
     Where first they uncurl,
Each tipped with its exquisite lily
     Of mother-of-pearl;
Mid the pine-needles, closely enwoven
     Its roots to embale,—
The Indian-pipe of the woodland,
     Thrice lovely and frail!

Is this but an earth-springing fungus—
     This darling of Fate
Which out of the mouldering darkness
     Such light can create?
Or is it the spirit of Beauty,
     Here drawn by love's lure
To give to the forest a something
     Unearthy and pure:
To crystallize dewdrop and balsam
     And dryad-lisped words
And starbeam and moonrise and rapture
     And song of wild birds?

"Indian-Pipe" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Harper's Monthly Magazine (March 1909), Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

JEWEL-WEED, a poem

THOU lonely, dew-wet mountain road,
     Traversed by toiling feet each day,
What rare enchantment maketh thee
     Appear so gay?

Thy sentinels, on either hand
     Rise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir,
O'er the familiar shrubs that greet
     The wayfarer;

But here's a magic cometh new—
     A joy to gladden thee, indeed:
This passionate out-flowering of
     The jewel-weed,

That now, when days are growing drear,
     As Summer dreams that she is old,
Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells
     Of mottled gold!

Thine only, these, thou lonely road!
     Though hands that take, and naught restore,
Rob thee of other treasured things,
     Thine these are, for

A fairy, cradled in each bloom,
     To all who pass the charmèd spot
Whispers in warning: "Friend, admire,—
     But touch me not!

"Leave me to blossom where I sprung,
     A joy untarnished shall I seem;
Pluck me, and you dispel the charm
     And blur the dream!"

"Jewel-Weed" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Bellman (16 May 1914) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

GIVE ME NOT LOVE, a poem

GIVE me not love that would enthrall
     A spirit panting to be free;
But give me love which more than all
     Would find it sweet to soar with me!
The bird that close to earth doth cling,
May, darkling, be content to sing,
But full the sunlight shines afar—
And there be heights where eagles are.

Give me not love which hour by hour,
     Like to the rose, doth pale its hue;
But love still constant as the flower
     That opens to each morn anew;
Not love which, shadowed by the tomb,
A little space doth languid bloom,
But love that draws its deeper breath
From altitudes that know not death.

"Give Me Not Love" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Atlantic Monthly (June 1903), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

PER ASPERA, a poem

THANK God, a man can grow!
     He is not bound
With earthward gaze to creep along the ground:
Though his beginnings be but poor and low,
Thank God, a man can grow!
The fire upon his altars may burn dim,
     The torch he lighted may in darkness fail,
     And nothing to rekindle it avail,—
Yet high beyond his dull horizon's rim,
Arcturus and the Pleiads beckon him.

"Per Aspera" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Atlantic Monthly (December 1906) and in Poems (1916) Volume I.

BE THOU MY GUIDE, a poem

BE Thou my guide, and I will walk in darkness
     As one who treads the beamy heights of day,
Feeling a gladness amid desert sadness,
     And breathing vernal fragrance all the way.

Be Thou my wealth, and, reft of all besides Thee,
     I will forget the strife for meaner things,
Blest in the sweetness of thy rare completeness,
     And opulent beyond the dream of kings.

Be Thou my strength, O lowly One and saintly!
     And, though unvisioned ills about me throng,
Though danger woo me and deceit pursue me,
     Yet in the thought of Thee I will be strong!

"Be Thou My Guide" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (December 1892), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

DEATH, a poem

I AM the key that parts the gates of Fame;
I am the cloak that covers cowering Shame;
I am the final goal of every race;
I am the storm-tossed spirit's resting-place:

The messenger of sure and swift relief,
Welcomed with wailings and reproachful grief;
The friend of those that have no friend but me,
I break all chains, and set all captives free.

I am the cloud that, when Earth's day is done,
An instant veils an unextinguished sun;
I am the brooding hush that follows strife,
The waking from a dream that Man calls—Life!

"Death" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Century Magazine (August 1888), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

THERE'S A SPOT IN THE MOUNTAINS, a poem

Pasted into a copy of Poems (1916) Volume I inscribed by
Mrs. Coates to Amos N. Wilder (brother of Thornton Wilder)
August 30, 1923.

"Camp Elsinore" was the Coates' "spot in the mountains" where they would escape the heat of Philadelphia summers. Located by the Upper St. Regis Lake in the Adirondacks, the environment served as inspiration for much of Florence Earle Coates' nature poetry. Also located nearby was "Camp Katia" and "Camp Cobblestone" (on Spitfire Lake)—owned and built by her brother, George H. Earle, Jr.

THERE'S a spot in the mountains, where the dew, dear,
     Is laden with the odours of the pine,
Where the heavens seem unbounded, and their blue, dear,
     Is deepest where it mirrored seems to shine.

There, at morn and eve, with rapture old and new, dear,
     The thrushes sing their double song divine,
And the melody their voices breathe, of you, dear,
     Speaks ever to this happy heart of mine.

There's a cabin in the mountains, where the fare, dear,
     Is frugal as the cheer of Arden blest;
But contentment sweet and fellowship are there, dear,
     And Love, that makes the feast he honors—best!

There's a lake upon the mountains, where our boat, dear,
     Moves gayly up the stream or down the tide,
Where, amid the scented lily-buds afloat, dear,
     We dream the dream of Eden as we glide!

"There's a Spot in the Mountains" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Book News Monthly (October 1905), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

Camp Elsinore
View more images at Wikimedia Commons

HEIMWEH, a poem

THE birds returning seem so glad
     As from the South they come,
They teach my heart, forlorn and sad,
     How distant is my home:
O'er land and sea wild roaming free,
     They little understand—
Glad nomads—that there is for me
     One home—one only Land!

And yonder dancing rivulet
     That merrily on doth go,
Humming a tune I 'd fain forget,
     Adds something to my woe:
Ah, had it but a thought for me
     'T would either now be dumb,
Or it would croon a melody
     Less dear to me at home!

Fond memories of days of yore!—
     My heart so hungereth,
The smell of upland clover or
     The dew-wet violet's breath
Might quickly fill it with delight;
     But exiled here I roam,
And dread, beyond all else, to-night,
     The scents that speak of home!

"Heimweh" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Harper's Bazar (September 1911) and The Unconquered Air (1912).

CENDRILLON, a poem

        I  AM a dream,
        A fairy gleam
     Of rose and amethyst;
A creature of the moonlight and the mist,
Woven of stars that, meeting, silent kissed.
     Think of me as a dream!

I am a note of melody that woke
Within your breast, and to your longing spoke:
          A lonely strain
          Of ecstasy and pain;
     A hope that, glimpsed, must fade;
     A form, illusion made,
That, vanishing, shall come no more again!

     Regret me not that I
     Must like to music die!
        The virgin rose,
In blossoming, hastes to its fragrant close,
And whatsoe'er this magic hour I seem,
I am enchantment, only, and a dream,—
     Love always is a dream!

"Cendrillon" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Harper's Monthly Magazine (August 1912), The Unconquered Air (1912) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

WHO WALKS THE WORLD WITH SOUL AWAKE, a poem

The Good Samaritan (pre-1904)
by George Frederic Watts

WHO walks the world with soul awake
     Finds beauty everywhere;
Though labor be his portion,
     Though sorrow be his share,
He looks beyond obscuring clouds,
     Sure that the light is there!

And if, the ills of mortal life
     Grown heavier to bear,
Doubt come with its perplexities
     And whisper of despair,
He turns with love to suffering men—
     And, lo! God, too, is there.

"Who Walks the World with Soul Awake" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Outlook (2 August 1913) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

"ASK WHAT YOU WILL", a poem

Mrs. Coates with her niece, Florence Earle Johnson
Photo courtesy of Florence Earle Morrisey

ASK what you will, I must obey your hest!
Thus much, my lady-bird, seems manifest
     To you and me, who well each other know.
     What you, small tyrant, beg, I must bestow.
Come; falter not, but proffer your request!

Is it the flower I wear here on my breast?
My favorite nag? The book I love the best?
     Some dainty gown? Some brooch or necklace? No?
          Ask what you will!

See how the sun, down-sinking to his rest,
Gilds with his glory all the roseate west!
     I linger on, in life's chill afterglow.
     Nay; smile, beloved!—like your mother—so!
Stay but a moment! Now—my own! my blest!
          Ask what you will!

"Ask What You Will" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Century Magazine (August 1902), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

JAMES McNEILL WHISTLER, a poem

James McNeill Whistler (self portrait)
(1834-1903)

GREATEST of modern painters, he is dead!—
     Whistler, in whom death seemed to have no part:
     He of the nimble wit and jocund heart,
Who sipped youth's nectar at the fountain-head,
And felt its wine through all his veins run red:
     Who worshiped the ideal—not the mart,
     And blessed the world with an imperial Art,
Whereby who longs for beauty may be fed!

When things men deem momentous are forgot,
Laurels will bloom for him that wither not;
     And Death's inverted torch shall fail to smother
The light of genius, tender and sublime,
Which with austere restraint, and for all time,
     Painted the gentle portrait of the "Mother"!

"James McNeill Whistler" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (November 1903), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

Whistler's Mother (1871), or Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1

THE WHITE-THROATED SPARROW, a poem

"When the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows."

WOULD you feel the witching spell
     Of the whitethroat, listen!
There are secrets he can tell
Of the marsh, and of the dell
     Where the dewdrops glisten.

Poet of the brooding pine
     And the feathery larches,
Dawn-lit summits seem to shine,
Lucent in each throbbing line,
     Under azure arches.

All his soul a floating song,—
     Sweet, too sweet for sadness,—
At his bidding, hither throng
Memories that make us long
     With a plaintive gladness.

Ah, were all the woodland bare,
     Should those notes but quiver,
Straight I'd see it budding fair!—
And the lilies would be there,
     Floating on the river!

"The White-throated Sparrow" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (July 1911), The Unconquered Air (1912) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

THE IDEAL, a poem

"Not the treasures is it that have awakened in me so-unspeakable a desire, but the Blue Flower is what I long to behold."—Novalis.

SOMETHING I may not win attracts me ever,—
     Something elusive, yet supremely fair,
Thrills me with gladness, but contents me never,
     Fills me with sadness, yet forbids despair.

It blossoms just beyond the paths I follow,
     It shines beyond the farthest stars I see,
It echoes faint from ocean caverns hollow,
     And from the land of dreams it beckons me.

It calls, and all my best, with joyful feeling,
     Essays to reach it as I make reply;
I feel its sweetness o'er my spirit stealing,
     Yet know ere I attain it I must die!

"The Ideal" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Atlantic Monthly (May 1891), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

CIVILIZATION, a poem

OLD as the race of man,
     Young as the child new-born,
From glooms Plutonian
     I mount to paths of morn;
And as I move o'er vale and hill,
     Before me flees the night,
For on into the darkness still
     I bear my light.

The desert stayed me long
     Its fancied worth to tell;
The savage, subtle and strong,
     Opposed me, and he fell:
But the savage learned from conflict past
     To battle and succeed,
And the foolish desert came at last
     To bloom indeed.

I halt not for the maimed,
     I wait not for the blind;
My foot is never lamed,
     Whoe'er may laugh behind:
I hasten on, like the wind of God,
     To the conquest He ordains:
Parting the human from the clod,
     Undoing chains.

The thing that hindereth
     My progress as I pass,
Is withered in my breath
     Like parchèd summer grass.
I hasten on, like the wind of God,
     That must unfettered blow,
Wooing the blossom from the sod
     Where'er I go.

I taught the Hindoo throng
     To worship: I awoke
The Pyrrhic phalanx strong,
     To break the Persian yoke:
I set great Pharaoh's captives free,
     The Tarquin's pride down-hurled,
And in a child of Galilee,
     O'ercame the world!

"Civilization" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

BEREFT, a poem

DEATH took away from me my heart's desire,—
     Full suddenly, without a word of warning;
Froze with benumbing touch her body's fire,
     And darkened her young morning.

Death hid her then where she is safe, men say,—
     Imprisoned in a deep-digged grave and hollow,
Where grief and pain may never find a way,
     Nor any torment follow.

Safe!—and because of fear, they deem 't was best
     For her, perchance,—this thing which they call dying,
But cold she could not be against my breast
     As there where she is lying!

Sometimes I dream, with sudden, wild delight,
     That she escapes the cruel bonds that bind her,
And fond I seek through all the throbbing night,
     But never, never find her!

Sometimes—But have the dead then no regrets?—
     Ah, me! I think, though she hath so bereft me,
My loved one cannot be where she forgets
     How lonely she hath left me!

"Bereft" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Reader (June 1907), Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

IN THE OFFING, a poem

THE Ship of the Spring in the offing at last!
     Oh, rude blew the hindering gales,
But perfumes entrancing, the danger o'erpast,
     Are wafted afar, from her sails!

The bearer of treasure more fragrant than myrrh—
     More precious than jewels of Inde,
The stars in their courses keep watch over her,
     The gods for her temper the wind.

She comes as a maid whom life's vision elates,
     Out-spreading her draperies white;
She comes as a bride whom a lover awaits
     With proud and impatient delight.

A queen, as she glides to the goal of her dreams
     With movement majestic and slow,
So still is her beauty, half-conscious she seems,—
     But the heart in her breast is aglow;

For she hears the far murmur of myriad things
     That shall at her coming have birth.
O sails in the offing! ye are as the wings
     Of angels that bring her to Earth!

"In the Offing" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Minaret (May 1917).

BROOK SONG: TO THE SPRING, a poem

O BEAUTY! vision of forgotten gladness!
     Fulfillment of a dream that ne'er betrays!
O miracle of hope, and balm of sadness!
     Creative ecstasy and fount of praise!

     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·

I lay upon the ground and gave no token,
     I hid my face mid sodden leaves and sere,
My languid pulses chill, my spirit broken,—
     I knew not, O divine one! you were near;

For snows and frosts of winter, new-departed,
     Still held my will in thrall and weighed me down;
And I forgot—forlorn and heavy-hearted—
     Your promise, goddess of the violet crown!

But soft as music in remembrance sighing,
     You fanned me with your wooing breath, and I
Who shed no tears when lone I seemed and dying
     Wept at your touch, and knew I should not die.

Now by my banks are tender blossoms blowing:
     In fragrant loveliness they smile on me,—
But I must hasten to the river, knowing
     The river will lead onward to the sea.

High over me the budding branches quiver
     With songs that swell in happy harmony;
But sweeter is the murmur of the river,—
     The river that leads onward to the sea!

"Brook Song: To the Spring" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Outlook (6 May 1899), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

SHE WILL NOT HEAR, a poem

SHE will not hear you if you sing,
Bluebird and whitethroat of the Spring!
Why did you stay away so long,
She wearying for your song?

She will not notice if you pass,
Sweet airs that woo the meadow grass!
Why could you not have spread, more fleet,
Soft carpet for her feet?

She will not see the crocus rise,
Nor smile into the violet's eyes;
Pale dogwood bloom from Winter snow
My darling will not know.

You come too late! too late, too late,
O longed-for Spring! She tried to wait,
Wistful your breathing joys to share.
Come now,—she will not care!

"She will not hear" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Outlook (5 May 1915) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

IMMORTAL, a poem

LIFE is like a beauteous flower,
     Closing to the world at even,—
Closing for a dreamless hour,
     To unfold, with dawn, on heaven.

Life is like a bird that nests
     Close to earth, no shelter scorning,
Yet, upmounting from her breast,
     Fills the skies with song at morning.

"Immortal" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (October 1894), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

EVERY HEART, a poem

WHEN wintry wells are water-filled,
And killing Death itself is killed,
Then wingèd things begin to build;
And maids and men with happy birds do sing,
For every heart's a lover in the spring!

When brooklets ripple into song,
And strivings faint of life grow strong,
Then all things 'gin to dream and long;
And maids and men with wistful birds do sing,
For every heart's a poet in the spring!

"Every Heart" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Poems (1916) Volume I.

RHAPSODY, a poem

AS the mother-bird to the waiting nest
     As the regnant moon to the sea,
As joy to the heart that hath first been blest—
     So is my love to me!

Sweet as the song of the lark that soars
     From the net of the fowler free,
Sweet as the morning that song adores—
     So is my love to me!

As the rose that blossoms in matchless grace
     Where the canker may not be,
As the well that springs in a desert place—
     So is my love to me!

"Rhapsody" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

"Pour Prendre Conge" and UNBIDDEN, a poem

Calling card of Florence Earle Coates

On 1 May 1899, Mrs. Coates inscribes a copy of Poems (1898) to Mrs. G. Oram Ring (Elizabeth Clendenning Ring), to include two lines from her poem "India." Also within the volume is a calling card, likely left in parting from a gathering at the Ring's home. Mrs. Coates states that "Unbidden [posted below] is far too long to write in your book, but I shall hope to send it to you some day. Lovingly, F.E.C." The poem would later be published in Coates' 1904 book of verse, Mine and Thine, spanning seven pages. At the time, the Coates' lived at 5321 Baynton (formerly Hancock) Street in Germantown, PA ("Willing Terrace"—where a man's "worth is warrant for his welcome"). Around 1908, they moved into the city residing at 2024 Spruce Street.

Image courtesy of Florence Earle Morrisey

Elizabeth Clendenning Ring would write a biographical piece about Mrs. Coates entitled "Florence Earle Coates: Some Phases of Her Life and Poetry." It was published in the December 1917 issue of Book News Monthly.

UNBIDDEN

AS shakes the breast of giant Kaf
     When Allah's thunders near resound,
So nations quail before my wrath,
And shudder at its sound.

     The broad Euphrates bears my name
To Oman's waves triumphantly;
The lordly Indus sings my fame
To the wondering Indian sea.

     For me Khorasan tempers steel,
The Turkoman rears matchless steeds;
Azerbijan grows me her wine,
And luscious fruit for summer needs;
My peacock throne burns like a gem,
And stars blaze in my diadem.

     The mighty vie to honor me:
Kings at my table humbly sit,
And tributary satraps fret
When banished over-long from it.

     What then have I to do with thoughts
That blanch the cheek and chill the blood?
Some wretched slave may quake and start,
Who hast'ning through Ghilan's lone wood,
Hears ravening jackals distant howl,—
But I?  Nay, who doth not revere
The brazen doors my guards defend?
Who dares, unsummoned, enter here?

     Shall baseless terrors mock my peace,
And chide desired Sleep away?
Forbidding her to close mine eyes,
Tormenting me when I would pray?
The years are long; yet time hath sped,
And Earth forgets what once she knew,
For hidden far beneath her view,
The grasses wave above my dread.

     The guests attend me. Wake, my will!
Put off this garb of sullen gloom!
The dead may neither wound nor blight;
And vengeance slumbers in the tomb.
Be thou but firm, and all's secure:
Match well thy purpose to the hour,
Nor babble what is voiceless still,—
Not Eblis shall abase thy power!

     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·

     Heard you a knocking then, my lords?
No?—and the wind, you think, sounds so?
To me 't was as a stroke of doom,
Reverberate from some long ago.

     Well, since 't was nothing, speed the cheer!
Nor sit like phantoms dull and mute,
For something which ye did not hear.

     Ye thought me weary?  So: and then?
Am I not mortal like the rest?
May I not falter in my mirth,
Nor palsy every guest? . . .

     That knocking!—Ah! you note it now.
It vexed me men should disallow
A sound more dread than frenzy's shriek,—
And prate of a wind-blown bough!

     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·

     Thine errand, sirrah!  Who's without
That may not be denied?
A stranger? And thou darest bring
His hests unbidden before thy king?

     A stranger? Though his need be stout,
And stubborn as his pride,
Is 't here that he should seek our face?
Command him to the appointed place,
And those who should provide!

     Ha! answerest thou? Not be denied?—
Grows life so worthless then?—
Go drive him hence, thou tiresome knave!
. . . Friends, to our feast again!
     This imbecile hath broke the cheer;
But day is distant yet,
And ere her joyless flags appear,
We'll pay mad pleasure's debt.

     Drink to all revels—foes to thought!
Drink, drink to poppy-trances deep!
And since from some sleep holds aloof,
To oblivion drink!—the dreamless sleep.

     Again that sound affronts the air!
Ill-omened wretch, proclaim thy care—
My soul thy pallor hates!
What hounds thee back?  Whence, whence this din?
The stranger?  He hath passed the gates—
And waiteth there—within?

     And waiteth there? . . . Admit him then:
Who hunts the panther to his den
Flies not the panther's rage.
. . . Fool! fool! Thou deem’st it wise to beard
Our fury? . . . Gods! the face I feared!

     At height of bloom, so cometh blight.
Avaunt! avaunt, thou withering sight!
Eternal pains begin:
I swoon to Hell's abysmal night,—
Ah, horror!—Back, my Sin!

"Unbidden" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Mine and Thine (1904).

INTERCHANGE, a poem

THE oriole sang in the apple tree;
     The sick girl lay on her bed, and heard
     The tremulous note of the glad wild bird;
And, "Ah!" she sighed, "to share with thee
     Life's rapture exquisite and strong:
Its hope, its eager energy,
     Its fragrance and its song!"

The oriole swayed in the apple tree,
     And he sang: "I will build, with my love, a nest,
     Fine as e'er welcomed a birdling guest:
Like a pendant blossom, secure yet free,
     It shall hang from the bough above me there,
Bright, bright with the gold that is combed for me
     From the sick girl's auburn hair!"

So he built the nest in the apple tree;
     And, burnished over, a ball of light,
     It gleamed and shone in the sick girl's sight,
And she gazed upon it wonderingly:
     But when the bird had forever flown,
They brought the nest from the apple tree
     To the bed where she lay alone.

"O builder of this mystery!"—
     The wide and wistful eyes grew dim,
     And the soul of the sick girl followed him—
"Dear bird! I have had part, through thee,
     In the life for which I long and long:
Have shared its hope, its energy,
     Its rapture and its song!"

"Interchange" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Harper's Monthly Magazine (November 1902), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

PENDANT NEST OF THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE
Wikimedia Commons

SONG, a poem

HER cheek is like a tinted rose
     That June hath fondly cherished,
Her heart is like a star that glows
     When day hath darkling perished,
Her voice is as a songbird's sweet,
     The drowsy wolds awaking—
But, ah, her love is past compare,
     And keeps my heart from breaking!

Lost sunbeams light her tresses free,
     Along their shadows gleaming!
Her smiles entangle memory
     And set the soul a-dreaming,
Her thoughts, like seraphs, upward soar,
     Earth's narrow bounds forsaking—
But, ah, her love abides with me
     And keeps my heart from breaking!

"Song" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (April 1892), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

MASEFIELD, a poem

On re-reading Gallipoli and the Sonnets

I thought on England in her tragic hour
     Of sacrifice supreme for human right;
     Beheld her bleeding, broken in the fight
With a massed tyranny's stupendous power;
And musing on far graves where lie her flower
     Of manhood, memory so dimmed my sight
     That I forgot the dawn that crowned her night—
The victory that was her valor's dower.

Then, even as I grieved, I saw once more
     How genius can atone and re-create:
How, by its own high gift, it can restore
     The Land that gives it birth to sovereign State,
Rekindling glories that it knew before,
     And deepening its life to life as great!

"Masefield" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The North American Review (May 1922).

INHERITOR, a poem

SAY not the gods are cruel,
     Since man himself is kind—
Man, who could give no tenderness
     If, impotent and blind,
He stretched appealing hands on high
     No tenderness to find,—

Who, wakened to compassion,
     No longer stands apart,
Careless of others' suffering,
     But, rather, shares the smart,
Because of pity drawn from out
     The Universal Heart,—

Who feels within him glowing
     A spark that dares aspire,
Flame-like, unto supernal things,
     With never-quenched desire,
And knows that Heaven bestowed on him
     A spark of its own fire!

"Inheritor" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Outlook (24 April 1909) and Lyrics of Life (1909).

The Creation of Adam
Michelangelo

SHAKESPEARE, a poem

O'ER-TOPPING all—upon how lone a height!—
     A demiurge beneficent, a seer
     Like his own Prospero, he doth appear,
'Mid clouds that half conceal him from our sight,
A being god-like in creative might:
     He who so very human was! so near
     To Nature that her voice through him we hear—
Her voice of truth and beauty infinite.

Shakespeare! With love and awe we breathe his name
Who needs not mortal praise! Deathless in fame,
     Far from our dull activities he seems;
But let us turn, a-wearied, from the strife,
To share with him the high adventure,—life,
     Straightway we feel the stirrings of Great Dreams!

"Shakespeare" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Poems (1916) Volume I.

NEAR AND FAR, a poem

For a beautiful reading of this poem—recorded on 21 March 2011 by Jannie Meisberger for Librivox.org—click on the title below as she gives voice to...

Photo by Ashley Bohm.

NEAR AND FAR
by Florence Earle Coates

THE air is full of perfume and the promise of the spring,
   From wintry mould the dainty blossoms come;
There's not a bird in all the boughs but's eager now to sing,
   And from afar a ship is sailing home!

The cherry-blooms, all lightly blown about the verdant sward,
   With silver fleck the dandelion's gold;
The jasmine and arbutus breathe the fragrance they have stored;
   The crumpled ferns, like faery tents, unfold.

And low the rills are laughing, and the rivers in the sun
   Are gliding on, impatient for the sea;
The wintry days are past and gone, the summer is begun,
   And love from far is sailing home to me!

Ah, blessed spring!—how far more sweet than any spring of yore!
   No note of all thy harmonies is dumb;
With thee my heart awakes to hope and happiness once more,—
   And from afar a ship is sailing home!

As rendered in Poems (1916) Vol. I; also published in Poems (1898).

IN A COLLEGE SETTLEMENT, a poem

THE sights and sounds of the wretched street
Oppressed me, and I said: "We cheat
     Our hearts with hope. Man sunken lies
In vice, and naught that's fair or sweet
     Finds further favor in his eyes.

"Vainly we strive, in sanguine mood,
To elevate a savage brood
     That, from the cradle, sordid, dull,
No longer has a wish for good,
     Or craving for the beautiful."

I said; but chiding my despair,
My wiser friend just pointed where,
     By some indifferent passer thrown
Upon a heap of ashes bare,
     The loose leaves of a rose were sown.

And I, 'twixt tenderness and doubt,
Beheld, while pity grew devout,
     A squalid and uneager child,
With careful fingers picking out
     The scentless petals, dust-defiled.

And straight I seemed to see a close,
With hawthorn hedged and brier-rose;
     And, bending down, I whispered, "Dear,
Come, let us fly, while no one knows,
     To the country—far away from here!"

Upon the little world-worn face
There dawned a look of wistful grace,
     Then came the question that for hours
Still followed me from place to place:
     "Real country, where you can catch flowers?"

"In a College Settlement" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Harper's Weekly (21 April 1894), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

AB HUMO, a poem

THE seedling hidden in the sod
     Were ill content immured to stay;
     Slowly it upward makes its way
And finds the light at last, thank God!

The most despised of mortal things—
     The worm devoid of hope or bliss,
     Discovers in the chrysalis
Too narrow space for urgent wings.

These are my kindred of the clay;
     But as I struggle from the ground
     Such weakness in my strength is found,
I seem less fortunate than they;

Yet though my progress be but slow,
     And failure oft obscure the past,
     I, too, victorious at last,
Shall reach the longed-for light, I know!

"Ab Humo" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Harper's Monthly Magazine (April 1905), Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

LOVE AND THE CHILD, a poem

LOVE came into the world and said:
"With the tender infant on this bed
     Shall be my home; I will impart
     The winning graces to its heart
That blessing in life's pathway spread."

So—for Love crooned its lullabies—
His own smile dawned within its eyes,
     And into its small being stole
     The laughing radiance of his soul,
And all its eager sympathies.

Unconscious as the flowers that bless—
A tiny flame of lovingness—
     To any palm it gave at once
     A dimpled hand, in quick response,
Nor what "a stranger" meant might guess.

That to distrust is often well,
It heard with smile ineffable.
     Then, on a morn, Love came to say:
     "Thou child of mine, come, come away!
In Paradise to dwell!"

"Love and the Child" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (April 1912), The Unconquered Air (1912) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

THEY TOLD ME, a poem

THEY told me: "Pan is dead—Nature is dead:
There is no God." I read
The words of Socrates, and then I read
Of Jesus; and I said:—
"Divinity's not dead!"

Good can nor poisoned be
Nor slain upon a tree:
The soul of good, escaping, still is free,
And in its ministry
Lives God eternally.

"They Told Me" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Unconquered Air (1912) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, a poem

"Eripuit cœlo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis."

FRANKLIN! our Franklin! America's loved son!—
     Loved in his day, and now, as few indeed:
Franklin! whose mighty genius allies won,
     To aid her in great need!

Franklin! with noble charm that fear allays,
     Tact, judgment, insight, humor naught could dim!—
"Antiquity," said Mirabeau, "would raise
     Altars to honor him!"

How should one country claim him, or one hour?
     Bound to no narrow circuit, and no time,
He is the World's—part of her lasting dower,
     One with her hope sublime.

His kindred are the equable and kind
     Whose constant thought is to uplift and bless;
The witty, and the wise, the large of mind,
     Who ignorance redress:

His kindred are the bold who, undismayed,
     Believe that good is ever within reach;
All who move onward—howsoe'er delayed—
     Who learn, that they may teach;

Who overcoming pain and weariness,
     In life's long battle bear a noble part;
All who, like him,—greatest of gifts!—possess
     The genius of the heart!

How should we praise whose deeds belittle praise,
     Whose monument perpetual is our land
Saved by his wisdom, in disastrous days,
     From tyranny's strong hand?—

How praise whose Titan-thought, beyond Earth's ken
     Aspiring, tamed the lightnings in revolt,
Subduing to the will of mortal men
     The awful thunderbolt?

Our debt looms larger than our love can pay:
     We know not with what homage him to grace
Whose name outlasts the monument's decay,—
     A glory to our race!

"Benjamin Franklin" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Reader (March 1906), Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

*"Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis": A line in Latin that Marquis Turgot wrote under a portrait of Franklin.  An English translation by James Elphinston (pre-1817): "He snatcht the bolt from Heaven's avenging hand, / Disarm'd and drove the tyrant from the land.

THROUGH THE RUSHES, a poem

THROUGH the rushes by the river
     Runs a drowsy tremor sweet,
And the waters stir and shiver
     In the darkness at their feet;
From the sombre east up-stealing,
Gradual, with slow revealing,
Comes the dawn, and with a sigh
          Night goes by.

Here and there, to mildest wooing,
     Folded buds are open-blown;
And the drops their leaves bedewing,
     Like to seed-pearls thickly sown,
Sinking, with the blessing olden,
Deep into each calyx golden,
A supreme behest obey,
          Then melt away.

And while robes of splendor trailing,
     Fitly deck the glowing morn,
And a fragrance, fresh exhaling,
     Greets her loveliness new-born,
Midst divine melodic voicings,
Midst delicious mute rejoicings,
Strong as when the worlds began,
          Awakens Pan!

"Through the Rushes" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Atlantic Monthly (March 1892), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

"Lycidas is dead, and hath not left his peer!"

Matthew Arnold

(1822-1888)

On this day...in 1888

Matthew Arnold dies

Six years after Matthew Arnold passed into "quiet realms Elysian," Florence Earle Coates dedicated her pen in tribute to her friend and mentor, Matthew Arnold—British poet and cultural critic.  Coates and Arnold first met in New York in 1883 at the home of Andrew Carnegie, and soon formed a lasting friendship.  Arnold's last letter to Mrs. Coates is dated February 24, 1888, in which he speaks of his remembrance of his last visit to Philadelphia, and of her tulip-trees and maples.

Matthew Arnold

by Florence Earle Coates

The Century Magazine, April 1894: 931-7.

IT is told of one of our poets that, when in England, he was asked who took Matthew Arnold's place in America, and he answered, "Matthew Arnold." The reply would still be just, and, excepting as he fills it, the place of Matthew Arnold must long continue vacant. Men of genius are not replaced, and if, dying, they leave their work half done, the loss is irreparable. But Arnold's message was delivered, whether in verse or prose, with an amplitude and distinctness to which few messages may lay claim, and is "full of foretastes of the morrow." [read more...]

Poems on the "Titanic"

Wikimedia Commons
RMS Titanic

THE BAND OF THE TITANIC
"These are the immortal,—the fearless"—Upanishads

UP, lads! they say we've struck a berg, though there's no danger yet,—
     Our noble liner was not built to wreck!—
But women may have felt a shock they're needing to forget,
     And when there's trouble, men should be on deck.

Come!—now's the time! They're wanting us to brighten them a bit;
     Play up, my lads—as lively as you can!
Give them a merry English air! they want no counterfeit
     Like that down-hearted tune you just began!...

I think the Captain's worried, lads: maybe the thing's gone wrong;
     Well, we will show them all is right with us!
Of Drake and the Armadas now we'll play them such a song
     Shall make them of the hero emulous.

When boats are being lowered, lads, your place and mine are here,—
     Oh, we were never needed more than now!
When others go, it is for us those left behind to cheer,
     And I am glad, my lads, that we know how!

If it is Death that's calling us, we'll make a brave response;
     Play up, play up!—ye may not play again;
The prize that Nelson won at last, the chance that comes but once,
     Is ours, my lads!—the chance to die like men!

"The Band of the Titanic" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (July 1912), The Unconquered Air (1912) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

THE "TITANIC"—AFTERMATH

O NATURE! overmastered by thy power,
Man is a hero still
And knighthood is in flower!
All save his tameless will
Thou can'st subdue by thine appalling might;
But failest utterly to quench his spirit's light.

Yea, though he seem, in conflict with thy strength,
A pygmy of the dust,
Heroic man, at length
Greater than thou, through trust,
Sovereign through something thou can'st not enslave,
Finds once again, in death, the life he scorned to save!

"The Titanic—Aftermath" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Unconquered Air (1912).

On 18 May 1912, the New York Times reports that Mr. and Mrs. Coates are among those aboard the S. S. Minnewaska en route to London.  This voyage would take place one month after the sinking of the Titanic.  Sometime between then and July 1912, Mrs. Coates would write "The Band of the Titanic." She would also pen "The Titanic—Aftermath" to be published in The Unconquered Air and Other Poems released in November of the same year.  The Coates' were likely headed to painter John McLure Hamilton's home in Murestead, Grove End Road, London, N. W., England, for it was there, during the summer of 1912, that Mr. Hamilton painted their portraits.

Edward H. Coates (1912)
by John McLure Hamilton

The Philadelphia Inquirer, on 10 November 1912, describes the portrait of Mrs. Coates (not shown) as possessing "to a marked degree the charm and vivacity of the sitter, and while it is not an unqualified success in the drawing of the head, the perspective of which is open to criticism, it resembles the curate's egg in the excellence of its parts.  The hands are sympathetic and really rather wonderful in their character."

INDIA, a poem

SILENT amidst unbroken silence deep
     Of dateless years, in loneliness supreme,
     She pondered patiently one mighty theme,
     And let the hours, uncounted, by her creep.
The motionless Himalayas, the broad sweep
     Of glacial cataracts, great Ganges' stream—
     All these to her were but as things that seem,
Doomed all to pass, like phantoms viewed in sleep

Her history? She has none—scarce a name.
     The life she lived is lost in the profound
          Of time, which she despised; but nothing mars
The memory that, single, gives her fame—
     She dreamed eternal dreams, and from the ground
          Still raised her yearning vision to the stars.

"India" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Century Magazine (November 1891), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

SURVIVAL, a poem

THE knell that dooms the voiceless and obscure
     Stills Memnon's music with its ghostly chime;
     Strength is as weakness in the clasp of Time,
And for the things that were there is no cure.
The vineyard with its fair investiture,
     The mountain summit with its hoary rime,
     The throne of Cæsar, Cheops' tomb sublime,
Alike decay, and only dreams endure.

Dreams for Assyria her worship won,
     And India is hallowed by her dreams;
The Sphinx with deathless visage views the race
     That like the lotus of a summer seems;
And, rudderless, immortally sails on
The wingèd Victory of Samothrace.

"Survival" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Atlantic Monthly (April 1893), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

NATURE, a poem

TO see thee, hear thee, wistful watch I keep—
     Mother, who in Immensity dost dwell—
A child who listens for the boundless deep,
     Her ear against a shell:

And vainly though I seek thy face to scan,
     Lost in the vasty temple where thou art,
Faint breathings of thy voice æolian
     Vibrate against my heart.

"Nature" by Florence Earle Coates. Published as "As from Afar" in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (November 1904) and Mine and Thine (1904), and as "Nature" in Poems (1916) Volume I.

On this day in 1895

Mrs. Coates is elected president of The Browning Society of Philadelphia.  She would serve as president from 1895 to 1903, and again from 1907 to 1908. See also President of the Browning Society of Philadelphia

Invitation to the 1895-96 Browning Society elections,
the year Mrs. Coates was elected president.

AT BREAK OF DAY, a poem

I THOUGHT that past the gates of doom,
     Where Orpheus played a strain divine
     Of love importunate as mine,
Unto the dwellings of the dead I came through paths of gloom.

Around me, looming dark through cloud,
     Vast walls arose whence mournful fell
     The shadow and the hush of hell;
And silence, brooding, palpable, enwrapped me like a shroud.

Naught blossomed there; in that chill place
     Where longing dwells divorced from hope,
     Naught to a joyless horoscope
Lent prophecies of future grace, but—I beheld thy face!

And I awoke,—songs trembling near,—
     Awoke and saw day's chariot pass
     Bright gleaming o'er the meadow-grass,
And knew this glad earth without thee, than realms of Death more drear!

"At Break of Day" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Century Magazine (April 1892), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

WITH BREATH OF SPRING, a poem

     THE air is full of balm, I know;
The winter vanished long ago.
In sheltered plots along the street
Crocus and tiny snowdrop meet,
And children skip about and play—
Rejoicing in the glad noonday—
Or loiter 'neath some budding bough
Where bird-notes will be warbled now—
          Outside the prison wall.

     The brook, by winter long enchained,
Flows through the meadow unrestrained;
The violet will blossom soon,
The moth will break from the cocoon;
And where the happy children sing,
The fledgling bird will try his wing,—
But, O my heart! the sunshine there!—
The grateful shade!—the boon, free air—
          Outside the prison wall!

"With Breath of Spring" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Era (April 1903) and Lyrics of Life (1909).

BREATHLESS WE STRIVE, a poem

Wordsworth's Dove Cottage, Grasmere, England
Wikimedia

BREATHLESS we strive, contending for success,
     According to the standards of our day.
     What is success? Is it to find a way
Wealth out of all proportion to possess?
Is it to care for simple pleasures less
     (While grasping at a more extended sway),
     And sacrificing to our gods of clay,
Submerge the soul, at last, in worldliness?

By Grasmere stands a cottage small and poor:
     The Dove was once its emblem, and the sign
That marked it as a wayside inn obscure;
But, frugal, dwelt high consecration here,
     And gratitude still guards it as a shrine,
Hallowed by that success which time but makes more dear!

"Breathless We Strive" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Century Magazine (September 1904), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

On this day in 1927: Florence Earle Coates dies

Church of the Redeemer
Bryn Mawr, PA
March, 2016

...They live indeed—the dead
By whose example we are upward led...

 
Florence Earle Coates died in Hahnemann Hospital, Philadelphia on 6 April 1927. In 1924 she "contracted a form of nephritis ["chronic interstitial nephritis" as per death certificate] which led to a cerebral hemorrhage and death three years later." (Notable American Women, 1607-1950: A Biographical Dictionary, 1971.) A funeral service announcement clipping found opposite p. 109 in a copy of The Unconquered Air (1912) states that her funeral would be held at her home on April 9th at 2:00 pm.  Within the same pages holds a note stating that Mrs. Coates' poem "Immortal" was read at the funeral service.

Mrs. Coates is buried in the churchyard of the Church of the Redeemer in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania next to her husband Edward Hornor Coates. The inscription on Mrs. Coates' headstone, "THEY LIVE INDEED—THE DEAD BY WHOSE EXAMPLE WE ARE UPWARD LED", is taken from a memorial poem she wrote for Eliza Sproat Turner (who died ca. 1903) entitled "In Memory." Florence's husband's inscription, "HIGH THOUGHT SEATED IN A HEART OF COURTESY," is based on Sir Philip Sydney's description of an honorable man and gentleman.

Digital drawing by Sonja N. Bohm