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

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

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."

SAINT THERESA, a poem

Therese von Avila (1615)
by Peter Paul Rubens

WEARY and long the winding way;
     Yet as I fare, to comfort me,
Still o'er and o'er I tell the beads
     Of love's perfected rosary.

The fire that once hath pierced the heart,
     If from above, must upward flame,
Nor falter till it find at last
     The burning fountain whence it came.

O fire of love within my breast—
     O pain that pleads for no surcease—
Fill me with fervor!—more and more,
     Give me thy passion and thy peace!

O love, that mounts to paths of day
     Untraversed by the soaring lark,
O love, through all the silent night
     A lamp to light the boundless dark,

O love, whose dearest pangs I bear,
     This heart—this wounded heart—transform!
That all who seek its shelter may
     There find a refuge safe and warm.

Were there no heaven of high reward,
     Man's service here to crown and bless,
Were there no hell,—I, for love's sake,
     Would toil with ardent willingness.

And if—O Thou that pitiest
     The fallen, lone, and tempest-tost!—
If, Love Divine, Thou wilt but save
     Whom I do love, none shall be lost!

"St. Theresa" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Outlook (5 January 1907), Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

Keywords: Teresa of Avila, Teresa of Jesus

EURYDICE, a poem

Orpheus and Eurydice (1806)
by Christian Gottlieb Kratzenstein-Stub
Wikimedia Commons

I HEAR thy voice!—
     Ah, love, I hear thy voice!
Faint as the sound of distant waters falling,
I hear thy voice above me calling, calling,—
And my imprisoned heart,
Long held from thee apart,
     Responsive thrills, half-tempted to rejoice.

     In Hades though I be,
Where the unnumbered dead abide
In uneventful, sunless eventide,
     I yet live on,—for thou rememberest me!
And like to far-off waters falling,
I hear thee, from the distance, calling,—
     Eurydice! Beloved Eurydice!

     In thy bright world I know,
     The firstlings of the Spring begin to blow:
Moss-violet and saffron daffodil
Their perfumes new distil,
And through the veiled elysian hours,—
Sweeter for wafted scent of citron-flowers,—
     Voices of nightingales soft come and go.

     The halcyon again
     Contented broods beside the quiet main;
The ringdove tells her wound
With throbbing breast, and undulating sound
Which still, thy passion wronging,
Awakes in thee the wilder, lonelier longing.
     And still my buried heart reflects thy pain!

     Of yore I had a dream:
I thought—the awful sentinel asleep—
     Thou, with that lyre divine, supreme,
Which first drew Argo downward to the deep,
     Entering here, where chains are never riven,
     Had with thy golden strain, Apollo given,
Taught Dis, the pitiless, himself, to weep:

     I had a dream of yore:
I thought Love, mightier than Death,
     Wide opened the inexorable door,
And offered me pure draughts of sun-warmed breath.
I saw thy form; trembling, I seemed to follow,—
When, sudden, to these rayless caverns hollow
     Fate caught me back—thee to behold no more!
     .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .

     Yet still I wait for thee!
     And thou wilt come!—wilt come—wilt come to me!
The hours delay; I make no moan,—
Apart from thee,—yet not alone,—
Sweeter than far-off music sighing,
I hear thy voice forever crying:—
     "Eurydice!—lost, lost Eurydice!"

"Eurydice" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lyrics of Life (1909), Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (March 1910, as "Che Faro Senza Eurydice!") and Poems (1916) Volume II.

BEETHOVEN, a poem

Bust statue of Ludwig van Beethoven
by Hugo Hagen. Photographed in 1898.

HE cursed the day that he was born:
     And deaf and desolate,
Resolved, in bitterness forlorn,
     To end his hapless fate.

But as the deeper silence grew,—
     An exile from the throng,
His yearning spirit voices drew
     From inner founts of song;

And he who called unfriendly death
     To calm rebellious strife,
Won from his own despair the breath
     Of an immortal life.

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

THE RETURN OF PROSERPINE, a poem

The Return of Persephone (1891)
by Frederic Leighton

TO welcome her the Mother wakes
     The myriad music of her rills,
And trims the border of her lakes
     With sun-lit daffodils:
Softly she counterpanes the leas,
     With primrose-bloom bedecks the vales,
     While answering her wooing gales
Come ruby-pied anemones;
And as her wintry doubts depart,
     And brightening hopes foretell the morrow,
Such happiness o'erflows her heart
     There 's left no room for sorrow!

"The Return of Proserpine" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Unconquered Air (1912) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

ADONIS, a poem

Venus Lamenting the Death of Adonis (1655-1657)
by Luigi Primo

LOVE is dying; lay him low;
Pile the blossoms for his bed:
     Here, where languid poppies blow,
Pillow soft his beauteous head!
Let their dream-breath float around him,
Even as my arms enwound him—
     In the summer, long ago!

     Say not it was yesterday!
Hours have been as years since then!
     And shall rapture, fled away,
Never more return again?
Love, with throbbing heart of fire,—
     Love, with thrilling voice and low,—
Hast thou quenchèd fond desire
     In this breast of snow?

     Then, O Death! I cry to you
From my grief immortal:
     Goddess kind—of all most true—
Ope to me your portal!
In your calm my senses steep;
     Close mine eyes, from tears grown dim;
Give me sleep—I ask but sleep—
     In the grave, with him.

     Can it be that flowers will spring
Where all lifeless love shall lie?
     Can it be that birds will sing,
Though Adonis die?

     Never earthly bloom, I wis,
With his beauty could compare;
     Never voice was sweet as his
Who lieth there;
And, thou blue Idalian sky,
     Thou didst smile upon our lot,
And I knew my love must die,—
     But believed it not!

     Whither now to take my way?
If I seek on mountains bare,
     Or in caverns hid from day,—
Shall I find him there?
Will the rivers give him back,
     Or the woods of Adon tell?
     Will the hounds that loved him well
Follow in his track?
Ah, the distance matters not,
     Nor the way I, mournful, tread:
Every path leads from the spot
     Where my love lies dead!

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

TO ENGLAND, a poem

Rocky Cliff with Stormy Sea, Cornwall (1902)
by William Trost Richards

WE are not twain, but one: though seas divide us—
     The children of the English-speaking race—
This nothing now can change: whate'er betide us,
     This is our birthright grace.

The tongue that holds our earliest recollection,
     Whose accents moved us like a fond caress—
The tongue in which we lisped our first affection,
     Attaches and doth bless.

America and England knit together—
     Offspring of one great Mother, Sister Lands—
Need fear nor frowning fate nor boding weather,
     While close are joined their hands.

Beneath the ocean-billow sways the cable
     That gives them instant knowledge, each of each,
And were it sunk, their hearts would still be able
     To find a way of speech.

America, who virgin prairies planted
     To bless the alien,—Teuton, Latin, Gaul,—
Welcomes the poorest, as to realms enchanted,
     And makes them English, all!

And still, the elder, in the hour of danger,
     The bond of kinship never quite forgot,
Speaks with commanding accent to the stranger:
     "Be heedful; touch her not!

Oh, we have felt—have felt with one another,
     Sharing each other's hope, each other's dread;
And we have wept, as children of one mother,
     Mourning our cherished dead.

Is 't for ourselves this friendship hath caressed us—
     That Heaven hath strengthened so the English speech?
Nay; God forbid! the mercy that hath blessed us
     Hath a diviner reach!

If with new strength there come not larger kindness,
     Men's banners, proudly borne, were better furled;
If we no longer see, for selfish blindness,
     Beyond our realms, the world,—

Then poor, indeed, though vast our rule supernal,
     Who magnify the ill we might redeem;
Missing the glory of the hope eternal—
     The godlike, human dream!

To solace life, there blooms on earth a flower
     Whose deathless name is Love. Of its increase
Are born compassion, freedom, beauty, power;
     And of its gift is peace.

O Sister Lands, thrice blest! though wisdom guide us,
     Yet in our hearts may love perfected lie—
Deep as the ocean that cannot divide us,
     Kind as the arching sky!

View of the Artist's Home, Graycliff, Newport, Rhode Island (1894)
by William Trost Richards

"To England" by Florence Earle Coates. Published as "Together in Way, Together in Heart" (for the Transatlantic Society of America) in The Anglo-American Magazine (February 1902), and as "To England" in Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

JEAN-FRANÇOIS MILLET, a poem

NOT far from Paris, in fair Fontainebleau,
     A lovely, memory-haunted hamlet lies,
     Whose tender spell makes captive, and defies
Forgetfulness. The peasants come and go,—
Their backs too used to stoop,—and patient sow
     The harvest which their narrow need supplies;
     Even as when, Earth's pathos in his eyes,
Millet dwelt here, companion of their woe.

Loved Barbizon! With thorns, not laurels, crowned,
He looked thy sorrows in the face, and found—
     Vital as seed warm nestled in the sod—
The hidden sweetness at the heart of pain;
Trusting thy sun and dew, thy wind and rain,
     At home with nature, and at one with God!

"Jean-François Millet" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Atlantic Monthly (November 1904), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

The Gleaners (1857)
by Jean-François Millet
Wikimedia Commons

Jean-François Millet died on this day in 1875.

WHY DID YOU GO? a poem

Man and Woman on the Beach (1893) and Edwardian Woman on the Beach (1900)
by Thomas Pollock Anshutz
Wikimedia Commons

DEATH called,—but why did you go?
     Did you not know
That life is better than death,
That snatches the breath
Out of joy?—that love is better than death?

     Did you not understand
     How guarded the Land
Where death leads?—that howe'er the heart yearn,
One may never return
     From the gloom
Of that dwelling-place lone that doth hold and entomb?

     O my sweet!
Might I follow your feet,—
Afar from the sun and the bloom-scented air,
     I would open once more
     The inexorable door,
And drink of dark Lethe, your prison to share!

"Why Did You Go?" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Unconquered Air (1912) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

AFTER THE PAINTINGS BY GEORGE F. WATTS

Love and Death (1883)
by G. F. Watts

I

LOVE AND DEATH

A MOMENT, Death!—only a moment more!
     She is my all; have pity! stay thy hand!
     Behold, a fearful suppliant I stand!
Take not away what thou canst not restore!

At thy approach the birds have ceased to sing,
     The roses of my lintel droop and pine,
     The genial sun itself doth coldly shine,
And in thy shadow all seems darkening.

That thou art merciless, as men declare,
     I'll not believe. Thy look is kind, not stern;
     And they who judge thee ill, of me shall learn
To know thee better, Death!—for thou wilt spare!

See, thou art strong! and I am weak—so weak!
     All beings that draw breath at last are thine:
     Thou wilt not covet this sole joy of mine—
Nor to deprive me of its solace seek?

Yet come no nearer! Shouldst thou pass this door,
     My heart that so importunes thee would break.
     Go back a little! for compassion's sake,
Go back! and hither—ah, return no more!

In vain, in vain! O awful Majesty!
     Thy very breath appalls my fluttering heart.
     Invader dread, what strength have I, or art—
What, save my anguish, to oppose 'gainst thee? . . .

Enter! the door is open. Yet thus much
     Let my submission of thy pity earn:
     When through the shaded portal thou return,
On me—me, also, lay thy easeful touch!

Love and Life (1885)
by G. F. Watts

II

LOVE AND LIFE

THY hand I press,
     And am not much afraid:
     Though danger lie in wait in every glade,
Thou, Love, hast might to comfort and caress
My helplessness.

The way is steep;
     But thou wilt soothe its pain;
     And when at last the utmost height we gain,
To the soft shelter of thy wings I'll creep,
And sleep—and sleep.

The way is long;
     But though I wearied be,
     Still gazing upward, I shall gaze on thee;
And thy angelic voice, more sweet than song,
Will make me strong.

Whate'er betide,
     I, Love,—who may not know
     Whence I have journeyed, nor the way I go,—
Am still content to follow at thy side,
O deathless guide!

"After the Paintings by George F. Watts" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Reader (January 1907), Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

The Edward H. Coates Memorial Collection

The Edward H. Coates Memorial Collection (1923)

Florence Earle Coates presented The Edward H. Coates Memorial Collection to the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in Philadelphia in 1923. The exhibition, representing French and American schools, included 27 paintings and 3 pieces of sculpture, and was displayed between 4 November 1923 and 10 January 1924. Edward Hornor Coates was Academy president from 1890 to 1906, and died on 23 December 1921.

A portrait bust of Edward H. Coates

by Charles Grafly (1903)

was included in the collection

Also included in the collection is William Trost Richard's Old Ocean's Gray and Melancholy Waste (1885). I long thought that this painting was the inspiration for Mrs. Coates' "Mid-Ocean" until I stumbled upon Richards’ painting entitled Mid-Ocean (1869). Mid-Ocean is similar to that of Old Ocean’s Gray, except the latter contains no sign of a sailing vessel in the distance.

A WASTE of heaving waters to the far horizon's rim,
     And over them a vault of leaden gray;
No warmer tint or shading to relieve the aspect dim,
     Save where the riven billows break away,
Revealing as we part them to the left hand and the right,
Beneath each curling crest of foam, the marvellous green light.

Here midst the heaving billows—this unending stretch of sea
     Where scarce an ocean-bird has strength to fly,
Unnumbered leagues from any strand where habitations be,
     Alone, no comrade vessel sailing nigh,
The deep unplumbed beneath us, and, above, a frowning dome,
I do but turn my eyes on thee, and straightway it is home!

"Mid-Ocean" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

Old Ocean's Gray and Melancholy Waste (1885)

by William Trost Richards
still part of the permanent collection at the
Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (PAFA)

A MEETING IN THE FOREST, a poem

Drawing by Sonja N. Bohm (ca 1983)

LEAVING my tent once as the dawn grew fair,
     Behold! we stood at gaze, a deer and I,
     Regarding one another furtively,—
Too much surprised, too curious for a care
Beyond the miracle that each was there!
     An instant, then—as arrow swift doth fly,
     Sudden as light that darts across the sky—
Gone was he: and the wood seemed reft and bare.

What startled so the gentle, soft-eyed thing?
     'T was but my love his idle fear outran—
Love that would fain have fed him shoots of Spring,
     Balsam and cedar from the groves of Pan!
Why fled he? Ah, a voice admonishing
     Whispered the free, wild creature: "It is Man!"

"A Meeting in the Forest" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Poems (1916) Volume I.

ART AND WAR, a poem

First Day of the St. Mihiel Offensive
George Harding
in Philadelphia in the World War 1914-1919 (1922)

WAR has its field of blood—heart-breaking War—
     Wherein to rule with undisputed sway
     Throughout its own mad, self-exhausting day.
There, where it rashly sacrifices more
Than laboring Time may ever quite restore,
     Shall it amid red welter and decay
     Strive horribly; but let it not essay
To enter where Peace guards the Future's door!

War has nor right, nor privilege, nor part
     In lives high-dedicate the world to bind
Through love and hope and the great dream of Art!
     All Lands to such are Fatherland; they find
In alien realms love's grateful, welcoming heart—
     They, chosen of the Gods to bless mankind!

"Art and War" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Bellman (9 Jan 1915) and Poems (1916) Volume II.

As published in The Bellman (9 January 1915)

On Joan of Arc

"A Light of Ancient France"'' by George William Joy (1895)
"She laid her head upon the straw..."

ROUEN: IN THE PRISON OF JOAN OF ARC

SHE laid her head upon the straw,
     She who had crowned a king of France,
And angel shapes, whom no man saw,
     For her deliverance,
Knelt at her feet—less pure, less sweet—
     A blessing in each glance.

She laid her head upon the straw,
     She who gave France her liberty,
And angel shapes, whom no man saw—
     Ah me! how could men see?—
Watched till the day, then bore away
     Something the flames set free.

Published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (January 1902), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

JOAN OF ARC

HER spirit is to France a living spring
     From which to draw deep draughts of life. To-day,—
     As when a peasant girl she led the way
Victorious to Rheims and crowned the King,—
High and heroic thoughts about her cling,
     And sacrificial faiths as pure as they,
     Moving the land she loved, with gentle sway,
To be, for love of her, a better thing!

Was she unhappy? No: her radiant youth
     Burned, like a meteor, on to swift eclipse;
     But where it passed, there lingers still a light.
She waited, wistful, for the word of truth
     That breathed in blessing from immortal lips
     When earthly comfort failed, and all around was night.

Published in Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

"BLESSÈD"

BLESSÈD: so have they named her. With just pride,
Deliberate care, and cautious circumstance,
The Holy Council have beatified
The Maid of Orleans, martyred child of France,
Who, at Domrémy's village altar kneeling,—
          Ignored by friend and foe,
Through all her young unsullied spirit feeling
The tears of a despairing people flow,—
Implored relief; and following the word
          Which none save she had heard,
Delivered France, and crowned her—long ago.
Rejoice, Domrémy, 'midst thy bowery green!
She was thine own, whom all, at last, would claim—
The greatest miracle that Earth hath seen
Since out of Nazareth a Saviour came.
Lowly as thou (though sheathed in armor bright),
          Her soul was as the snow—
Yea, as the lilies of her banner, white.
The Church hath blessed her; but man's heart, less slow,
Remembering her service and the price
          Of her dear sacrifice,
Gave her the name of blessèd—long ago.

Published in The Century Magazine (August 1904), Mine and Thine (1904) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

Ms. of poem published in the August 1904 issue of The Century Magazine

THE LOST GIOCONDA, a poem

THE world is poorer, Italy's fair child,
          Lacking the face
That for so long its heart beguiled;
          Nor hopeth to replace
With all its riches multiplied,
Thee, eloquent, alone, art-glorified!

But somewhere, Mona Lisa! quietly,
          With folded hands,
And in thine eye's soft mockery
          The look that understands,
Thou wearest, lost to us the while,
Thine own inscrutable, unaging smile!

"The Lost Gioconda" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in The Unconquered Air (1912).

Vacant spot where the Mona Lisa was displayed in the Salle Carré, Louvre Museum.
The Century Magazine (February 1914)

LibriVox.org has posted a new project, Mine and Thine by Florence Earle Coates. Link here to check out its progress or contribute your voice! Past Librivox.org projects have included recordings of Coates' "Near and Far" and "October."

ON THE DEATH OF LADY CURZON, a poem

Mary Curzon, Baroness Curzon of Kedleston
Portrait study by Franz von Lenbach, c. 1902
Wikimedia Commona

JULY 17, 1906

INTO the light where beauty doth not pale,
Into the glory that can never fail,
     Beyond our yearning care, she passed from view.
Two nations loved and claimed her,—English flower,—
One gave her birth, one gave a regal dower,
But both—ah, both forgot how Heaven must love her too!

"On the Death of Lady Curzon" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Lyrics of Life (1909) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

Death date in poem is likely incorrect. Most sources cite Wednesday, 18 July 1906.

REVEILLE, a poem

Adonis (1800, 1806) by Benjamin West

WHAT frolic zephyr through the young leaves plays,
     Scattering fragrance delicate and sweet?
     What impulse new moves Robin to repeat
     To pale Anemone his roundelays?
What winning wonder fills the world with praise
     In this mysterious time? Lo, all things greet
     A loved one, new redeemed from death's defeat—
     A youth whose languid head fair nymphs upraise!

For him the crocus dons his bravery,—
     And violets for him their censers swing;
     For him the shy arbutus, blushfully,
Peeps through the mosses that about her cling;
     Adonis wakes! Awake, earth's minstrelsy!
     In swelling diapason hymn the Spring!

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

WATER LILIES, a poem

Water Lilies (ca. 1906, printed 1912)
by Adolph de Meyer
from The Met

I GATHERED them—the lilies pure and pale,
     The golden-hearted lilies, virgin fair,
     And in a vase of crystal, placed them where
Their perfumes might unceasingly exhale.
High in my lonely tent above the swale,
     Above the shimmering mere and blossoms there,
     I solaced with their sweetness my despair,
And fed with dews their beauteous petals frail.

But when the aspens felt the evening breeze,
     And shadows 'gan across the lake to creep,
When hermit-thrushes to the Oreades
     Sang vesper orisons, from cloisters deep,—
My lilies, lulled by native sympathies,
     Upfolded their white leaves and fell asleep.

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