What is this stones
What is this stones unless some cry
Shall echo back and give it life?
'T is not enough that it be rife
With history, with history.
poem by Philip Henry Savage
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The Red Rose And White
A RED rose climbed to the casement;
Cried, 'Open to me!
My cry is the call of the passing years,
I ask for love and the dew of tears
Withheld by thee.'
I broke the rose at the casement;
Cried, 'Welcome to thee.'
Ah, red rose dead! but I could not know
That only the pale white rose would blow
On earth for me.
poem by Philip Henry Savage
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The Quiet Harvest
WITHIN a thicket ere the sun
Was up, I heard a whisper run.
Each bush and tree was bidding, now,
Its yellow leaves forsake the bough.
And each leaf, having had its day,
Stepped down to earth the shortest way.
In April budding on the tree;
In hot July full-blown and free;
October bids them no more be.
I had, I think, as fair a spring;
July let equal fortune bring;
God give as quiet harvesting.
poem by Philip Henry Savage
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Sweet Horn
WHAT is St. Francis' flower? 'T is not
The daisy nor the melilot,
Nor that white little flower that springs
In Grasmere's quiet garden-plot.
'T is not the lily-flower that blows
In some high heaven of repose.
'T is not the sorrow of the thorn,
Nor utter passion of the rose.
It is the wild-heart eglantine,
(Sweet bush to a far sweeter wine),
With joy for man, sweet-thorn for Christ,
Not pagan all, not all divine.
poem by Philip Henry Savage
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To H.L.S.
I WANDERED on a lonely quest;
And deep within a dark forést
That lightened upward to the sky
A maiden, with her head borne high,
Went lightly by.
A bending shape, a glancing eye,
Long slender limbs borne maidenly,
Bound golden hair, — she trembled lest
She fright the butterfly at rest
On either breast.
So she went on into the west
Beyond the dark-green, dim forést
That fell to blackness — all the sky
Closed down, — when on my lips felt I
A butterfly!
poem by Philip Henry Savage
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Where man has
Where man has conquered nature dies;
We shift some slender-growing pine
From out her own familiar skies
Where-under forests fall and rise,
To pots and gardens, then repine
That where man conquers nature dies.
The atmosphere that round her lies
Bears not the light that used to shine
From out her own familiar skies,
She is a stranger. So our eyes
Run o'er the world and seek a sign!
If where man conquers nature dies
What is our earthly paradise?
Will nature there withhold the wine
That from her own familiar skies
[...] Read more
poem by Philip Henry Savage
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