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> Dandridge, Danske
Silke Lance
post Sep 28, 2004, 02:24 AM
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The spirit of the fall

by: Danske Dandridge (1854-1914)

Come, on thy swaying feet,
Wild Spirit of the Fall!
With wind-blown skirts, loose hair of russet-brown,
Crowned with bright berries of the bittersweet.

Trip a light measure with the hurrying leaf,
Straining thy few late roses to thy breast,
With laughter over-gay, sweet eyes drooped down,
That none may guess thy grief.
Dare not to pause for rest
Lest the slow tears should gather to their fall.

But when the cold moon rises o'er the hill,
The last numb crickets cease, and all is still,
Face down thou liest on the frosty ground
Strewed with thy fortune's wreck, alas, thine all--
There, on a winter dawn, thy corse I found,
Lone Spirit of the Fall.

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+Steven Curtis Lance
post Sep 28, 2004, 02:31 AM
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From: Yucca Valley, CA USA
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Oh Silkchen, this is so beautiful!

Yet another magnificent poem in the English tongue which I have never even seen before; how exquisite!

Thank you for finding these treasures and posting them here to share with us.

This is just gorgeous, and resonates within me profoundly. I adore the fall, as you know.

Thanks again for opening our eyes to such wonders.

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Silke Lance
post Sep 30, 2004, 06:31 AM
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More poems by: Danske Dandridge (1854-1914)


Shall we know in the Hereafter
All the reasons that are hid?
Does the butterfly remember
What the caterpillar did?
How he waited, toiled, and suffered
To become the chrysalid.

When we creep so slowly upward;
When each day new burden brings;
When we strive so hard to conquer
Vexing sublunary things--
When we wait and toil and suffer,
We are working for our wings.


Come down from the aerial height,
Spirit of the summer night!
Come softly stepping from the slender Moon,
Where thou dost lie upon her gentle breast,
And bring a boon
Of silence and of solace for our rest.

Or lift us, lift our souls to that bright place
Where she doth hide her face;
Lap us in light and cooling fleece, and steep
Our hearts in stillness; drench in drowsy dreams;
Grant us the pleasant langour that beseems
And rock our sleep.

Quell thy bared lightning in the sombre west;
Quiet thy thunder-dogs that bay the Moon;
Soothe the day's fretting, like a tender nurse;
Breathe on our spirits 'till they be in tune:
Were it not best
To hush all noises in the universe,
And bless with solemn quietude, that thus
The still, small voice of God might speak to us?

The Moth and the Evening Primrose

The Moth is waiting for the night
To poise his feathered wings, untried,
Fresh from their prison, scarcely dried,
And trembling for the trial flight.
“The Rose is dreaming of the Bee:
Perchance my Primrose wakes for me.”

The evening wears a gold zone:
One waits and listens like the flower,
She feels her fate and knows her hour.
The night is come, but not alone:
Love's wings are trembling on the air:
All the heart's treasure lying bare.

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