Trumbull Stickney(June 20, 1874 - October 11, 1904 / Geneva)
They Lived Enamoured of the Lovely Moon
- by Trumbull Stickney39
They lived enamoured of the lovely moon, The dawn and twilight on their gentle lake. Then Passion marvellously born did shake Their breast and drave them into the mid-noon. Their lives did shrink to one desire, and soon They rose fire-eyed to follow in the wake Of one eternal thought,--when sudden brake Their hearts. They died, in miserable swoon. Of all their agony not a sound was heard. The glory of the Earth is more than they. She asks her lovely image of the day: A flower grows, a million boughs are green, And over moving ocean-waves the bird Chases his shadow and is no more seen.
The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain
- by Trumbull Stickney28
The melancholy year is dead with rain. Drop after drop on every branch pursues. From far away beyond the drizzled flues A twilight saddens to the window pane. And dimly thro' the chambers of the brain, From place to place and gently touching, moves My one and irrecoverable love's Dear and lost shape one other time again. So in the last of autumn for a day Summer or summer's memory returns. So in a mountain desolation burns Some rich belated flower, and with the gray Sick weather, in the world of rotting ferns From out the dreadful stones it dies away.
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