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Lydia Huntley Sigourney (Лидия Сигурни)


Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
   Enchantment led the hour,
And mirth and music drank the dews
   That freshen’d Beauty’s flower,
Then from her bower of deep delight,
   I heard a young girl sing,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For ’tis a holy thing.’

The Sun in noon-day heat rose high,
   And on the heaving breast,
I saw a weary pilgrim toil
   Unpitied and unblest,
Yet still in trembling measures flow’d
   Forth from a broken string,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For ’tis a holy thing.’

’Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
   ’Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
   Home to a glorious sphere,
Yet still it sigh’d, even when was spread
   The waiting Angel’s wing,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For ’tis a holy thing.’

Lydia Huntley Sigourney's other poems:
  1. Mrs. Charles N. Cadwallader
  2. Rev. Dr. F. W. Hatch
  3. Mrs. Mary Mildenstein Robertson
  4. Garafilia Mohalby
  5. Miss Alice Beckwith

Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):

  • James McIntyre (Джеймс Макинтайр) Poetry ("Poetry to us is given")
  • Florence Coates (Флоренс Коутс) Poetry ("One spot of green, watered by hidden streams")
  • George Morris (Джордж Моррис) Poetry ("To me the world's an open book")
  • Claude McKay (Клод Маккей) Poetry ("Sometimes I tremble like a storm-swept flower")
  • Mortimer Collins (Мортимер Коллинз) Poetry ("Ah, the most ancient time")
  • Marianne Moore (Марианна Мур) Poetry ("I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle")

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