POEM OF THE DAY

He Prayeth Best

These two stanzas, the very heart 

of that great poem, “The Ancient Mariner,” 

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), 

sum up the lesson of this masterpiece

—“Insensibility is a crime.”

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best

All things, both great and small:

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

Samuel T. Coleridge

GREETINGS!

POEM OF THE DAY

How the Leaves Came Down

“How the Leaves Came Down,” by 

Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to 

children because it helps to reconcile

 them to going to bed. “I go to bed by 

day” is one of the crosses of childhood.

“I’ll tell you how the leaves came down,”

The great Tree to his children said:

“You’re getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,

Yes, very sleepy, little Red.

It is quite time to go to bed.”

“Ah!” begged each silly, pouting leaf,

“Let us a little longer stay;

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!

’Tis such a very pleasant day,

We do not want to go away.”

So, for just one more merry day

To the great Tree the leaflets clung,

Frolicked and danced, and had their way,

Upon the autumn breezes swung,

Whispering all their sports among—

“Perhaps the great Tree will forget,

And let us stay until the spring,

If we all beg, and coax, and fret.”

But the great Tree did no such thing;

He smiled to hear their whispering.

“Come, children, all to bed,” he cried;

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,

He shook his head, and far and wide,

Fluttering and rustling everywhere,

Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,

Golden and red, a huddled swarm,

Waiting till one from far away,

White bedclothes heaped upon her arm,

Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.

“Good-night, dear little leaves,” he said.

And from below each sleepy child

Replied, “Good-night,” and murmured,

“It is so nice to go to bed!”

Susan Coolidge

POEM OF THE DAY

The Voice of Spring

“The Voice of Spring,” by Felicia Hemans 

(1749-1835), becomes attractive as years go on. 

The line in this poem that captivated my 

youthful fancy was:

“The larch has hung all his tassels forth,”

The delight with which trees hang out 

their new little tassels every year is one 

of the charms of “the pine family.” John 

Burroughs sent us down a tiny hemlock, 

that grew in our window-box at school for 

five years, and every spring it was a new joy 

on account of the fine, tender tassels. 

Mrs. Hemans had a vivid imagination 

backed up by an abundant information.

I come, I come! ye have called me long;

I come o’er the mountains, with light and song.

Ye may trace my step o’er the waking earth

By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,

By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,

By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers

By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,

And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes

Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains;

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked o’er the hills of the stormy North,

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;

The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free,

And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,

And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,

From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time,

In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes,

When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;

They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain brows,

They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,

They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,

And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Felicia Hemans

POEM OF THE DAY

*Playing Robinson Crusoe*

Pussy can sit by the fire and sing,

Pussy can climb a tree,

Or play with a silly old cork and string

To ’muse herself, not me.

But I like Binkie, my dog, because

He knows how to behave;

So, Binkie’s the same as the First Friend was,

And I am the Man in the Cave.

Pussy will play Man-Friday till

It’s time to wet her paw

And make her walk on the window-sill

(For the footprint Crusoe saw);

Then she fluffles her tail and mews,

And scratches and won’t attend.

But Binkie will play whatever I choose,

And he is my true First Friend.

Pussy will rub my knees with her head,

Pretending she loves me hard;

But the very minute I go to my bed

Pussy runs out in the yard.

And there she stays till the morning light;

So I know it is only pretend;

But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,

And he is my Firstest Friend!

*Rudyard Kipling*

POEM OF THE DAY

A Life on the Ocean Wave.

“A Life on the Ocean Wave,” by Epes 

Sargent (1813-80), gives the swing and 

motion of the water of the great ocean. 

Children remember it almost unconsciously 

after hearing it read several times.

A life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep,

Where the scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep!

Like an eagle caged, I pine

On this dull, unchanging shore:

Oh! give me the flashing brine,

The spray and the tempest’s roar!

Once more on the deck I stand

Of my own swift-gliding craft:

Set sail! farewell to the land!

The gale follows fair abaft.

We shoot through the sparkling foam

Like an ocean-bird set free;—

Like the ocean-bird, our home

We’ll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,

The clouds have begun to frown;

But with a stout vessel and crew,

We’ll say, Let the storm come down!

And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the winds and the waters rave,

A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wave!

Epes Sargent

POEM OF THE DAY

The Captain’s Daughter

“The Captain’s Daughter,” by James T. Fields 

(1816-81), carries weight with every young 

audience. It is pointed to an end that children 

love—viz., trust in a higher power.

We were crowded in the cabin,

Not a soul would dare to sleep,—

It was midnight on the waters,

And a storm was on the deep.

’Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shattered by the blast,

And to hear the rattling trumpet

Thunder, “Cut away the mast!”

So we shuddered there in silence,—

For the stoutest held his breath,

While the hungry sea was roaring

And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy with his prayers,

“We are lost!” the captain shouted

As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,

As she took his icy hand,

“Isn’t God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?”

Then we kissed the little maiden.

And we spoke in better cheer,

And we anchored safe in harbour

When the morn was shining clear.

James T. Fields

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

Toru Dutt portrait

Date1921

Source:  https://archive.org/details/lifelettersoftor00duttuoft

Author:  Harihar Das

In public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

THE TREE OF LIFE

by Toru Dutt

Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!

Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,

My hand was in my father's, and I felt

His presence near me. Thus we often passed

In silence, hour by hour. What was the need

Of interchanging words when every thought

That in our hearts arose, was known to each,

And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone

A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.

I was awake:—It was an open plain

Illimitable—stretching, stretching—oh, so far!

And o'er it that strange light—a glorious light

Like that the stars shed over fields of snow

In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,

Only intenser in its brilliance calm.

And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,

For I was wide awake—it was no dream,

A tree with spreading branches and with leaves

Of divers kinds—dead silver and live gold,

Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!

Beside the tree an Angel stood; he plucked

A few small sprays, and bound them round my head.

Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves!

No longer throbbed my brows, no more I felt

The fever in my limbs—"And oh," I cried,

"Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves."

One leaf the Angel took and therewith touched

His forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!"

Never, oh never had I seen a face

More beautiful than that Angel's, or more full

Of holy pity and of love divine.

Wondering I looked awhile—then, all at once

Opened my tear-dimmed eyes—When lo! the light

Was gone—the light as of the stars when snow

Lies deep upon the ground. No more, no more,

Was seen the Angel's face. I only found

My father watching patient by my bed,

And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.

POEM OF THE DAY

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” by Eugene Field (1850-95), pleases children, who are all by nature sailors and adventurers.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.

“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”

The old moon asked the three.

“We have come to fish for the herring-fish

That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we,”

Said Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea.

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,—

Never afeard are we!”

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,—

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home:

’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea;

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock on the misty sea

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Eugene Field.

POEM OF THE DAY

The Arrow and the Song.

“The Arrow and the Song,” by Longfellow (1807-82), is placed first in this volume out of respect to a little girl of six years who used to love to recite it to me. She knew many poems, but this was her favourite.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

Henry W. Longfellow

POEM OF THE DAY

The Rainbow.

(A FRAGMENT.)

“The Rainbow,” by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), accords with every child’s feelings. It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to imagine it “a bridge to heaven.”

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;

So was it when my life began,

So is it now I am a man,

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

William Wordsworth

POEM OF THE DAY

*The Owl and the Pussy-Cat* 

“The Owl and the Pussy-Cat,” by Edward Lear (1812-88), is placed here because I once found that a timid child was much strengthened and developed by learning it. It is a song that appeals to the imagination of children, and they like to sing it.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat;

They took some honey, and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the moon above,

And sang to a small guitar,

“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love!

What a beautiful Pussy you are,—

You are,

What a beautiful Pussy you are!”

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!

How wonderful sweet you sing!

Oh, let us be married,—too long we have tarried,—

But what shall we do for a ring?”

They sailed away for a year and a day

To the land where the Bong-tree grows,

And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood

With a ring in the end of his nose,—

His nose,

With a ring in the end of his nose.

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?” Said the piggy, “I will,”

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined upon mince and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon,

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand

They danced by the light of the moon,—

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

POEM OF THE DAY

Little Billee.

“Little Billee,” by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-63), finds a place here because it carries a good lesson good-naturedly rendered. An accomplished teacher recommends it, and I recollect two young children in Chicago who sang it frequently for years without getting tired of it.

There were three sailors of Bristol cityWho took a boat and went to sea.But first with beef and captain’s biscuitsAnd pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,And the youngest he was little Billee.Now when they got so far as the EquatorThey’d nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,“I am extremely hungaree.”To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.” Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,“With one another, we shouldn’t agree!There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.” “Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you,So undo the button of your chemie.”When Bill received this informationHe used his pocket-handkerchie. “First let me say my catechism,Which my poor mammy taught to me.”“Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling JimmyWhile Jack pulled out his snickersnee. So Billy went up to the main-topgallant mast,And down he fell on his bended knee.He scarce had come to the Twelfth CommandmentWhen up he jumps, “There’s land I see. “Jerusalem and Madagascar,And North and South Amerikee:There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor,With Admiral Napier, K.C.B.” So when they got aboard of the Admiral’sHe hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;But as for little Bill, he made himThe Captain of a Seventy-three.

William Makepeace Thackeray

POEM OF THE DAY

THE SONG OF MYSELF
by WALT WHITMAN

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practised so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun (there are millions of suns left),
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the specters in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
A child said, “What is the grass?” fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or, I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrance designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name some way in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say, “Whose?”
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill’d game,
Falling asleep on the gathered leaves with my dog and gun by my side.
The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.
The boatman and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tucked my trouser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.
The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d feet,
And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north,
I had him sit next me at table, my firelock lean’d in the corner.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

*(To be continued)*

POEM OF THE DAY

A PSALM OF LIFE

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST

“A Psalm of Life,” by Henry W. Longfellow (1807-82), is like a treasure laid up in heaven. It should be learned for its future value to the child, not necessarily because the child likes it. Its value will dawn on him.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!—

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,—act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

Henry W. Longfellow.

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY : THE HERMIT, A BALLAD.by OLIVER GOLDSMITH

THE HERMIT. : A BALLAD.

by OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

"Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow;

Where wilds immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,

"To tempt the dangerous gloom;

For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant

I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows:

My rushy couch and frugal far

My blessing, and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power that pities me,

I learn to pity them.

"But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong;

Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,

The hermit trimmed his little fire

And cheered his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed, and smiled;

And skilled in legendary lore

The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries;

The cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the strangers woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answering care opprest:

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

"The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurned,

Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturned,

Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings

Are trifling and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep,

A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said:

But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betrayed.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view;

Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms!

And "Ah, forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn," she cried;

"Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude

Where heaven and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray;

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

"My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he:

And all his wealth was marked as mine;

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumbered suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt or feigned a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;

Among the rest young Edwin bowed,

But never talked of love."

"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined,

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;

Their charms were his, but, woe is me!

Their constancy was mine!

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touched my heart,

I triumphed in his pain.

"Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay;

I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die;

'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."—

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried,

And clasped her to his breast:

The wond'ring fair one turned to chide,—

'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee!

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,

My life—my all that's mine?

"No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too."

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

Suri 

Good afternoon!

This ballad by Goldsmith  (THE HERMIT : A BALLAD.

by OLIVER GOLDSMITH ) was recommended to me by a friend.

Though it sounds good, am unable to fathom its meaning.

Could you kindly help please!

ChatGPT 

Good afternoon, Suri! 🌸

That’s a beautiful request — and you’re right, Goldsmith’s The Hermit (sometimes called Edwin and Angelina) can sound melodious but be hard to follow because it’s written in old-fashioned poetic diction. Let me walk you through its meaning, almost like a story retold in plain English:

Outline of the Ballad

It is really a romantic tale disguised as a moral ballad — with a touch of drama and a happy ending.

1. The Stranger Seeks Shelter

A weary traveler calls out to a hermit in the dale (valley), asking him to guide him to the light he sees afar. But the hermit warns him: that light is only a deceptive phantom, luring wanderers to their doom.

Instead, the hermit invites him to stay in his own humble cottage, where — though poor — he shares what little he has with kindness.

2. The Hermit’s Simple Life

The hermit tells how he lives gently, harming no creatures, eating only herbs, fruits, and spring water. He preaches contentment: “Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long.”

3. Hospitality and Conversation

The traveler accepts, and they sit together by the fire, with homely cheer — kittens playing, crickets chirping, and the hermit telling old tales. But the guest is still sorrowful and begins to cry.

4. The Hermit Asks the Cause of Grief

The hermit suspects that the young man’s pain comes from rejected friendship or unrequited love. He even dismisses friendship and love as fleeting illusions — mere words that vanish when wealth and fame are gone.

But as he speaks, the guest blushes, and the hermit realizes this “youth” is actually a disguised young woman.

5. The Lady Reveals Her Story

She confesses she is Angelina, daughter of a wealthy lord by the River Tyne. Many suitors courted her for her fortune, but she only loved Edwin, a poor but virtuous young man.

Yet she was proud and cruel to him — she toyed with his feelings until, heartbroken, he withdrew into solitude and (she believes) died.

Now filled with guilt, she wanders, determined to die where Edwin died.

6. The Big Reveal

The hermit embraces her and cries out that Heaven must forbid her despair. She turns to rebuke him — only to discover it is none other than Edwin himself, alive and disguised as the hermit!

7. The Happy Ending

Edwin reveals himself, calls her “ever dear,” and they are reunited at last, pledging never to part again. The poem closes with love restored and sorrow turned to joy.

Meaning of the Poem

At one level, it is a romantic love story of separation, repentance, and reunion.

At another level, Goldsmith uses it to contrast worldly wealth and vanity (Angelina’s earlier pride) with simplicity, virtue, and contentment (the hermit/Edwin’s way of life).

The moral: True love and inner worth matter more than riches or fleeting pleasures.

✨ In short:

A proud young woman (Angelina) who once scorned her true love (Edwin) seeks him in despair, believing him dead. Disguised as a hermit, Edwin shelters her and listens to her confession. When she declares she will die for love of him, he reveals himself — and they are joyfully reunited.

Grateful thanks to ChatGPT .

POEM OF THE DAY

*The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk*

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute,

From the center all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity’s reach,

I must finish my journey alone,

Never hear the sweet music of speech,—

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain

My form with indifference see;

They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love,

Divinely bestow’d upon man,

Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,

Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more!

My friends—do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight,

The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wingèd arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there;

But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the seafowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair,

Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.

There’s mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought!

Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

*William Cowper*

POEM OF THE DAY

Painting of Emily Norcross Dickinson (Mrs. Edward Dickinson) (1804-1882)

Author:  Otis Bullard

Public domain 

Via WIKIMEDIA COMMONS 

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

POEM XX

 

I taste a liquor never brewed, 

From tankards scooped in pearl; 

Not all the vats upon the Rhine 

Yield such an alcohol!

 

Inebriate of air am I, 

And debauchee of dew, 

Reeling, through endless summer days, 

From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee 

Out of the foxglove‘s11 door, 

When butterflies renounce their drams,12 

I shall but drink the more!

 

Till seraphs13 swing their snowy hats, 

And saints to windows run, 

To see the little tippler 

Leaning against the sun!

Emily Dickinson

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

Grateful thanks to Project Gutenberg and Otis Bullard and WIKIMEDIA COMMONS