| |
|
When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold
Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould,
And folded green things in dim woods unclose
Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes
Into my veins and makes me kith and kin
To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows.
Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,
Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din,
Far from the brambly paths I used to know,
Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine
Where the Neponset alders take their glow,
I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar
And inarticulate ardors of the vine.
This poem is in the public domain.
|
Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836 – 1907) was a poet, novelist, short-story writer, and editor. Born in New Hampshire but raised in New Orleans, he started writing as a teenager and moved to New York after the death of his father. While working for his uncle, he began publishing stories and poems, and became friends with a circle of other young poets and writers which included Walt Whitman. Successful in all genres, Thomas worked as a war correspondent for a time, then returned to New York to work as a magazine editor. Ultimately, he ended up in Boston as editor of Atlantic Monthly.Thomas was greatly admired for his talent during his lifetime and inspired many other successful writers, including Mark Twain--who supposedly drew his inspiration for Tom Sawyer from Thomas’ novel, Story of a Bad Boy.
|
|
KevinArnold:
Fun. Great of Jayne to unearth the Mark Twain connection. The Story of a Bad Boy indeed.
Posted 03/11/2017 07:03 AM
|
|
|
|
My Cart 
