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    The Poetry Of Edith Wharton
    The Poetry Of Edith Wharton
    The Poetry Of Edith Wharton
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    The Poetry Of Edith Wharton

    By Edith Wharton

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    The Poetry Of Edith Wharton. Poetry is a fascinating use of language. With almost a million words at its command it is not surprising that these Isles have produced some of the most beautiful, moving and descriptive verse through the centuries. In this series we look at the American writer Edith Wharton who in the following poems is seen to be a gifted and accomplished poet. Edith Newbold Jones was born in New York on January 24, 1862. Born into wealth this background of privilege allowed her to write critic novels and stories about it culminating in her Pulitzer Prize winning novel ‘The Age Of Innocence’. Marriage to Edward Robbins Wharton, who was 12 years older in 1885 allowed her to travel extensively. It was shortly apparent that her husband suffered from acuter depression and so the travelling ceased and they retired to The Mount, their estate designed by Edith Wharton . By 1908 his state was said to be incurable and prior to divorcing Edwards in 1913 she began an affair, in 1908, with Morton Fullerton, a Times journalist, who was her intellectual equal and allowed her writing talents to push forward and write the novels for which she is so well known. Acknowledged as one of the great American writers with novels such as Ethan Frome and the House Of Mirth among many. Wharton also wrote many short stories, including ghost stories and poems which we look at here in this volume. Edith Wharton died of a stroke in 1937 at the Domaine Le Pavillon Colombe, her 18th-century house on Rue de Montmorency in Saint-Brice-sous-Forêt. We have recorded many of these poems and they are available as an audiobook from our sister company Portable Poetry. Many samples are at our youtube channel http://www.youtube.com/user/PortablePoetry?feature=mhee The full volume can be purchased from iTunes, Amazon and other digital stores.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateSep 24, 2013
    ISBN9781780006901
    The Poetry Of Edith Wharton
    Author

    Edith Wharton

    Edith Wharton (1862-1937) was born into a distinguished New York family and was educated privately in the United States and abroad. Among her best-known work is Ethan Frome (1911), which is considered her greatest tragic story, The House of Mirth (1905), and The Age of Innocence (1920), for which she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize.

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      Book preview

      The Poetry Of Edith Wharton - Edith Wharton

      The Poetry Of Edith Wharton

      Edith Newbold Jones was born in New York on January 24, 1862.   Born into wealth, this background of privilege gave her a wealth of experience to eventually, after several false starts, produce many works based on it culminating in her Pulitzer Prize winning novel ‘The Age Of Innocence’

      Marriage to Edward Robbins Wharton, who was 12 years older in 1885 seemed to offer much and for some years they travelled extensively.  After some years it was apparent that her husband suffered from acute depression and so the travelling ceased and they retired to The Mount, their estate designed by Edith.  By 1908 his condition was said to be incurable and prior to divorcing Edward in 1913 she began an affair, in 1908, with Morton Fullerton, a Times journalist, who was her intellectual equal and allowed her writing talents to push forward and write the novels for which she is so well known.

      Acknowledged as one of the great American writers with novels such as Ethan Frome and the House of Mirth among many.  Wharton also wrote many short stories, including ghost stories and poems which we are pleased to publish.

      Edith Wharton died of a stroke in 1937 at the Domaine Le Pavillon Colombe, her 18th-century house on Rue de Montmorency in Saint-Brice-sous-Forêt.

      Index Of Poems

      A FAILURE

      A GRAVE

      A HUNTING SONG

      A TORCHBEARER

      AEROPAGUS

      ALL SAINTS

      ALL SOULS

      AN AUTUMN SUNSET

      ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON

      BATTLE SLEEP

      BELGIUM

      BOTTICELLI’S MADONNA IN THE LOUVRE

      CHARTRES

      EURYALUS

      EXPERIENCE

      GRIEF

      HAPPINESS

      JADE

      LA VIERGE AU DONATEUR

      LIFE

      MARGARET OF CORTONA

      MONA LISA

      MOONRISE OVER TYRINGHAM

      MOULD AND VASE

      NON DOLET!

      OGRIN THE HERMIT

      ORPHEUS

      PATIENCE

      PHAEDRA

      SOME BUSY HANDS…..

      SUMMER AFTERNOON (BODIAM CASTLE, SUSSEX)

      SURVIVAL

      THE BREAD OF ANGELS

      THE COMRADE

      THE EUMENIDES

      THE LAST GIUSTIANINI

      THE MORTAL LEASE

      THE OLD POLE STAR

      THE ONE GRIEF

      THE PARTING DAY

      THE SONNET

      THE TOMB OF ILARIA GIUNIGIi

      USES

      VESALIUS IN ZANTE

      WANTS

      WITH THE TIDE

      YOU AND YOU

      Edith Wharton – A Short Biography

      Edith Wharton – A Concise Bibliography

      A FAILURE

      (She Speaks.)

      I Meant to be so strong and true!

      The world may smile and question, When?

      But what I might have been to you

      I cannot be to other men.

      Just one in twenty to the rest,

      And all in all to you alone,

      This was my dream; perchance 'tis best

      That this, like other dreams, is flown.

      For you I should have been so kind,

      So prompt my spirit to control,

      To win fresh vigor for my mind,

      And purer beauties for my soul;

      Beneath your eye I might have grown

      To that divine, ideal height,

      Which, mating wholly with your own,

      Our equal spirits should unite. 

      A GRAVE

      Though life should come

      With all its marshalled honours, trump and drum,

      To proffer you the captaincy of some

      Resounding exploit, that shall fill

      Man’s pulses with commemorative thrill,

      And be a banner to far battle days

      For truths unrisen upon untrod ways,

      What would your answer be,

      O heart once brave?

      Seek otherwhere; for me,

      I watch beside a grave.

      Though to some shining festival of thought

      The sages call you from steep citadel

      Of bastioned argument, whose rampart gained

      Yields the pure vision passionately sought,

      In dreams known well,

      But never yet in wakefulness attained,

      How should you answer to their summons, save:

      I watch beside a grave?

      Though Beauty, from her fane within the soul

      Of fire-tongued seers descending,

      Or from the dream-lit temples of the past

      With feet immortal wending,

      Illuminate grief’s antre swart and vast

      With half-veiled face that promises the whole

      To him who holds her fast,

      What answer could you give?

      Sight of one face I crave,

      One only while I live;

      Woo elsewhere; for I watch beside a grave.

      Though love of the one heart that loves you best,

      A storm-tossed messenger,

      Should beat its wings for shelter in your breast,

      Where clung its last year’s nest,

      The nest you built together and made fast

      Lest envious winds should stir,

      And winged each delicate thought to minister

      With sweetness far-amassed

      To the young dreams within

      What answer could it win?

      The nest was whelmed in sorrow’s rising wave,

      Nor could I reach one drowning dream to save;

      I watch beside a grave. 

      A HUNTING SONG

      Hunters, where does Hope nest?

      Not in the half-oped breast,

      Nor the young rose,

      Nor April sunrise—those

      With a quick wing she brushes,

      The wide world through,

      Greets with the throat of thrushes,

      Fades from as fast as dew.

      But, would you spy her sleeping,

      Cradled warm,

      Look in the breast of weeping,

      The tree stript by storm;

      But, would you bind her fast,

      Yours at last,

      Bed-mate and lover,

      Gain the last headland bare

      That the cold tides cover,

      There may you capture her, there,

      Where the sea gives to the ground

      Only the drift of the drowned.

      Yet, if she slips you, once found,

      Push to her uttermost lair

      In the low house of despair.

      There will she watch by your head,

      Sing to you till you be dead,

      Then, with your child in her breast,

      In another heart build a new nest. 

      A TORCHBEARER

      Great cities rise and have their fall; the brass

      That held their glories moulders in its turn.

      Hard granite rots like an uprooted weed,

      And ever on the palimpsest of earth

      Impatient Time rubs out the word he writ.

      But one thing makes the years its pedestal,

      Springs from the ashes of its pyre, and claps

      A skyward wing above its epitaph

      The will of man willing immortal things.

      The ages are but baubles hung upon

      The thread of some strong lives and one slight wrist

      May lift a century above the dust; For Time,

      The Sisyphean load of little lives,

      Becomes the globe and sceptre of the great.

      But who are these that, linking hand in hand,

      Transmit across the twilight waste of years

      The flying brightness of a kindled hour?

      Not always, nor alone, the lives that search

      How they may snatch a glory out of heaven

      Or add a height to Babel; oftener they

      That in the still fulfilment of each day’s

      Pacific order hold great deeds in leash,

      That in the sober sheath of tranquil tasks

      Hide the attempered blade of high emprise,

      And leap like lightning to the clap of fate.

      So greatly gave he, nurturing ‘gainst the

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