HER voice was like the song of birds; Her eyes were like the stars; Her little waving hands were like Birds’ wings that beat the bars.…
Richard Watson Gilder was an American poet, newspaper editor and private soldier in the Unionist army during the Civil War. Many of his poems featured artistic themes such as the theatre, music and art although he did write a great deal of material describing his wartime experiences. He had the honour of having one of his most famous war poems, The Dead Comrade, read out at the funeral of the General and then President of the United States Ulysses S. Grant, which was held in 1885. He was born on the 8th February 1844 in the New Jersey town of Bordentown. His father was a Methodist clergyman and the young Richard was sent to school at a seminary in Flushing, Queens that was run by the Reverend Gilder. A useful part of his education here was learning to set type and he used this newly acquired skill to publish the St. Thomas Register. Unsure where his career path might take him he also studied law for a while in Philadelphia although he had to give this up after his father had died. The American Civil War put a hold on many a young man’s ambitions and Gilder joined the state Emergency Volunteer Militia, serving as a private soldier in Landis’ Philadelphia Battery. He wrote a number of poems while serving and this period of military service coincided with the Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s campaign in Pennsylvania. Once the war was over Gilder took up journalism, initially writing for the Newark Register. He became editor eventually, of this and other publications. Gilder was a great enthusiast for public affairs, with a particular interest in government reforms and social injustices. An example of the latter was his chairmanship of the newly established Tenement House Commission, an organisation that looked out for all tenement dwellers in New York City. He would often risk his own good health to attend fires at various locations simply to observe and report on what a hard life these poor people lived. He also aligned himself with a number of organisations such as the International Copyright League, the Simplified Spelling Board and the American Academy of Arts and Letters, among many others. He had many friends and contemporaries in New York literary circles and, for a while, he met up and collaborated with a Scottish poet and preacher called George MacDonald when the Scot was on tour in the United States. Perhaps his best known, and most significant, poem was The Dead Comrade. The words are a fitting tribute to the fallen of the Civil War while, at the same time, they offer poignant observations and questions relating to how we treat former brothers in arms. For example, what is this special relationship between soldiers that compels the survivors to “bring them home” and, with full military honours, lay them to rest with a folded flag on the coffin? It is, no doubt, a powerful poem and it is reproduced here: Richard Watson Gilder died on the 19th November 1909 at the age of 65.
Richard Watson Gilder şiirleri
(LISZT) I WHAT is her playing like? 'T is like the wind in wintry northern valleys:…
A dun, bleak stretch that slants to the salt sea's gray - Rock-strewn, and scarred by fire, and rough with stubble,- With here and there a bold, bright touch of color -…
THROUGH love to light! Oh wonderful the way That leads from darkness to the perfect day! From darkness and from sorrow of the night To morning that comes singing o’er the sea.…
I know not if I love her overmuch; But this I know, that when unto her face She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space, Then slowly falls-'tis I who feel that touch.…
Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor! Be true, be good; Be wise as thou art tender; Be all that Beauty should.…
HE of the ocean is, its thunderous waves Echo his music; while far down the shore Mad laughter hurries —a white, blowing spume. I hear again in memory that wild storm;…
O, Father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, Whil…
WORDS praising music, what are they but leaves Whirled round the fountain by the wind that grieves. Frail human speech falls idly as the snow On the red lava's flow,—…
(SINGING OF THE PLAINSMEN) EACH picture was a painted memory Of the far plains he loved, and of their life,…
I There lived a lady who was lovelier Than anything that my poor skill may paint,…
Following the sun, westward the march of power! The Rose of Might blooms in our new-world mart: But see, just bursting forth from bud to flower, A late, slow growth,- the fairer Ro…
When late in summer the streams run yellow, Burst the bridges and spread into bays; When berries are black and peaches are mellow, And hills are hidden by rainy haze;…
I am a woman--therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!…
I BECAUSE the rose must fade, Shall I not love the rose? Because the summer shade…
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