And, the last day being come, Man stood alone Ere sunrise on the world's dismantled verge, Awaiting how from everywhere should urge The Coming of the Lord. And, behold, none…
Born in 1874 in Geneva, Trumbull Stickney led a short but productive life and could well have been one of the great poets of the 20th Century had he not died shortly after his thirtieth birthday. It is certain that he had not realized the full extent of his literary powers and his finished work is now often characterized as a poet in search of his own voice. Brought up in Switzerland, Stickney was well educated and was taught largely by his scholastic father. He traveled extensively during his youth though, something which had an effect on his formative poetry and he spent some time in New York at Cutler’s School. In his later teens, he went to Harvard and quickly became editor for the university magazine at which time he also began to publish some of his own poems. Stickney graduated from Harvard in 1895 and turned to more academic studies, spending a short time at the Sorbonne in Paris. It is evident that he was often undecided between a career in academia or one as a poet and this may have hampered his early development. He spent his time at the Sorbonne writing two academic theses but also managed to compose a number of noteworthy poems. Amongst these was the lengthy poem Kalypso which he wanted to publish but was never really sure that it was ready. He began to think that his academic side was becoming too dominant in his poetry and that it was something he needed to change in his writing if he were to succeed. His later works show a definite move away from more cerebral verses towards something that was focused on sensations and emotions. There is some suggestion that his writing was helped by an affair he had at the time, though any letters relating to this were destroyed by his family shortly after his death. He managed to collect enough poetry during his lifetime to complete a book but had trouble finding a publisher who would take him seriously. The collection was called Dramatic Verses and contained a large number of works from his time in Paris. Stickney made a short visit to Greece and then returned to America where he succumbed to a post as academic at Harvard but was never particularly happy. It was during this time that he began to get headaches which he called ‘blind spells’ and shortly after suffered from a brain hemorrhage and died. A collection of Stickney’s work was published by friends after his death in 1904 and he was praised by many of the literary lights at the time including W H Auden. It is said that Stickney produced most of his memorable work shortly before his untimely death and this may have led to the legend that has grown up around him. In truth, he was a poet at the beginning of his career and may have gone on to produce a sizable body of work. But whether he would have been the genius that many suspect him to have been is still widely open to debate.
Trumbull Stickney şiirleri
The gray tide flows and flounders in the rocks Along the crannies up the swollen sand. Far out the reefs lie naked—dunes and blocks Low in the watery wind. A shaft of land…
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream That over Persian roses flew to kiss The curlèd lashes of Semiramis. Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.…
I hear a river thro' the valley wander Whose water runs, the song alone remaining. A rainbow stands and summer passes under.
How strange that here is nothing as it was! The sward is young and new, The sod there shapes a different mass, The random trees stand other than I knew.…
Only once more and not again--the larches Shake to the wind their echo, "Not again,"-- We see, below the sky that over-arches Heavy and blue, the plain…
There lies a somnolent lake Under a noiseless sky, Where never the mornings break Nor the evenings die.…
I used to think The mind essential in the body, even As stood the body essential in the mind: Two inseparable things, by nature equal…
Leave him now quiet by the way To rest apart. I know what draws him to the dust alway And churns him in the builder's lime:…
Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord, Who was the Future, died full long ago. Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go, Poor child, and be not to thyself abhorred.…
Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord, Who was the Future, died full long ago. Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go, Poor child, and be not to thyself abhorred.…
These autumn gardens, russet, gray and brown, The sward with shrivelled foliage strown, The shrubs and trees By weary wings of sunshine overflown…
It 's autumn in the country I remember. How warm a wind blew here about the ways! And shadows on the hillside lay to slumber During the long sun-sweetened summer-days.…
Alone on Lykaion since man hath been Stand on the height two columns, where at rest Two eagles hewn of gold sit looking East Forever; and the sun goes down between.…
By such an all-embalming summer day As sweetens now among the mountain pines Down to the cornland yonder and the vines, To where the sky and sea are mixed in gray,…
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