  Poetry
This week: Robert Shouthey Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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My Days among the Dead are Past
by Robert Southey
My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead, anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
Robert Southey was born in England on August 12, 1774. Robert’s uncle was the one that paid for his education, at fourteen he was sent to the West-minster School. While there he and some classmates were involved with a periodical called “The Flagellant.” This piece eventually got them thrown out of the school. In 1792 Southey enrolled at Balliol College, Oxford. Southey quickly filled his schooling with learning different languages such as Spanish, Greek, and Latin. Southey collected books and built himself a grand library over his lifetime.
Southey wrote and published “Joan of Arc” in 1793. His literary career took off after completing a volume of peorty co-written with Robert Lovell, in 1794. He then went on to write “Wat Tyler,” which was a drama. During this time he met his wife to be Edith Fricker, the two were married in 1795. Coleridge Southey’s friend married Edith sister Sara around the same time. Southey’s wife Edith returned to stay with her parents shortly after the wedding so Southey could finish his studies. Southey travelled to Spain and Portugal. During his absences his brother-in-law and coauthor of his poetry book, Lovell, passed away causing Southey’s return to London.
In 1797 Southey published “Letters from Spain and Portugal.” Southey’s health started failing and he once again left London to go back to Portugal. This time he stayed a year until his health turned around and he headed back to England. “Thalaba, the Destroyer” was printed in 1801. It was followed by of "Metrical Tales" in 1804 and "Madoc," in 1805. "The Curse of Kehama," Southey’s greatest poetical work, can out in 1810. Four years later, Southey published "Roderick, the Last of the Goths." His "Carmen Triumphale" published in 1814, and "The Vision and of Judgment," 1821.
In 1833 Southey’s wife became mentally unstable. She was unable to do anything for herself. Edith lived that way for three long years before passing away. His wife’s illness took a toll on Southey’s health. Southey remarried Miss Bowles, a fellow poet. Southey sadly was never the same after his first wife’s death and within only a few short years his mind began to slip away too. Southey died on March 21, 1843.
The Soldier's Wife
by Robert Southy
Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart
Travelling painfully over the rugged road,
Wild-visag'd Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance!
Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed,
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back
Meagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness.
Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy hagged face.
Thy husband will never return from the war again,
Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity-
Cold are thy famish'd babes-God help thee, widow'd One.
Winter
by Robert Southey
A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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That Last Hay Ride
It was the last hayrack ride of the season.
All the leaves colors did deepen.
Winter had begun to beckon.
Crimson Maples were starting to brighten.
While the hay wagon rolled, we shared humor.
Some was light with a bit lending chiller.
Thanks for a blanket thick and warm,
Thanks also for that loose hay to conform.
Comfort was the order of the day,
We were surrounded by the aroma of hay.
Little did we notice the frost?
With our partners our thoughts were star-crossed.
Our spirits were pleasingly blithe.
The air was crisp cutting as a scythe.
We stopped for a wiener roast.
For a time we burnt marsh mellows like toast.
Good times end too soon.
We headed for home gazing at the moon.
That point in time was but a flicker.
Looking back it was a time of good humor.
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Poetry: November 23, 2010 Issue [#4086]
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