Every Day Poems - A Poem A Day

ULALUME by Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American writer, poet, critic and editor best known for his tales of mystery and horror. He is considered a centra

ULALUME

by Edgar Allan Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispéd and sere,
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year; 5
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir:
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic 10
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,
As the lavas that restlessly roll 15
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober, 20
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,
Our memories were treacherous and sere,
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year,
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 25
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent 30
And star-dials pointed to morn,
As the star-dials hinted of morn,
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent 35
Arose with a duplicate horn,
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—”She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs, 40
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies, 45
To the Lethean peace of the skies:
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes:
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.” 50

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—”Sadly this star I mistrust:
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.” 55
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust;
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 60

I replied—”This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night: 65
See, it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright:
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright, 70
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista, 75
But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—”What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied—”Ulalume—Ulalume— 80
‘T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere,
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried—”It was surely October 85
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here,
That I brought a dread burden down here:
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 90
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber,
This misty mid region of Weir:
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

###

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American writer, poet, critic and editor best known for his tales of mystery and horror. He is considered a central figure in the American Romantic movement and was one of the first American practitioners of the short story.

Poe was born in Boston to actress Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins Poe and actor David Poe Jr. His father abandoned the family when Poe was a toddler and his mother died of tuberculosis when he was two, leaving him orphaned. He was taken in by the wealthy tobacco merchant John Allan and his wife Frances in Richmond, Virginia.

Though never formally adopted, Poe took Allan as his middle name. He had a strained relationship with John Allan who did not support his literary ambitions. As a young man Poe attended the University of Virginia but was forced to drop out due to lack of funds.

His publishing career began in 1827 with the poetry collection Tamerlane and Other Poems. In 1835 he became editor of the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. He later lived in Philadelphia working as editor for magazines like Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine and Graham’s Magazine.

It was during this time that Poe established himself as a critical reviewer and published many of his most famous stories, including “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

Known for his Gothic, macabre themes and melancholic tone, Poe pioneered the modern detective story and helped define early science fiction. He married his cousin Virginia Clemm in 1836 who died of tuberculosis in 1847. Poe himself died under mysterious circumstances at the age of 40 in 1849.

Though not widely recognized during his lifetime, Poe’s stories and criticism have had a profound and lasting influence on American and international literature. He is now considered one of the most significant writers of the 19th century.

The Death of the Old Year by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)

Alfred Lord Tennyson is considered one of the greatest English poets of the Victorian era. He was born in 1809 in England. His early poems

The Death of the Old Year

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true truelove
And the New-year will take ’em away.
Old year you must not go;
So long you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth’d his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho’ his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I’ve half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o’er.
To see him die across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he’ll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
’Tis nearly twelve o’clock.
Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
And waiteth at the door.
There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.

Alfred Lord Tennyson is considered one of the greatest English poets of the Victorian era. He was born in 1809 in England. His early poems were largely influenced by the times—his famous poem “The Lady of Shalott” is set in King Arthur’s Camelot, showing his early interest in medieval themes. Tennyson continued writing and expanding his catalog of poems. In 1850, he was appointed the Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland. Two years later, upon the death of William Wordsworth, Tennyson officially assumed the role of Poet Laureate. Some of his most famous poems are ‘In Memoriam’, ‘Idylls of the King’, and ‘Tithonus’. While Tennyson garnered fame and accolades in his home country, his reputation eventually spread across the globe. Much of his poetry focused on grief, loss, doubt, and faith. Despite periods of deep sadness, Tennyson maintained an unwavering faith throughout his life. His poems explore complex themes in mystical ways, allowing readers to uncover new interpretations with each reading. Though he passed in 1892, Tennyson’s works continue to inspire and connect deeply with readers over 150 years later.

The Magi by William Butler Yeats

The Magi

by William Butler Yeats

Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

###

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was one of the foremost poets of 20th century literature. An Irish poet and playwright, Yeats helped drive the Irish Literary Revival and co-founded the Abbey Theatre. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923 for what the Nobel Committee described as “inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation.”

Yeats was born in Dublin and spent his childhood between London and County Sligo in Ireland. The Irish landscape and folklore of his youth informed much of his poetic imagery and nationalistic sentiments later in life. Though he trained as a painter initially, Yeats turned fully towards poetry in his twenties while becoming involved in occult circles in London. He published several poetry collections in the 1890s as well as plays rooted in Irish mythology.

Alongside Lady Gregory, Yeats was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival aimed at reviving native Irish language and culture through art. As a playwright, he co-founded the Abbey Theatre with Gregory and others as a home for Irish drama. Over his long and prolific career, Yeats cemented his legacy as one of Ireland’s most revered writers, noted for his imaginative lyricism and powerful vision infused with Irish politics and mythology. His poems of unrequited love, Irish rebellion and the arcane remain widely influential in modern literature.

Christmas Comes Again by Elizabeth Stoddard

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard (1823 – 1902) was a poet and novelist who brought fresh perspective to New England life through her Gothic-inspired writings.

Christmas Comes Again

by Elizabeth Stoddard

Let me be merry now, ‘t is time;
The season is at hand
For Christmas rhyme and Christmas chime,
Close up, and form the band.

The winter fires still burn as bright,
The lamp-light is as clear,
And since the dead are out of sight,
What hinders Christmas cheer?

Why think or speak of that abyss
In which lies all my Past?
High festival I need not miss,
While song and jest shall last.

We’ll clink and drink on Christmas Eve,
Our ghosts can feel no wrong;
They revelled ere they took their leave—
Hearken, my Soldier’s Song:

“The morning air doth coldly pass,
Comrades, to the saddle spring:
The night more bitter cold will bring
Ere dying—ere dying.
Sweetheart, come, the parting glass;
Glass and sabre, clash, clash, clash,
Ere dying—ere dying.
Stirrup-cup and stirrup-kiss—
Do you hope the foe we’ll miss,
Sweetheart, for this loving kiss,
Ere dying—ere dying?”

The feasts and revels of the year
Do ghosts remember long?
Even in memory come they here?
Listen, my Sailor’s Song:

“O my hearties, yo heave ho!
Anchor’s up in Jolly Bay—
Hey!
Pipes and swipes, hob and nob—
Hey!
Mermaid Bess and Dolphin Meg,
Paddle over Jolly Bay—
Hey!
Tars, haul in for Christmas Day,
For round the ‘varsal deep we go;
Never church, never bell,
For to tell
Of Christmas Day.
Yo heave ho, my hearties O!
Haul in, mates, here we lay—
Hey!”

His sword is rusting in its sheath,
His flag furled on the wall;
We’ll twine them with a holly-wreath,
With green leaves cover all.

So clink and drink when falls the eve;
But, comrades, hide from me
Their graves—I would not see them heave
Beside me, like the sea.

Let not my brothers come again,
As men dead in their prime;
Then hold my hands, forget my pain,
And strike the Christmas chime.

###

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard (1823 – 1902) was a poet and novelist who brought fresh perspective to New England life through her Gothic-inspired writings. Born into privilege as a member of Maine’s wealthy Collins family, Stoddard had creative ambitions from a young age. After marrying famed poet Richard Henry Stoddard, she began channeling her skills into both poetry and prose.

Stoddard published her first poem in 1852, quickly earning acclaim for her lyrical verses meditating on love, death, morality and the human condition. Her work appeared in prominent literary magazines for decades, targeting discerning intellectual readers rather than the masses. Stoddard’s distinct poetry was finally compiled into the 1895 collection Poems, featuring favored pieces like “A Presence,” “October,” and “Three Loves.”

In addition to poetry, Stoddard produced three insightful novels between 1862 and 1867. Her debut The Morgesons (1862) painted a stark portrait of a unraveling New England family weakened by societal pressures and inner turmoil. Stoddard expanded her scope with Two Men (1865) and Temple House (1867), probing religion, morality and community identity across Massachusetts, Maine and the isolated Temple House island monastery. More mature editions released in 1888 earned Stoddard’s novels, commended for their psychological depth and regional accuracy, greater readership. Stoddard also tapped into her reservations about strict Puritanical principles through the lighthearted children’s tale Lolly Dinks’s Doings (1874), chronicling the adventures of an irrepressibly free-spirited young girl.

Christmas Greetings by Lewis Carroll

Lewis Carroll was the pen name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, born in 1832 in Cheshire, England. Best known for his whimsical children’s stories

Christmas Greetings
[FROM A FAIRY TO A CHILD.]

by Lewis Carroll

Lady dear, if Fairies may
For a moment lay aside
Cunning tricks and elfish play,
‘Tis at happy Christmas-tide.

We have heard the children say—
Gentle children, whom we love—
Long ago, on Christmas Day,
Came a message from above.

Still, as Christmas-tide comes round,
They remember it again—
Echo still the joyful sound
“Peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Yet the hearts must childlike be
Where such heavenly guests abide:
Unto children, in their glee,
All the year is Christmas-tide!

Thus, forgetting tricks and play
For a moment, Lady dear,
We would wish you, if we may,
Merry Christmas, glad New Year!

Christmas, 1867.

###

Lewis Carroll was the pen name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, born in 1832 in Cheshire, England. Best known for his whimsical children’s stories Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, Carroll was an English writer, mathematician, photographer, and Anglican deacon. As a mathematics lecturer at Christ Church college, Oxford for over 25 years, Carroll had a natural talent for puzzles, logic, and fantasy that was woven throughout his literary works. His creative children’s stories featuring Alice exploring nonsensical dreamworlds became beloved classics of imaginative literature. As an early photography enthusiast, Carroll frequently photographed children in his life, including the daughters of friends that inspired his character Alice. While Dodgson lived a rather reclusive life devoted to academia and creative pursuits, his alter ego Lewis Carroll became one of the most popular children’s storytellers of the 19th century, with imaginative tales of fantasy exploration that continue to captivate readers young and old.

Dreamland by Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American writer, poet, critic and editor best known for his tales of mystery and horror.

Dreamland

by Edgar Allan Poe

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space—out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—

There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
‘Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
‘Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

1844

###

from: In Memoriam A.H.H. by Alfred Lord Tennyson

from: In Memoriam A.H.H.

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

XXVIII
The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish’d no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:{46}

But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controll’d me when a boy;
They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.

XXIX
With such compelling cause to grieve
As daily vexes household peace,
And chains regret to his decease,
How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;

Which brings no more a welcome guest
To enrich the threshold of the night
With shower’d largess of delight,
In dance and song and game and jest.

Yet go, and while the holly boughs
Entwine the cold baptismal font,
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont
That guard the portals of the house;

Old sisters of a day gone by,
Gray nurses, loving nothing new;
Why should they miss their yearly due
Before their time? They too will die.

XXX
With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess’d the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol’d, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho’ every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:{49}

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’
And silence follow’d, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: ‘They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;

Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather’d power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.

Rise, happy morn, rise holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father! touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.’

LXXVI
Again at Christmas did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth,
The silent snow possess’d the earth,
And calmly fell our Christmas-eve;

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost,
No wing of wind the region swept,
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.

As in the winters left behind,
Again our ancient games had place,
The mimic pictures breathing grace,
And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

Who show’d a token of distress?
No single tear, no type of pain:
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?
O grief, can grief be changed to less?{107}

O last regret, Regret can die!
No—mixt with all this mystic frame,
Her deep relations are the same,
But with long use her tears are dry.

CIII
This holly by the cottage-eave,
To night, ungather’d, shall it stand:
We live within the stranger’s land,
And strangely falls our Christmas eve.

Our father’s dust is left alone
And silent under other snows:
There in due time the woodbine blows,
The violet comes, but we are gone.

No more shall wayward grief abuse
The genial hour with mask and mime;
For change of place, like growth of time,
Has broke the bond of dying use.

Let cares that petty shadows cast,
By which our lives are chiefly proved,
A little spare the night I loved,
And hold it solemn to the past.{161}

But let no footstep beat the floor,
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;
For who would keep an ancient form
Through which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast,
Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown;
No dance, no motion, save alone
What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood.
Long sleeps the summer in the seed;
Run out your measur’d arcs, and lead
The closing cycle rich in good.

The Pick-up Artist by Karol Nielsen

The Pick-up Artist

by Karol Nielsen

After graduating from the Columbia School of Journalism, I became the managing editor of a Bronx newspaper and my graduate school classmate became a stringer for The New York Times. I wanted to be a stringer, too. I gave him almost everything I had ever published and he recommended me for the job.

I became a Metro Section stringer and I covered a fire, a numbers bust, a gang fight, a gun standoff at Penn Station, the death of a homeless man across from a hospital, and other stories. My reporting appeared in the Times and I always bought a copy of the paper.

Once, a tall, burly man with a baseball cap and thick beard approached me at the newsstand near my Upper West Side apartment.

“Do you want to be an actress?” he said.

“No, a writer,” I said.

He shrugged and wrote his name and number in my newly purchased New York Times—James Toback, writer “Bugsy” and director “The Pick-up Artist.”

“Call me if you change your mind,” he said.

Turns out, he was accused of being a sexual predator who used to target women in my old neighborhood. Luckily, I moved across town and became a writer and never called.

###

Karol Nielsen is the author of the memoirs Walking A&P and Black Elephants and three poetry chapbooks. Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing. Her full-length poetry collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Her poem “This New Manhattan” was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize.

Road Kill by John RC Potter

John RC Potter is a gay man from Canada, living in Istanbul, and an international educator (currently university counsellor, formerly principal & teacher).

Road Kill

by John RC Potter

I saw a raccoon lying on the side of the road last night
on his back, freshly dead, his paws raised in supplication;
he reminded me of me:
but can the dead still be moved through manipulation?

Whenever I see raccoons lying dead on the road,
they remind me of all those who have loved and lost:
dead and dying hearts on this endless highway of love,
whose owners took a chance but at quite a high cost.

I saw a raccoon dying on the side of the road last night
on his back, still alive, wondering what had happened to him;
he reminded me of me:
just a heap on the highway of love as the light grows dim.

###

John RC Potter is a gay man from Canada, living in Istanbul, and an international educator (currently university counsellor, formerly principal & teacher). He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, “Snowbound in the House of God” (Memoirist, May 2023). His poems and stories have been published in a range of magazines and journals, most recently in Blank Spaces, (“In Search of Alice Munro”, June 2023), Literary Yard (“She Got What She Deserved”, June 2023) & Freedom Fiction (“The Mystery of the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author”, July 2023). John RC Potter – Author Website (author-blog.org)

Christmas at Sea by Robert Louis Stevenson

Christmas at Sea

by Robert Louis Stevenson

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every ’longshore home;

The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;

And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
“All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call.
“By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried.
. . . “It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,” he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

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Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) was a celebrated Scottish novelist, poet, essayist, and travel writer. Born into a family of engineers in Edinburgh, he first pursued law to satisfy his family but soon turned to his true passions of writing and literature. Though plagued by illness for most of his life, Stevenson traveled extensively in Europe and North America, using his journeys across the Atlantic as inspiration for many of his writings.

Some of Stevenson’s most enduring fiction works take place amidst these travels, including his coming-of-age classic Treasure Island (1883) and Kidnapped (1886). Known for his unique narrative style and mastery of atmosphere, Stevenson also authored seminal works like Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886), a thrilling exploration of good versus evil. His short fiction like The Bottle Imp (1891) and Markheim (1885) also demonstrate his interest in moral ambiguity and psychology. Beyond his dark, ingenious fiction, Stevenson’s travelogues vividly capture life as an eccentric wanderer trekking across oceans and continents.

Though Stevenson’s prolific writing career was cut short when he died suddenly at 44, he left behind an incredible literary legacy. His novels of high adventure and Gothic tension proved pioneering for adventure and suspense fiction. Today, Stevenson’s revolutionary fiction still inspires countless readers and writers around the world.

Ring Out, Wild Bells by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Ring Out, Wild Bells

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

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Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) was the leading English poet of the Victorian era. He was appointed Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom in 1850 and held that position until his death in 1892.

Tennyson was born in Somersby, England. His early poetry was published alongside his brothers’, but Alfred soon surpassed the others in both talent and fame. His breakthrough came with Poems, Chiefly Lyrical published in 1830. Later celebrated works included “The Lady of Shalott,” “Ulysses,” and his masterpiece epic “In Memoriam A.H.H.” dedicated to his friend Arthur Henry Hallam.

Deeply affected by his friend Hallam’s early death, much of Tennyson’s verse reflects on mortality, loss and faith. Known for his rich and sensuous language, he exhibited superb craftsmanship and intricate rhyme schemes. Politically engaged, his work also reacted to pressing social issues as the industrial revolution transformed English society.

Immensely popular in his day, Alfred Lord Tennyson earned critical acclaim for his mastery of memorable phrasing and mythical allusion which profoundly shaped Victorian poetry. He is regarded as a consummate lyric wordsmith who left an enduring legacy and greatly influenced future generations of poets and thinkers

Gods Tears by Jezabel Castillo

Jezabel Castillo is 17 years old from New York. She has been writing poetry for 5 years and strives to pursue her dream career of becoming a Published Poet

Gods Tears

by Jezabel Castillo

I have recurring
false dreams
where I find myself
to be the daughter
of winter.

Blood made of snow,
glacier shoulders,
polar bones,
just as tough
As hail rocks.

I, numbing the bites
by the frost of winds
piercing teeth.

I must possess
the power
of waves.

I shall interfere
with the velocity
of roaring melancholy.

What have I turned into?
Am I the reason
why gods tears
gives everyone rain?

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Jezabel Castillo is 17 years old from New York. She has been writing poetry for 5 years and strives to pursue her dream career of becoming a Published Poet with her dedication to writing. She hopes to share her deep, emotional poetry with the world, as well as supporting an audience who can relate to her work.

The Oxen by Thomas Hardy

The Oxen

by Thomas Hardy

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
‘Now they are all on their knees,’
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
‘Come; see the oxen kneel

‘In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,’
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

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Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) was an English author best known for his novels set in the semi-fictional land of Wessex. Born in Dorset, Hardy was the son of a stonemason. He trained as an architect before turning to writing full time. Although he wrote several famous novels, including Tess of the d’Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure, Hardy considered himself more of a poet than novelist. Most of his poems reflect on nature, transience of life, and the human condition.

Hardy’s novels often dealt with characters struggling against difficult environments, relationships, and social circumstances – themes tied to his perspective as the son of a working class family. Though considered controversial in the Victorian era for progressive views on sexuality and religion, Hardy’s works were admired for rich storytelling and evocative settings in rural communities and landscapes meant to evoke Dorset life. The detailed, fictional Wessex places were based loosely on regions of southwest England familiar from the author’s upbringing.

A prolific writer, Hardy produced the bulk of his poetry in the decades following his last novel, Jude the Obscure, which received harsh criticism in 1895. In his final years, Hardy gained renown for intensely personal yet accessible verse musing philosophically on 20th century shifts toward modernity. By 1928, Hardy settled back into Dorchester, dying at the age of 87 after establishing himself as one of England’s most renowned writers blending regional realism and poetic romanticism, often around universal themes of love, irony and human suffering.

Thanksgiving Day by Lydia Maria Child

This poem is popularly known as Over the river and Through the Wood. Lydia Maria Child (1802-1880) was a prominent American

Thanksgiving Day

by Lydia Maria Child

Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood–
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,
To have first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
“Ting-a-ling-ding!”
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow–
It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood–
Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

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This poem is popularly known as Over the river and Through the Wood.

Lydia Maria Child (1802-1880) was a prominent American abolitionist, women’s rights activist, Native American rights advocate, novelist, and journalist. Born in Medford, Massachusetts, Child spent most of her life championing humanitarian causes through her writings and activism.

Child found success in her 20s with her historical novel “Hobomok” (1824) and as editor of the children’s magazine The Juvenile Miscellany. In 1833, she published “An Appeal in Favor of That Class of Americans Called Africans,” a groundbreaking treatise against slavery and early call for total abolition. The controversial pamphlet destroyed her mainstream career, but Child courageously devoted herself fully to the antislavery movement henceforth.

Over the following decades, Child wrote prolifically for abolitionist newspapers like the National Anti-Slavery Standard. She advocated for immediate emancipation,ivil liberties for African Americans, and women’s rights alongside luminaries like William Lloyd Garrison and Susan B. Anthony. Her antebellum antislavery short stories and nonfiction works like “The Quadroons” (1842) and “The Freedmen’s Book” (1865) helped galvanize public sentiment against slavery.

A woman far ahead of her time, Lydia Maria Child stands as one of the most influential and principled activists of the 19th century devoted to ending racial and gender injustice in America. Though lesser known today, her impassioned writings and organizing efforts were instrumental in bringing about the abolition of slavery and advancing human equality.

She sights a Bird — she chuckles — by Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was one of the most influential and innovative American poets of the 19th century

She sights a Bird — she chuckles —

by Emily Dickinson

She sights a Bird — she chuckles —
She flattens — then she crawls —
She runs without the look of feet —
Her eyes increase to Balls —

Her Jaws stir — twitching — hungry —
Her Teeth can hardly stand —
She leaps, but Robin leaped the first —
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand,

The Hopes so juicy ripening —
You almost bathed your Tongue —
When Bliss disclosed a hundred Toes —
And fled with every one —

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Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was one of the most influential and innovative American poets of the 19th century. Though she lived a reclusive life in Amherst, Massachusetts, she created a body of work that had a profound impact on American literature.

Dickinson pushed the boundaries of poetic form, rhythm, and style. She was fond of unconventional capitalization, dashes instead of traditional punctuation, and playing with the rhythms of words and lines in unexpected ways. Her poems dealt with themes of death, immortality, religion, nature, and love.

Though less than a dozen of Dickinson’s nearly 1,800 poems were published during her lifetime, she shared her work in letters with friends and family members. After her death, Dickinson’s poems were published and she began garnering acclaim. She is now considered one of the towering figures of American poetry. Her innovative style and brave exploration of deep, philosophical themes in short lyric poems inspired later poets and helped shape the course of modern poetry.

ULALUME

by Edgar Allan Poe

The Death of the Old Year

The Magi

Christmas Comes Again

Christmas Greetings [FROM A FAIRY TO A CHILD.]

Dreamland

from: In Memoriam A.H.H.

The Pick-up Artist

Road Kill

Christmas at Sea

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Gods Tears

The Oxen

Thanksgiving Day

She sights a Bird — she chuckles —

Christmas Greetings
[FROM A FAIRY TO A CHILD.]