The Collected Poems of William H. Davies

by William Henry Davies

Overview

William Henry Davies, a poet famed for his talented portrayals of nature and indigence, penned numerous evocative verses. This 1916 anthology is a summation of his early to midlife work.

As a young man, Davies favored the life of a homeless person. Born in Wales, he spent part of his youth in North America, making his way through various locales on foot or by train as a tramp. In 1899 he experienced a serious accident; while aboard a moving train in Ontario he slipped and his foot was caught and crushed by a moving wheel. His leg was amputated below the knee, necessitating a peg leg. This shocking event marked the beginning of Davies' poetic career.

The style of Davies' poems is simple yet distinctive, his economy with words coinciding with unique impact and grace. Meditations upon the beauty of the natural world are accompanied by descriptive verse on such topics as childhood, emotional states, the warmth of a good fire, and creatures of the great outdoors. Despite further blows to his health as the years passed, Davies was productive for decades, publishing fondly-received anthologies well into the 1930s.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781789876475
Publisher:	Pantianos Classics
Publication date:	01/01/1916
Pages:	94
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.23(d)

Read an Excerpt

AUTUMN AUTUMN grows old: he, like some simple one, In Summer's castaway is strangely clad ; Such withered things the winds in frolic mad Shake from his feeble hand and forehead wan. Autumn is sighing for his early gold, And in his tremble dropping his remains; The brook talks more, as one bereft of brains, Who singeth loud, delirious with the cold. 0 now with drowsy June one hour to be! Scarce waking strength to hear the hum of bees, Or cattle lowing under shady trees, Knee deep in waters loitering to the sea. I would that drowsy June awhile were here, The amorous South wind carrying all the vale Save that white lily true to star as pale, Whose secret day-dream Phoebus burns to hear. THIS NIGHT THIS night, as I sit here alone, And brood on what is dead and gone, The owl that's in this Highgate Wood, Has found his fellow in my mood; To every star, as it doth rise Oh-o-o! Oh-o-o! he shivering cries. And, looking at the Moon this night, There's that dark shadow in her light. Ah! Life and Death, my fairest one, Thy lover is a skeleton! " And why is that? " I question " why? " Oh-o-o! Oh-o-o! the owl doth cry. IN MAY YES, I will spend the livelong day With Nature in this month of May; And sit beneath the trees, and share My bread with birds whose homes are there; While cows lie down to eat, and sheep Stand to their necks in grass so deep; While birds do sing with all their might, As though they felt the earth in flight. This is the hour I dreamed of, when I sat surrounded by poor men; And thought of how the Arab sat Alone at evening, gazing at The stars that bubbled in clear skies; And of young dreamers, when their eyes Enjoyed methought a precious boon In the adventures of the MoonWhose light, behind the Clouds' dark bars, Searched for her ...