I went looking for obscure poets this time, not poets born in August but just any poet whose works are really obscure and also in the public domain. I found Samuel Loveman because a fan of his collected his public domain works and has posts here and there saying, essentially, “Here’s a poet who is unfairly forgotten! Please pay attention to this poet!” So I naturally thought, PERFECT, and clicked through. Here is the first of the poems collected at the linked site below the name of the poem. Here’s the Wikipedia page about Samuel Loveman. He was close to Hart Crane, apparently — I mean, it says, “Loveman wrote numerous memoirs of Hart Crane, and nursed Crane’s mother Grace until her death.” Here’s the Thursday post where I featured Hart Crane.
In Pierrot’s Garden
I.
There’s a lark that’s drunken with the daedal moon,
And I sing to the shy-fledged singer;
Lonesomest thing in the world but one,
He bids me wait and linger.
Hush, little brother, your heart is fire,
Hush, little one and forget;
He will not tarry, but wings him higher,
And my eyes are wet, are wet.
II.
This is the way the moon comes up
From under the glimmering fallow fields;
First but the rim of a silver cup,
Where the farthest twilight primrose yields
Her earthly beauty up;
And now where the deep light winks abrim,
You can see it flutter and fail for breath,
And a single star falls rapt and dim –
I call it Death.
III.
These are my moths, a brooding slumber
Falls from their painted placid wings,
The shifting dusk is white with their number,
They stir to the song one sings.
Into the heart of a poppy they hover,
Out of the purple starlit night;
Ah, they are gone now, poppy and lover –
I am their short delight.
IV.
Do you hear it? – my bubbling nightingale,
With a thousand notes to a single trill;
The moon and the stars are passion-pale,
Listen they must at will.
Such a world of ache, such an ancient wrong,
I have tried to fathom it all forsooth;
But the deep night covers the singer and song,
And youth, it cries – youth – youth!
V.
I wonder what the night can hold
Beyond the sea-blue sloping boughs,
The heart of all the west is gold,
I wonder why it glows.
My thoughts lie heavy on my eyes,
I have so many dreams to dream,
So many little fantasies,
To solve and scheme.
They creep upon me unawares,
They flutter in and out my brain,
Each one finds housing in my prayers,
I hold them free from stain.
***
Here’s another —
Dream Song
Byron’s soul was mire,
Goethe’s heart was ice;
But mine is a fire
From Paradise.
Joy without a grief,
Songs without words,
As beautiful and brief
As are singing birds.
I, who loved the light
Where silence dwells,
Heard in the night
The sound of bells.
For hours and hours
On the still deep,
Came the odour of flowers,
Came the colour of sleep.
What should one who tries
To dream the world away –
But to close his eyes
For a better day?
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