Core: noun, the most important part of a thing, the essence; from the Latin cor, meaning heart.

Click for Front Page of Current Issue (Home)

 Volume 2.6 This View’s Poetry October 14, 2002 


Aye, thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious breath!
   When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf
   And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
   In the gay woods and in the golden air,
   Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
   Might wear out life like thee, ’mid bowers and brooks,
   And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

    William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)    

American Poetry: The Nineteenth Century Volume One p. 159
ed. John Hollander



The passionate Summer’s dead! the sky’s a-glow,
   With roseate flushes of matured desire,
The winds at eve are musical and low,
   As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,
   Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,
Whose pomp of strange procession upward rolls,
With gorgeous blazonry of pictured folds,
   To celebrate the Summer’s past renown;
   Ah, me! how regally the Heavens look down,
O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,
   And harvest fields with hoarded increase brown,
And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
   That raise their solemn dirges to the sky,
   To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.

    Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830-1886)    

American Poetry: The Nineteenth Century Volume Two p. 220
ed. John Hollander



Bending above the spicy woods which blaze,
Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the sun
Immeasurably far; the waters run
Too slow, so freighted are the river-ways
With gold of elms and birches from the maze
Of forests. Chestnuts, clicking one by one,
Escape from satin burs; her fringes done,
The gentian spreads them out in sunny days,
And, like late revelers at dawn, the chance
Of one sweet, mad, last hour, all things assail,
And conquering, flush and spin; while, to enhance
The spell, by sunset door, wrapped in a veil
Of red and purple mists, the summer, pale,
Steals back alone for one more song and dance.

    Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)    

American Poetry: The Nineteenth Century Volume Two p. 224
ed. John Hollander


    From the Silence of Time, Time’s Silence borrow.
In the heart of To-day is the word of To-morrow.
The Builders of Joy are the Children of Sorrow.
    William Sharp (1856-1902)    

Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse p. 400
ed. D. H. S. Nicholson and A. H. E. Lee


 Volume 2.6 This View’s Poetry October 14, 2002 

The View from the Core, and all original material, © E. L. Core 2002. All rights reserved.

Cor ad cor loquitur J. H. Newman — “Heart speaks to heart”