Seaward: An Elegy on the Death of Thomas William Parsons

By Richard Hovey

"Seaward: An Elegy on the Death of Thomas William Parsons" by Richard Hovey. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2019
• ISBN: 4064066235277

Book preview

Richard Hovey

Seaward: An Elegy on the Death of Thomas William Parsons

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4064066235277

Table of Contents

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

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XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

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XXXIV.

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XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

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XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

A STUDY

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

SEAWARD

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SEAWARD

I.

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THE tide is in the marshes. Far away

In Nova Scotia's woods they follow me,

Marshes of distant Massachusetts Bay,

Dear marshes, where the dead once loved to be!

I see them lying yellow in the sun,

And hear the mighty tremor of the sea

Beyond the dunes where blue cloud-shadows run.

II.

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IKNOW that there the tide is coming in,

Secret and slow, for in my heart I feel

The silent swelling of a stress akin;

And in my vision, lo! blue glimpses steal

Across the yellow marsh-grass, where the flood,

Filling the empty channels, lifts the keel

Of one lone cat-boat bedded in the mud.

III.

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The tide is in the marshes. Kingscroft fades;

It is not Minas there across the lea;

But I am standing under pilgrim shades

Far off where Scituate lapses to the sea.

And he, my elder brother in the muse,

The poet of the Charles and Italy,

Stands by my side, Song's gentle, shy recluse.

IV.

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THE hermit thrush of singers, few might draw

So near his ambush in the solitude

As to be witness of the holy awe

And passionate sweetness of his singing mood.

Not oft he sang, and then in ways apart,

Where foppish ignorance might not intrude

To mar the joy of his sufficing art.

V.

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Only for love of song he sang, unbid

And unexpectant of responsive praise;

But they that loved and sought him where he hid,

Forbearing to profane his templed ways,

Went marveling if that clear voice they heard

Pass thrilling through the hushed religious maze,

Were of a spirit singing or a bird.

VI.

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A