Archive for September 2011

Poetry XIV: Inspiration   Leave a comment

Above:  Muses



The Lifeblood of the Artist,

The Food of the Creative Mind,

The Stuff of Poetry,



When I feel


I cannot help  but to

Follow its magical lead

To another masterpiece,

To another poem.


APRIL 18, 1991

Posted September 30, 2011 by neatnik2009 in Kenneth Randolph Taylor 1990s

“Puppy” Love   Leave a comment

A dying-living, living-dying,

A little truth, and lots of lying,

A little joy, a power of sighing,

And all is o’er;

And thus dissolves that wat’ry fetter,

They’re both deceived, so neither’s debtor,

And both are wiser, tho’ not better

Than before.


Posted September 26, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

On My Twenty-First Birth-Day   Leave a comment

Above:  Victorian Men

Why thus for naught have I been spared so long?

One so averse to right, so apt in wrong.

Where are those pleasures, and that lasting joy,

This age did promise when I was a boy?

Ah!  future still her phantom form is seen;

And still receding, as before ‘t has been.

Like to the rainbow’s form arched in the skies,

‘Tis near, it seems, but as we approach it flies.

So, pleasure unalloyed, seemed just ahead,

But as I sought the prize, alas!  ‘t had fled.

O!  goddess false, thy subtlety I know;

For where I thought most joy, I found most woe.

Experience sad against thy wiles advise;

For he, who seeks, seeks sorrow in disguise.


Posted September 25, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems

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Lines (On Reading the Fate of William Woodson Hendree–The Poet Boy.)   2 comments


William Woodson Hendree (November 6, 1851-July 16, 1872), of Selma, Alabama, was the “Boy Poet of Selma.”  He seems to have made quite an impression on my great-grandfather, among others, but has become less well-known today than in the late 1800s.

Follow this link for an image of his grave:



That cruel fate which blights the flower

When it begins to bloom,

In gifted Hendree’s verdant hour

Has laid him in the tomb.


Come now, vain world, his lifeless mould

Can’t thrill to hear his fame,

His eyes are dim, his warm heart cold;

You now may laud his name.


He was a bard; his harp was strung

Upon the sacred hill;

And brief tho’ were the lays he sung,

He was a poet still.


And he has shared the poet’s lot;

A thorny path he trod;

And all the praises that he got,

Came to him ‘neath the sod.


Think kindly, friends; fools, do not laugh;

Tho’ he shunned fame’s caress,

‘Twas that his thirsty soul might quaff

The bliss of silentness.


That meditation might unfold

The realms of thought sublime;

In solitude to melt and mould

His spirits into rhyme.


Scarce were his heaven-born lays inspired

Than they were hushed forever;

Scarce were his youthful spirits fired

Than quenched in the Lethean river.


Why, cruel death, didst thou not take

One from the grosser throng?

And leave the “Poet Boy” to wake

And bless the world with song?


Of groveling minds and spirits mean

The world would glad be reft;

But, ah!  how oft the rose is ta’en

And thorns alone are left!


Yet still of Heaven we won’t complain;

But own its sovereign will;

The stream that’s dried, might, unto men,

Have born forever ill.


Tho’ dark and high the waves may flow,

God’s purpose freights the tide;

Tho’ cold the wintry winds may blow,

His blessings on them ride.


To a Young Lady for a Boquet   Leave a comment

Above:  A Bouquet of Flowers in a Vase

Words are useless, language vain,

Inexpressive every art,

Angels could not sound the strain

That would come forth from my heart.


When I look upon this token,

Which, I trust, bespeaks for me

Friendship that shall not be broken,

Then in spirit I’m with thee.


As I gaze into its face

Memory broods on scenes agone;

Then, in fancy, I can trace

Lineaments like to thine own.


And thy sweet angelic tone

Seems to fall upon mine ear,

Till, forgetting thou art gone,

Oft I think that thou are near.


And, tho’ leagues our hearts now sever,

This thought sweet indeed is found:

Separation never, never,

Can unbind hearts truly bound.


When sweet notes no more have rolled,

Echoes still repeat the strain;

When the censer’s fire grows cold,

Perfumes sweet there still remain.


Posted September 20, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

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Loved in Vain   Leave a comment

Portrait of Jeanna Samary (1878), by Pierre-August Renoir

I have loved thee but in vain,

Thy heart’s given to another,

And we must now break in twain

Ties we vowed we would not sever.


Would to heaven I had not seen

Thee, so false and yet so fair,

Or that thou had only been

Half as true as thou did’st swear.


Tell me not in thy heart

None are cherished as am I,

For by many a crafty art

Hearts oft give to tongue the lie.


I have loved thee fond and true;

Dearer life was not to me

And no other wish I knew

Only to be loved by thee.


And I dearly love thee now,

Tho’ in silence it shall be.

For, alas! too well I know,

That thou carest not for me.


Love in peace then him thou will,

Now with hate my bosom’s fraught;

I will calmly bear the ill

That thy ruthless hand hath wrought.


Posted September 18, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

On A Petty Tyrant   1 comment

Here rotting lies

What all despise–

A petty tyrant’s clay.

But thanks to Heaven,

There was not given

To him a monarch’s sway.


Let no one doubt

He was without

A lofty aspiration,

For, if he could,

I’m sure he would

Have seized his Maker’s station.


Posted September 15, 2011 by neatnik2009 in Death and/or Grief, John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems

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