Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Vintage Books of Poetry for Sale

Vintage Poetry Books, Antique Books, Poetry, Poetry Books

We were contacted by Diana Wilson, one of our followers who informed us that she has approximately 50 original-print hardback books of poetry, dating from the late 1800’s to the early 1900’s. She inherited this vintage collection, but sadly is unable to display them as she would like to. It would be such an injustice to see these precious volumes just sit and collect dust when someone would be able to genuinely appreciate them. 

Diana is seeking to sell them to a period book collector and/or poetry enthusiast, or for someone who is interested in purchasing the books to give as a gift. She kindly shared her contact number (865-804-4143) or you can email her at for serious inquiries and negotiations only. What a treasure trove for your library, a literary display in a museum or for historical archives.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Niagara Falls, poetry by Thomas Frederick Young

In celebration of the state of New York's 228th birthday, we're featuring a poem by Thomas Frederick Young about one of New York's beloved and iconic landmarks, Niagara Falls.

Niagara Falls
By Thomas Frederick Young

    Niagara, thou mighty flood.
    I've seen thee fall, I've heard thee roar,
    And on the frightful verges stood,
    That overhang thy rocky shore.

    I've sailed o'er surging waves below,
    And view'd the rainbow's colour'd light,
    And felt the spray, thy waters throw,
    When leaping, with resistless might.

    I've seen the rapids in their course,
    Like madden'd, living things rush on,
    With wild, unhesitating force,
    To where thy mighty chasms yawn.

    And there to take the awful leap,
    And fall, with hoarse and sullen roar,
    Into th' unfathomable deep,
    Which rolleth on, from shore to shore.

    Niagara, thou'rt mighty, grand,
    Thou fill'st human souls with awe,
    For thee, and for that mighty Hand,
    Which maketh thee, by nature's law.

    Thou'rt great, thou mighty, foaming mass
    Of water, plunging, roaring down,
    But so are we, yea, we surpass
    Thee, and we wear a nobler crown.

    Thy mighty head is crowned with foam,
    And rainbows wreathe thy robes of blue;
    Our earthly forms - our present home - 
    Are insignificant to you.

    But look, thou mighty thund'rer, thou,
    Tho' puny be our forms to thine,
    These forms possess, yea, even now,
    A spark, a ray of life divine.

    Rush on, O waters! proudly hurl
    Thyself to roaring depths below,
    And let the mists of ages curl,
    And generations come and go.

    But know, stupendous wonder, know,
    Thy rocks would crumble, at the nod
    Of Him, who lets thy waters flow;
    Thy Maker, but our Friend and God.

    Thy rocks shall crumble, fall they must;
    Thy waters, then, shall plunge no more,
    But we shall rise, e'en from the dust,
    To live upon another shore.

*This poem is found in public domain.

Sunday, July 3, 2016

July, a poem by Madison Julius Cawein

July is the heartbeat of summer. To celebrate the essence of this month, enjoy this poem, July by Madison Julius Cawein.

By Madison Julius Cawein

    Now 'tis the time when, tall,
    The long blue torches of the bellflower gleam
    Among the trees; and, by the wooded stream,
    In many a fragrant ball,
    Blooms of the button-bush fall.

    Let us go forth and seek
    Woods where the wild plums redden and the beech
    Plumps its packed burs; and, swelling, just in reach,
    The pawpaw, emerald sleek,
    Ripens along the creek.

    Now 'tis the time when ways
    Of glimmering green flaunt white the misty plumes
    Of the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,
    A blur of orange rays,
    The butterfly-blossoms blaze.

    Let us go forth and hear
    The spiral music that the locusts beat,
    And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,
    Dear to a country ear,
    The cricket's summer cheer.

    Now golden celandine
    Is hairy hung with silvery sacks of seeds,
    And bugled o'er with freckled gold, like beads,
    Beneath the fox-grape vine,
    The jewel-weed's blossoms shine.

    Let us go forth and see
    The dragon- and the butterfly, like gems,
    Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,
    Weighed down by many a bee,
    Nodding mellifluously.

    Now morns are full of song;
    The catbird and the redbird and the jay
    Upon the hilltops rouse the rosy day,
    Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,
    Lures their wild wings along.

    Now noons are full of dreams;
    The clouds of heaven and the wandering breeze
    Follow a vision; and the flowers and trees,
    The hills and fields and streams,
    Are lapped in mystic gleams.

    The nights are full of love;
    The stars and moon take up the golden tale
    Of the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,
    Mixing their fires above,
    Grow eloquent thereof.

    Such days are like a sigh
    That beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:
    Such nights are like the sweetness of a kiss
    On lips that half deny,
    The warm lips of July.