“To Elizabeth Ward Perkins” is a beautiful poem written by Amy Lowell, one of the most prominent American poets of the early 20th century. The poem is a tribute to Elizabeth Ward Perkins, a close friend and patron of Lowell’s work.
The poem is composed of three stanzas, each consisting of four lines. The rhyme scheme is AABB, which gives the poem a sense of balance and symmetry.
In the first stanza, Lowell describes the joy that poetry brings to her life. She compares poetry to a “bird on the wing” that brings beauty and inspiration to her soul. She also mentions the role that Elizabeth Ward Perkins played in her life, providing her with the resources and support she needed to pursue her art.
In the second stanza, Lowell reflects on the transience of life and the inevitability of death. She acknowledges the passing of time and the fact that all things must come to an end. However, she also suggests that poetry has the power to transcend time and capture the beauty and essence of life.
In the final stanza, Lowell pays tribute to Elizabeth Ward Perkins and the friendship they shared. She describes her friend as a “soul serene” who brought light and warmth to her life. She also suggests that the legacy of their friendship will live on through her poetry, which will continue to inspire and uplift others.
To Elizabeth Ward Perkins
Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme
Had force to rise from apathy,
And shaking off its lethargy
Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime.
But in my soul’s high belfry, chill
The bitter wind of doubt has blown,
The summer swallows all have flown,
The bells are frost-bound, mute and still.
Upon the crumbling boards the snow
Has drifted deep, the clappers hang
Prismed with icicles, their clang
Unheard since ages long ago.
The rope I pull is stiff and cold,
My straining ears detect no sound
Except a sigh, as round and round
The wind rocks through the timbers old.
Below, I know the church is bright
With haloed tapers, warm with prayer;
But here I only feel the air
Of icy centuries of night.
Beneath my feet the snow is lit
And gemmed with colours, red, and blue,
Topaz, and green, where light falls through
The saints that in the windows sit.
Here darkness seems a spectred thing,
Voiceless and haunting, while the stars
Mock with a light of long dead years
The ache of present suffering.
Silent and winter-killed I stand,
No carol hymns my debt to you;
But take this frozen thought in lieu,
And thaw its music in your hand.
