Vintage Valentine Poem

Vintage St. Valentine's Day Children's Stories, Cards, and Lesson Plans

Vintage St. Valentine's Day Poem

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A Chanted Calendar
Here is the Year's Processional in verse; the story of her hours, her days, her seasons, told as only -poets can, because they see and hear things not revealed to you and me, and are able by their magic to make us sharers in the revelation. Read the first six poems and ask yourself whether you have ever realized the glories of the common day; from the moment when morning from her orient chambers comes, and the lark at heaven's gate sings, to the hour when the moon, unveiling her peerless light, throws her silver mantle o'er the dark, and the firmament glows with living sapphires. It is the task of poetry not only to say noble things, but to say them nobly; having beautiful fancies, to clothe them in beautiful phrases, and if you search these poems you will find some of the most wonderful word- pictures in the English language. How charming Drayton's description of the summer breeze:
" The wind hail no more strength than this,
That leisurely it blew.
To make one leaf the next to kiss
That closely by it grew."
If the day is dreary you need only read Lowell's " June Weather," and like the bird sitting at his door in the sun, atilt like a blossom among the leaves, your " illumined being " will overrun with the " deluge of summer it receives."
Then turn the page ; the picture fades as you read Trow- bridge's " Midwinter.'' The speckled sky is dim,- the light flakes falter and fall slow ; the chickadee sings cheerily, for the magic touch again and the house mates sit as Emerson tells them-,
"Around the radiant fireplace enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm."
There are reprints of this book for sale online for ridiculous prices - $40.00 to $60.00 at Amazon and Barnes & Noble respectively. It would cost much less to print and bind the book yourself with brads! Even better, read it for free online or download it to your PC or laptop.






people ; the bourgeois saint invoked by the peaceable citizen, by the labourer who toiled for his daily bread, by the merchant who traded from shore to shore, by the mariner struggling with the stormy ocean. He was the protector of the weak against the strong, of the poor against the rich, of the captive, the prisoner, the slave ; he was the guardian of young marriageable maidens, of schoolboys,and especially of the orphan poor. In Russia, Greece, and throughout all Catholic Europe, children are still taught to reverence St. Nicholas, and to consider themselves as placed under his peculiar care : if they are good, docile, and attentive to their studies, St. Nicholas, on the eve of his festival, will graciously fill their cap or their stocking with dainties ; while he has, as certainly, a rod in pickle for the idle and unruly."






. In our first apartment, I strung the shells along white, creme and pale pink satin ribbon, very pretty. I don't have a picture of them, but I found this picture of a cowrie shell garland.
d the 18th century Rococo style(a combination of the French rocaille, or shell, and the Italian barocco, or Baroque style)' one of my favorite design styles. Rococo has a love of shell-like curves.



LOGAN AT PEACH TREE CREEK A VETERAN'S STORY [July 20, 1864]
You know that day at Peach Tree Creek,
When the Rebs with their circling, scorching wall
Of smoke-hid cannon and sweep of flame
Drove in our Hunks, back ! back ! and all
Our toil seemed lost in the storm of shell —
That desperate day McPherson fell!
Our regiment stood in a little glade
Set round with half-grown red oak trees —
An awful place to stand, in full fair sight.
While the minie bullets hummed like bees.
And comrades dropped on either side —
That fearful day McPherson died!
The roar of the battle, steady, stern,
Rung in our ears. Upon our eyes
The belching cannon smoke, the half-hid swing
Of deploying troops, the groans, the cries.
The hoarse commands, the sickening smell —
That blood-red day McPherson fell !
But we stood there ! — when out from the trees,
Out of the smoke and dismay to the right
Burst a rider — His head was bare, his eye
Had a blaze like a lion fain for fight;
His long hair, black as the deepest night.
Streamed out on the wind. And the might Of his plunging horse was a tale to tell, And his voice rang high like a bugle's swell:
"Men, the enemy hem us on every side:
We'll whip 'em yet ! Close up that breach —
Remember your flag — don't give an inch!
The right flank's gaining and soon will reach —
Forward boys, and give 'em hell!" —
Said Logan after McPherson fell.
We laughed and cheered and the red ground shook,
As the general plunged along the line
Through the deadliest rain of screaming shells;
For the sound of his voice refreshed us all,
And we filled the gap like a roaring tide.
And saved the day McPherson died!
But that was twenty years ago.
And part of a horrible dream now past.
For Logan, the lion, the drums throb low
And the flag swings low on the mast:
He has followed his mighty chieftain through
The mist-hung stream, where gray and blue
One color stand,
And North to South extends the hand.
It's right that deeds of war and blood
Should be forgot, but, spite of all,
I think of Logan, now, as he rode
That day across the field: I hear the call
Of his trumpet voice — see the battle shine
In his stern, black eyes, and down the line
Of cheering men I see him ride. As on
the day McPherson died.
~Hamlin Garland
From Poems of American History by Burton Egbert Stevenson, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1908. Free and in Public domain.