{"id":85,"date":"2025-06-18T19:07:27","date_gmt":"2025-06-18T19:07:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.wpenginepowered.com\/?p=85"},"modified":"2025-07-01T14:55:56","modified_gmt":"2025-07-01T14:55:56","slug":"herb-woman-and-other-poems-a-selection-of-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/?p=85","title":{"rendered":"from Herb Woman and Other Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

from Herb Woman and Other Poems<\/em><\/strong>
\nby Eleanor C. Koenig<\/strong>
\n(New York: Harold Vinal, 1926)<\/h2>\n

RELEASE<\/h4>\n

OH, let me run with autumn winds
\nThat pass through reeds and rushes
\nLet me shriek with evening gales
\nIn ragged currant bushes.
\nLet me tear through aspen trees,
\nRoar on naked beaches,
\nLet me howl through bending oaks
\nIn haunted woodland reaches.
\nI tell you, this, the grief I hold
\nIs no considerate sorrow;
\nThis is the King of Pain who must
\nA fitting garment borrow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

MIDDLE AGE GARDEN<\/h4>\n

IN my middle years
\nI shall \u00b7have, for content,
\nAn old-fashioned garden,
\nWith herbs and flowers blent.<\/p>\n

Basil, blessed thistle,
\nFennel, I shall grow;
\nRosemary, mint, spikenard;
\nTansy, row on row.<\/p>\n

Every afternoon
\nI shall sit against a tree,
\nAnd smell of the herbs
\nTill dreams come to me.<\/p>\n

And there shall be roses,
\nPink, red and white\u2014
\nNot forgetting roses
\nFor my delight!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

HERB WOMAN<\/h4>\n

ROOTS and herbs she gathers,
\nMorning, night and noon,
\nBy the rising dog-star,
\nUnderneath the moon.<\/p>\n

In her fragrant kitchen
\nWhile the lost world sleeps,
\nGentle midnight priestess,
\nShe mixes and steeps.<\/p>\n

Shakes the leafy brethren,
\nSorts and scrapes with skill,
\nOn her vibrant fingers
\nWood and field and hill\u2014<\/p>\n

Poppy leaves and wormwood,
\nPeony petals spilt,
\nDreamy hop flowers added,
\nFor a headache quilt.<\/p>\n

Hands only made for healing,
\nNostrils made for smell,
\nForehead wide and yearning,
\nEyes fixed in a spell.<\/p>\n

With the loose prescriptions
\nFloating through her head,
\nSuch are prayers she mutters
\nEre she goes to bed:<\/p>\n

\u201cVervain for the fever,
\nBasil to bring joy,
\nAnd a dose of moonwort
\nFor the poor daft boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

BOCCACCIO’S FRANCESCA<\/h4>\n

FRANCESCA, down the centuries I hear
\nThe mocking intonation of your laugh,
\nAs with a merry gesture, light as chaff,
\nYou banish the luckless two who hold you dear;
\nOne who has dared the secrets of the grave,
\nThe other, doughtily, to bring him forth,
\nSurely, Francesca, each has proved his worth,
\nChoose blindfolded\u2013no?\u2013then what do you crave?<\/p>\n

I wonder now if, in the years to come,
\nPerhaps indeed when married to a boor,
\nOld memories arose and found you dumb,
\nGrieving the wisdom banished from your door;
\nOr, did you only toss your head and say:
\n“Oh, after all, that is. a woman’s way.”<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A DARK DAY<\/h4>\n

THE trees stand still above the snow,
\nMute effigies of sorrow\u2014
\nA gloomy day; but the paper says
\nThe sun will shine tomorrow.<\/p>\n

The clock now points to half-past six
\nIt\u2019s well the day is ended.\u2014
\nThe trees loom in the deepening dusk
\nLike truths half comprehended.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

COME IN FROM THE RAIN<\/h4>\n

COME in from the rain, the night is black,
\nYour shoes are wet, there’s no coat on your back;
\nCome in from the rain.<\/p>\n

The wind in the bushes says strange, sad things;
\nNight is a creature with terrible wings;
\nCome in from the rain.<\/p>\n

You are poor and friendless and tired and old,
\nYour heart is heavy, your bones are cold;
\nCome in from the rain.<\/p>\n

A chair by the fire and the shoes from your feet,
\nA drink to warm and a bite to eat;
\nCome in from the rain.<\/p>\n

A chair and maybe a story to tell,
\nFor we are lonely and listen well.
\nCome in from the rain.<\/p>\n

Out of the darkness, shut the door ;
\nYes, we are poor, but there’s room for more;
\nCome in from the rain.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

OF SPIRIT<\/h4>\n

WHO loves for nearness and for
\nFor features’ form or grace,
\nLoves with a proper worldly love,
\nSecure and commonplace.<\/p>\n

But who has felt a spirit surge
\nAcross a great dark way\u2014
\nWho feels a mighty love like this
\nMust kneel him down to pray.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

SECOND MARRIAGE<\/h4>\n

THERE’S more than one I know were glad
\nWhen death came stealing to the door
\nTo say good riddance in their minds
\nTo angry looks and words,\u2014and more.<\/p>\n

And not like one that loved too well
\nFor taking ways and curly hair,
\nThen saw Death laugh at joy like this
\nAnd\u2014married for a home and care.<\/p>\n

And found that many a widow, too,
\nWorks hard all day to keep herself
\nTo sit alone in peace at night
\nAnd have a picture on the shelf.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

YOU, GOD<\/h4>\n

I SOMETIMES have forgot to pray
\nBut, God, I was not far away,
\nFor daily wonder in my soul
\nPaid voiceless homage as Your dole,
\nWhen marvelling that I should see
\nThe things that You, God, made for me:
\nA pigeon circling in its flight,
\nLithe birches bending green and white,
\nPale sunlight filtered in a wood,
\nSnow-covered ground where flowers have stood,
\nAnd flowers, in their sweet summer dress,
\nAnd song birds, in their happiness\u2014
\nWhy, even Your minutest thing,
\nAn ant, has caused my heart to sing!<\/p>\n

No day so dark but brought to me
\nA bit of sky, a bit of tree.
\nSo God, if I forgot to pray,
\nI really was not far away\u2014<\/p>\n

Oh, God, that I should come to know
\nThe joy of Your creation so!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I’VE HAD MY DREAMS<\/h4>\n

I’VE had my dreams, and this is one:
\nThat we should read Endymion;<\/p>\n

With trees for company\u2014sweet and still
\nUpon a hidden, dream-drenched hill.<\/p>\n

The time: a perfect summer day,
\nAnd things and people far away.<\/p>\n

With only friendly trees to know
\nThat we could love a poet so.<\/p>\n

To revel in the beauty wrought\u2014
\nThe perfect utterance of a thought.<\/p>\n

The meaning of a phrase to con;
\nIts very joy to dwell upon;<\/p>\n

With trees for company\u2014sweet and still,
\nUpon a hidden, dream-drenched hill\u2014<\/p>\n

And, though the world is strange to me
\nAnd things are not as they might be,<\/p>\n

I’ve had my dreams and this is one:
\nThat we should read Endymion.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

CELTIC<\/h4>\n

I HOLD such sadness in my breast
\nAs March’s misery
\nAnd the utter loneliness
\nOf a November tree.<\/p>\n

I hold such gladness in my breast
\nAs nothings lovers talk
\nAnd a clump of rain-washed violets
\nBeside an alien walk.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

GIFT<\/h4>\n

GOD proffered a measure
\nTo comfort me by,
\nI rock with the tree-tops,
\nI change with the sky.<\/p>\n

I wear like a sovereign
\nThe night’s jewelled air,
\nI fling like a wanton
\nThe wind’s rumpled hair.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A LADY PASSES<\/h4>\n

THE air was charged with shifting spells,
\nSo lightly, lightly, she drew near;
\nThe air was full of golden bells
\nThat tinkled on my listening ear.<\/p>\n

Some inner harmony I found\u2014
\nSo lightly, lightly, did she pass,
\nHer footsteps were the soundless sound
\nOf falling petals on the grass.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

BRIDAL<\/h4>\n

THEY laid him in the solemn earth,
\n“How sad,” the townsfolk said,
\n“The sea should claim a gay young lad,
\nWho in a week would wed.”<\/p>\n

Silenced, as with impatient heart,
\nHe sped the laggard hours\u2014
\n‘Twas summer, on his grave they placed
\nThe season’s wealth of flowers.<\/p>\n

His stricken love wept properly,
\nThe tears coursed down her face,
\nBut secretly she thought of one
\nWho soon would take his place.<\/p>\n

His mother’s grief was pitiful,
\nStormy, unreconciled,
\nAnd\u2014in a house, with shutters drawn,
\nAnother woman smiled.<\/p>\n

With eyes that shone like misty stars,
\nShe dressed herself with care,
\nAnd pinned a sweet white rose among
\nThe tendrils of her hair.<\/p>\n

When night had come she took a road
\nThat few: at nightfall tread\u2014
\nThe lonely road that carries to
\nThe province of the dead,<\/p>\n

And when the morn, a pendant pearl
\nAgainst the darkness hung,
\nShe hurried back, and to her gown
\nThe scent of flowers clung.<\/p>\n

The safety of her door she reached
\nJust ere the break of light,
\nNo gossip knew the night before
\nHad been her bridal night.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[END OF SELECTION]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

from Herb Woman and Other Poems by Eleanor C. Koenig (New York: Harold Vinal, 1926) RELEASE OH, let me run with autumn winds That pass through reeds and rushes Let me shriek with evening gales In ragged currant bushes. Let me tear through aspen trees, Roar on naked beaches, Let me howl through bending oaks … Continue reading from Herb Woman and Other Poems<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[12,33,34,32,31,30,10],"class_list":["post-85","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-eleanor-orourke-koenig","tag-feminism","tag-irish","tag-nature","tag-poem","tag-poetry","tag-womens-lives","tag-womens-rights"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/85","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=85"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/85\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=85"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=85"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=85"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}