Poems by Robert Strong Woodward

THE ARTIST

I looked into his face and saw

The dream cloud come and go,

The summer calm, the winds of snow,

And understood how no man's law

Controlled, or could control

The genius of a Master Soul

Expressing only what he saw

Not with the eyes of common men,

But with the eyes that, now and then
God gives to those He makes to draw

From his created things the thought

Embodied in what He has wrought.

The things themselves, and these he saw.

Robert Strong Woodward

WINTER

Gay Winter, with thy blue and snow-white grace

Why will the poets ever pen thee drear,

Unkind and dull , thy keen eyes rough and blear,

Thy blythe smile but a withered, wrinkled face?

Why term thy glad and whistling tree-top race

A storm to dread, an enemy to fear?

Why never note thy jaunty boutonniere

Of scarlet berries sprigged on branches' lace?

Slow summer surfeits art with sticky green,

Discordant colors on her gown lie crowded,

While thou art simple in thy changing sheen

Of white, of green and violet, frost shrouded.

The loveliest season in the circled year!

O Winter, thou art charged with gallant sheer!

                                                        Robert Strong Woodward

WHITE HEART

The great God Spirit bending low

Hath deemed it best to take from thee

Thru Death--whose coming none can know

Whose ways are ever mystery

Hath deemed it best (tho tears shall flow)

To take thy White Heart in her glow

Of perfect life and symetry. 

Thy White Heart in whose glancing eyes

There shone affection for a friend

Thy White Heart, in whose moves, a wise

Intelligence and grace did blend--

In whose arched throat and gleaming thighs

Pulsed Pride of Life, which ever tries

To prove that Beauty is Life's end. 

White Heart!  whose virtues mingled deep

With glint of curved and shining limb;

With eyes like forest pools asleep

Where autumn umber crowds the rim;

With varied fleetness records keep;

With gentle ways (spite mettled leap)

With Spirits surging o'er their brim.

Yes, well to weep, since from this earth

Such noble beauty passes on;

Yes, tears are meet and charged with worth

That flow for such a paragon

of form, affection and proud birth!

Such sorrow does not spring from dearth

Of reason--but from Helicon.

For beauty foiled by Death's dread dart,

Perfection turned to earthly mold

Could not but grieve a sentient heart,

Could  not leave love-emotions cold---

Tho the  most rueful, stinging smart

Comes from the wound that one  must part

From what affection learns to hold.

Yes do not let thy burning grief

Long fail to feel the cooling thot

Nor sorrow shun the high relief

That God knows what His hand has wrought,

And from Life's Tree, not one small leaf

Lets fall before its plan is fraught.

                                               Robert Strong Woodward

Roses For Mother

                     (Written for his mother on Valentine's Day when RSW was about 14 years olf)