poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

occasions

About this poet

Ella Higginson was born around 1862 in Council Grove, Kansas. A poet as well as a novelist, short story writer, and nonfiction writer, Higginson was the author of the poetry collections The Vanishing Race (C. M. Sherman, 1911), The Voice of April-Land and Other Poems (The Macmillan Company, 1903), Four-Leaf Clover: A Little Book of Verse (Edson & Irish, 1901), When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898), and A Bunch of Western Clover (Edson & Irish, 1894), as well as two short story collections, a novel, and an Alaskan travel book. In 1931, she was named the poet laureate of Washington State. She died in Bellingham, Washington, on December 27, 1940.

Christmas Eve

Straight thro’ a fold of purple mist
   The sun goes down—a crimson wheel—
And like an opal burns the sea
   That once was cold as steel.

With pomp of purple, gold and red,
   Thou wilt come back at morrow’s dawn…
But thou can’st never bring, O Sun,
   The Christmas that is gone!

This poem was published in When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898). It is in the public domain.

This poem was published in When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898). It is in the public domain.

Ella HIgginson

Ella Higginson

Ella Higginson was born around 1862 in Council Grove, Kansas. A poet as well as a novelist, short story writer, and nonfiction writer, Higginson was the author of the poetry collections The Vanishing Race (C. M.

by this poet

poem

The hours steal by with still, unasking lips—
     So lightly that I cannot hear their tread;
And softly touch me with their finger-tips
     To find if I be dreaming, or be dead.

And yet however still their flight may be,
     Their ceaseless going weights my heart with tears;

poem

Ah, who is this with twinkling feet,
With glad, young eyes and laughter sweet,
     Who tosses back her strong, wild hair,
     And saucy kisses flings to Care,
     The while she laughs at her? Beware—
You who this winsome maiden meet!

She dances on a daisied throne,
About

poem

It is the time when crimson stars
     Weary of heaven’s cold delight,
And take, like petals from a rose,
     Their soft and hesitating flight
Upon the cool wings of the air
     Across the purple night.

It is the time when silver sails
     Go drifting down the violet sea