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About this Poem 

“Closed” was published in Stoddard’s collection Poems (Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1895).

Closed

The crimson dawn breaks through the clouded east,
And waking breezes round the casement pipe;
They blow the globes of dew from opening buds,
And steal the odors of the sleeping flowers.
The swallow calls its young ones from the eaves,
To dart above their shadows on the lake,
Till its long rollers redden in the sun,
And bend the lances of the mirrored pines.
Who knows the miracle that brings the morn?
Still in my house I linger, though the night—
The night that hides me from myself is gone.
Light robes the world, but strips me bare again.
I will not follow on the paths of day.
I know the dregs within its crystal hours;
The bearers of my cups have served me well;
I drained them, and the bearers come no more.
Rise, morning, rise, for those believing souls
Who seek completion in day’s garish light.
My casement I will close, keep shut my door,
Till day and night are only dreams to me.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard was born in Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, in 1823. She published both prose and poetry during her lifetime, including Poems (Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1895). She died in 1902.

by this poet

poem

I feel the breath of the summer night,
            Aromatic fire:
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
            With tender desire.

The white moths flutter about the lamp,
            Enamoured with light;
And a thousand creates softly sing
            A song to

poem

     In the still, star-lit night,
By the full fountain and the willow-tree,
     I walked, and not alone—
A spirit walked with me!

     A shade fell on the grass;
Upon the water fell a deeper shade:
     Something the willow stirred,
For to and fro it swayed.

poem

Let me be merry now, ’t is time;
     The season is at hand
For Christmas rhyme and Christmas chime,
     Close up, and form the band.

The winter fires still burn as bright,
     The lamp-light is as clear,
And since the dead are out of sight,
     What hinders Christmas