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John Crowe Ransom: American poet and founder in 1919-1920 of the Fugitives
Also known for having founded the New Criticism school of literary criticism
- The Antique Harvesters
- Tawny are the leaves turned but they still hold,
- And it is harvest; what shall this land produce?
- A meager hill of kernels, a runnel of juice;
- Declension looks from our land, it is old.
- Therefore let us assemble, dry, grey, spare,
- And mild as yellow air.
- “I hear the croak of a raven’s funeral wing.”
- The young men would be joying in the song
- Of passionate birds; their memories are not long.
- What is it thus rehearsed in sable? “Nothing.”
- Trust not but the old endure, and shall be older
- Than the scornful beholder.
- We pluck the spindling ears and gather the corn.
- One spot has special yield? “On this spot stood
- Heroes and drenched it with their only blood.”
- And talk meets talk, as echoes from the horn
- Of the hunter — echoes are the old men’s arts,
- Ample are the chambers of their hearts.
- Here come the hunters, keepers of a rite;
- The horn, the hounds, the lank mares coursing by
- Straddled with archetypes of chivalry;
- And the fox, lovely ritualist, in flight
- Offering his unearthly ghost to quarry;
- And the fields, themselves to harry.
- Resume, harvesters. The treasure is full bronze
- Which you will garner for the Lady, and the moon
- Could tinge it no yellower than does this noon;
- But grey will quench it shortly — the field, men, stones.
- Pluck fast, dreamers; prove as you rumble slowly
- Not less than men, not wholly.
- Bare the arm, dainty youths, bend the knees
- Under bronze burdens. And by an autumn tone
- As by a grey, as by a green, you will have known
- Your famous Lady’s image; for so have these;
- And if one say that easily will your hands
- More prosper in other lands,
- Angry as wasp-music be your cry then:
- “Forsake the Proud Lady, of the heart of fire,
- The look of snow, to the praise of a dwindled choir,
- Song of degenerate specters that were men?
- The sons of the fathers shall keep her, worthy of
- What these have done in love.”
- Piazza Piece
- —I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
- To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small
- And listen to an old man not at all,
- They want the young men’s whispering and sighing.
- But see the roses on your trellis dying
- And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
- For I must have my lovely lady soon,
- I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying.
- —I am a lady young in beauty waiting
- Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss.
- But what grey man among the vines is this
- Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?
- Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream!
- I am a lady young in beauty waiting.
John Crowe Ransom
John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974) was an American poet and founder in 1919-1920 of the Fugitives, a group of Southern writers, including Allen Tate, Donald Davidson and Robert Penn Warren, who sought to produce poetry which represented the best and most noble aspects of Southern culture and history. While his output was relatively small, he is also known for having founded the New Criticism school of literary criticism, which sought to understand and appraise works of literature primarily on the basis of a close reading of the text itself to understand both its quality and meaning, with biographical, historical and other biased considerations only serving as secondary contexts.
Here's something you might be interested in.
John Crowe Ransom: American poet and founder in 1919-1920 of the Fugitives
Also known for having founded the New Criticism school of literary criticism
John Crowe Ransom: American poet and founder in 1919-1920 of the Fugitives
Also known for having founded the New Criticism school of literary criticism
- The Antique Harvesters
- Tawny are the leaves turned but they still hold,
- And it is harvest; what shall this land produce?
- A meager hill of kernels, a runnel of juice;
- Declension looks from our land, it is old.
- Therefore let us assemble, dry, grey, spare,
- And mild as yellow air.
- “I hear the croak of a raven’s funeral wing.”
- The young men would be joying in the song
- Of passionate birds; their memories are not long.
- What is it thus rehearsed in sable? “Nothing.”
- Trust not but the old endure, and shall be older
- Than the scornful beholder.
- We pluck the spindling ears and gather the corn.
- One spot has special yield? “On this spot stood
- Heroes and drenched it with their only blood.”
- And talk meets talk, as echoes from the horn
- Of the hunter — echoes are the old men’s arts,
- Ample are the chambers of their hearts.
- Here come the hunters, keepers of a rite;
- The horn, the hounds, the lank mares coursing by
- Straddled with archetypes of chivalry;
- And the fox, lovely ritualist, in flight
- Offering his unearthly ghost to quarry;
- And the fields, themselves to harry.
- Resume, harvesters. The treasure is full bronze
- Which you will garner for the Lady, and the moon
- Could tinge it no yellower than does this noon;
- But grey will quench it shortly — the field, men, stones.
- Pluck fast, dreamers; prove as you rumble slowly
- Not less than men, not wholly.
- Bare the arm, dainty youths, bend the knees
- Under bronze burdens. And by an autumn tone
- As by a grey, as by a green, you will have known
- Your famous Lady’s image; for so have these;
- And if one say that easily will your hands
- More prosper in other lands,
- Angry as wasp-music be your cry then:
- “Forsake the Proud Lady, of the heart of fire,
- The look of snow, to the praise of a dwindled choir,
- Song of degenerate specters that were men?
- The sons of the fathers shall keep her, worthy of
- What these have done in love.”
- Piazza Piece
- —I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
- To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small
- And listen to an old man not at all,
- They want the young men’s whispering and sighing.
- But see the roses on your trellis dying
- And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
- For I must have my lovely lady soon,
- I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying.
- —I am a lady young in beauty waiting
- Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss.
- But what grey man among the vines is this
- Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?
- Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream!
- I am a lady young in beauty waiting.
John Crowe Ransom
John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974) was an American poet and founder in 1919-1920 of the Fugitives, a group of Southern writers, including Allen Tate, Donald Davidson and Robert Penn Warren, who sought to produce poetry which represented the best and most noble aspects of Southern culture and history. While his output was relatively small, he is also known for having founded the New Criticism school of literary criticism, which sought to understand and appraise works of literature primarily on the basis of a close reading of the text itself to understand both its quality and meaning, with biographical, historical and other biased considerations only serving as secondary contexts.
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