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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CRAZY CHRISTOPHER, by ALICE CARY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Neighbored by a maple wood Last Line: That could half believe him wise. Subject(s): Solitude; Human Behavior; Insanity; Wisdom | |||
NEIGHBORED by a maple wood, Dim and dusty, old and low; Thus our little school-house stood, Two and twenty years ago. On the roof of clapboards, dried Smoothly in the summer heat, Of the hundred boys that tried, Never one could keep his feet. Near the door the cross-roads were, A stone's throw, perhaps, away, And to read the sign-board there, Made a pastime every day. He who turned the index down, So it pointed on the sign To the nearest market-town, Was, we thought, a painter fine: And the childish wonder rose, As we gazed with puzzled looks On the letters, good as those Printed in our spelling-books. Near it was a well, -- how deep! With its bucket warped and dry, Broken curb, and leaning sweep, And a plum-tree growing by, Which, with low and tangly top, Made the grass so bright and cool, Travelers would sometimes stop, For a half-hour's rest -- in school, Not an eye could keep the place Of the lesson then, -- intent Each to con the stranger's face, And to see the road he went. Scattered are we far and wide, -- Careless, curious children then; Wanderers some, and some have died; Some, thank God, are honest men. But, as playmates, large or small, Noisy, thoughtful, or demure, I can see them, one and all, The great world in miniature. Common flowers, with common names, Filled the woods and meadows round: Dandelions with their flames Smothered flat against the ground; Mullein stocks, with gray braids set Full of yellow; thistles speared; Violets, purple near to jet; Crowfoot, and the old-man's-beard. And along the dusty way, Thick as prints of naked feet, Iron-weeds and fennel gay Blossomed in the summer heat. Hedges of wild blackberries, Pears, and honey-locusts tall, Spice-wood, and "good apple-trees," Well enough we knew them all. But the ripest blackberries, Nor the mulleins topped with gold, Peach nor honey-locust trees, Nor the flowers, when all are told, Pleased us like the cabin, near Which a silver river ran, And where lived, for many a year, Christopher, the crazy man. Hair as white as snow he had, Mixing with a beard that fell Down his breast; if he were mad, Passed our little wits to tell. In his eyes' unfathomed blue Burned a ray so clear and bright, Oftentimes we said we knew It would shame the candlelight. Mystic was the life he led; Picking herbs in secret nooks, -- Finding, as the old folks said, "Tongues in trees and books in brooks." Waking sometimes in the gloom Of the solemn middle night, He had seen his narrow room Full of angels dressed in white; So he said in all good faith, And one day, with tearful eye, Told us that he heard old Death Sharpening his scythe, close by. Whether it were prophecy, Or a dream, I cannot say; But good little Emily Died the evening of that day. In the woods, where up and down We had searched, and only seen Adder's-tongue, with dull, dead brown, Mottled with the heavy green; May-apples, or wild birds sweet, Going through the shadows dim, Spirits, with white, noiseless feet, Walked, he said, and talked with him. "What is all the toiling for, And the spinning?" he would say; "See the lilies at my door, -- Never dressed a queen as they. "He who gives the ravens food For our wants as well will care; O my children! He is good, -- Better than your fathers are." So he lived from year to year, Never toiling, mystery-clad, -- Spirits, if they did appear, Being all the friends he had. Alternating seasons sped, And there fell no night so rough, But his cabin fire, he said, Made it light and warm enough. Soft and slow our steps would be, As the silver river ran, Days when we had been to see Christopher, the crazy man. Soft and slow, to number o'er The delights he said he had; Wondering always, more and more, Whether he were wise or mad. On a hill-side next the sun, Where the school-boys quiet keep, And to seed the clovers run, He is lying, fast asleep. But at last (to Heaven be praise), Gabriel his bed will find, Giving love for lonely days, And for visions, his right mind. Sometimes, when I think about How he lived among the flowers, Gently going in and out, With no cares nor fretful hours, -- Of the deep serene of light, In his blue, unfathomed eyes, -- Seems the childish fancy right, That could half believe him wise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOPE IS NOT FOR THE WISE by ROBINSON JEFFERS SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 5 by CONRAD AIKEN SONG: NOW THAT SHE IS HERE; FOR JOE-ANNE by HAYDEN CARRUTH WISE: HAVING THE ABILITY TO PERCEIVE AND ADOPT THE BEST by LUCILLE CLIFTON WISDOM COMETH WITH THE YEARS by COUNTEE CULLEN FOR RANDALL JARRELL, 1914-1965 by NORMAN DUBIE THE MORTAL WORDS OF ZWEIK by PHILIP LEVINE A SPINSTER'S STINT by ALICE CARY |
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