Donald Davidson (poet)

Donald Grady Davidson (August 8, 1893 – April 25, 1968) was a U.S. poet, essayist, social and literary critic, and author. He is best known as a founding member of the Nashville, Tennessee, circle of poets known as the Fugitives and of an overlapping group, the Southern Agrarians. Quotes I want the word that burns into my heartLike God's coal alive on the Prophet's tongue.I would listen now while memory is ablazeTo seal your testament within my soul. Soldier and Son Why did my father write? I know he sawHistory clutched as a wraith out of blowing mistWhere tongues are loud, and a glut of little soulsLaps at the too much blood and the burning house. Lee in the Mountains The seed of Appomattox blooms; its fruitRots where eyes are dazed with a hungry searching,And ears are deaf with steps that murmur and followNo command. The Last Charge Farewell,Army of Tennessee! Rough glory, rooted here,Feeds the lone vow, the lingering touchOf a late comrade sworn to remember you!Lights glow from river and town. The darkness stabs.And winter sweeps the undefended earth. The Last Charge The whispering in the marrow spreads to the brain;The remembering heart carries it round againTill it beats in the throat, the lips, the weeping eyeAnd is born at last in a blazing wordless outcry. Late Answer: A Civil War Seminar We mourned with you then in brotherhood,And I'll weep with you now for those whose namesBurn on your monuments like altar flames. Late Answer: A Civil War Seminar We, too, have names that blaze on mouldering stoneAnd I have seen men's tears fall where they sleptAnd heard a shouting while I wept,A century off yet louder in my earThan all that's so much magnified and near. Late Answer: A Civil War Seminar Something stirs that once had life. It dropsInto the stream, a last act of faith.Seedballs of sycamore, incautious leaves of willow,These have outstayed their autumn, teasing deathOnly so far, not yet beyond all patience.Now they let go. Aunt Maria and the Gourds The sky drips its spectral And Gods, like men, to soot revert.Gone is the mild, the serene air.The golden years are come too late.Pursue not wisdom or virtue here,But what blind motion, what dim lastRegret of men who slew their pastRaised up this bribe against their fate. On a Replica of the Parthenon Father remembered the wild pigeons crowdingBeech groves, mast-rich. The flutter in boughs, the cloudDarkening all, a hurricane circling and surging.Eye lost count, ear could not measure sound.Mind hurled measureless with them, feathered the sky. The Horde This is an autumn when they come no more.Beech leaves yellow and fall, the beech-mast rotsUneaten. Infertile now the beechHollows its heart, begetting naught.There is frost on the grandson's eyes,And only rumor upon the skies... The Horde Then no soft arms could hold me from my wilderness To reap at daylight's fallow edge, with bullet or knife,That flicker of hoof or pelt, that flash of wings returning -The dogs trace it - harvest of life that gives me life. Second Harvest For he has seen a road by healing watersHushed into wintry slate against the sand,And spoken there with the wind's elfin daughters,And mingled in their dusty saraband.He has known winds that blow from blossomy closes,Rich with the fruity smell of summertide,And kissed warm faery lips... Now he reposes,While we are not quite certain he has died. A Dead Romanticist The probing knife of madnessCan start a dullard brain;Cold cheeks feel kissesAnd warm with tears again Redivivus Then let my skeleton soulWrithe upward from its loam,Drink red morning again,And look gently home. Redivivus External links Category:Poets from the United States Category:Essayists from the United States Category:Novelists from the United States Category:Literary critics Category:Historians from the United States Category:Social critics Category:1893 births Category:1968 deaths Category:People from Tennessee