Henry Abbey – A Voice of Romantic Idealism
Henry Abbey (1842–1911) was an American poet known for his romantic tone, emotional depth, and lyrical storytelling. Writing during the late 19th century, Abbey captured themes of love, patriotism, imagination, and the beauty of everyday life. His poetry reflects a graceful blend of sentiment and classical structure, making his work appealing to readers who appreciate traditional verse.
Abbey’s poems often explore romantic devotion, youthful dreams, and heartfelt reflection. His language is musical and expressive, filled with vivid imagery and gentle rhythm. Unlike some of his contemporaries who experimented with modern styles, Abbey preferred smooth rhyme schemes and clear emotional expression.
One of his notable works is “What Do We Plant?”, a thoughtful poem about kindness and moral responsibility. In it, Abbey compares human actions to planting seeds—suggesting that what we give to the world will eventually return to us. This moral and reflective tone appears frequently in his poetry.
Though Henry Abbey is not as widely remembered today as poets like Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson, his work remains a charming example of 19th-century American romantic poetry. His poems are ideal for readers who enjoy heartfelt themes, clear structure, and timeless messages about love and character.
An enemy may be served, even through mistake, wit profit
I was walking down the sidewalk,
When up, with flying mane,
Two iron-black steeds came spurning
The ground in wild disdain;
I caught them in an instant,
And held them by the rein.
It seems the man had fainted
In his elegant coupé;
I saw his face a moment,
And then I turned away,
Wishing my steps had led me
Through other streets that day.
Some one who saw the rescue
Afterward told him my name.
For the first in many a season,
Beneath our roof he came.
I said I was deserving
Little of praise or blame.
It was my uncle's face in the carriage;
He made regret of the past;
No more of my love or wishes
Would he be the iconoclast;
On a gala night at his mansion
We should learn to be friends at last.
A rival
It seems I have a rival
Domiciled over the way;
But Blanche, dear heart, dislikes him,
Whatever her father may say—
This gorgeously broadclothed fellow,
Good enough in his way.
To-day as I left the church-yard,
I met them taking a ride,
And my heart was pierced like a buckler
With a javelin of pride;
I only saw in my anger
They were sitting side by side.
To-night, in the purple twilight,
Blanche waited upon the walk,
And beckoned her white hand to me—
A lily swayed on its stalk.
Soon my jealous pride was foundered
In the maelstrom of talk.
'Twas useless to go to the church-yard,
For some one had played the spy;
She fancied it was the sexton—
We would let it all go by;
We now would have bolder meetings,
'Neath her father's very eye.
She took my arm as we idled,
And talked of our love once more,
And how, with her basket of flowers,
She had passed the street before;
We tarried long in the moonlight,
And kissed good-night at her door.
Donald
O white, white, light moon, that sailest in the sky,
Look down upon the whirling world, for thou art up so high,
And tell me where my Donald is who sailed across the sea,
And make a path of silver light to lead him back to me.
O white, white, bright moon, thy cheek is coldly fair;
A little cloud beside thee seems thy wildly floating hair;
And if thou wouldst not have me wan, and pale, and cold like thee,
Go, make a mighty tide to draw my Donald back to me.
O light, white, bright moon, that dost so fondly shine,
There is not a lily in the world but hides its face from thine:
I too shall go and hide my face close in the dust from thee,
Unless with light and tide thou bring my Donald back to me.
I too shall go and hide my face close in the dust from thee,
Unless with light and tide thou bring my Donald back to me.
Kisses and a ring
I never behold the sea
Rush up to the hand of the shore,
And with its vehement lips
Kiss its down-dropt whiteness o'er,
But I think of that magic night,
When my lips, like waves on a coast,
Broke over the moonlit hand
Of her that I love the most.
I never behold the surf
Lit by the sun into gold,
Curl and glitter and gleam,
In a ring-like billow rolled,
But I think of another ring,
A simple, delicate band,
That in the night of our troth
I placed on a darling hand.
The miser
'Tis said, that when he saw his child,
And saw the proof that she was his,
The first in many a year he smiled,
And pressed upon her brow a kiss.
In both his hands her hand he bound,
And led her gayly through his place.
He said the dead years circled round,
Hers was so like her mother's face.
He scarcely moves him from her side—
Her every hour with joy beguiles.
To make the gulf between us wide,
He acts the miser of her smiles.
He brings her presents rich and rare—
Wrought gold by cunning hands impearled,
Round opals that with scarlet glare,
The lightning of each mimic world.
