I have tried to find as many Poets as possible who were born on this Day, April 1st, I find it hard to believe that I have only managed to find five, which seems rather sad.
FREDRIK CYGNAEUS – Born April 1, 1807 – in Hameenlinna, Finland
Died December 7, 1881 – in Helsinki, Finland
EDMOND ROSTAND – Born April 1, 1868 – in Marseille, France
Died December 21, 1918 – in Paris, France
MARIA POLYDOURI – Born April 1, 1902 – in Kalamata, Greece
Died April 29, 1930 – in Athens, Greece
JUAN GIL-ALBERT – Born April 1, 1904 – in Alcoy, Spain
Died July 4, 1994 – in Valencia, Spain
JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER – Born April 1, 1647 – in Oxfordshire, England
Died July 26, 1680 – in Woodstock, Oxfordshire, England
I am sure that there must be far more than these above, but sorry to say I did research and this is all I could find.
Specially for someone I know, who likes this Poet.
MY LUVE (spelt as he wrote it)
O my luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my luve is like the melodie,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun’
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
By now you will no doubt have guessed that the above famous poem was written by ROBERT BURNS. They range from the slightly erotic to the deeply poignant, yet all are distinguished by an innocent candor, an inspired simplicity.
I could not resist the following, particularly as it bears my name –
Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine,
A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mine
The golden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,
Rejoicing o’er his manna,
Was naething to my hinnie bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.
Ye monarchs, take the East and West
Frae Indus to Savannah;
Gie me, within my straining grasp,
The melting form of Anna.
There I’ll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,
While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take wi’ Anna!
Awa, thou flaunting God of Day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk star, gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I’m to meet my Anna!
Come, in thy raven plumage, night
(Sun, moon, and the stars, withdrawn a’);
And bring an angel pen to write
My transports wi’ my Anna!
The Kirk an’ State may join, an’ tell
To do sic things I maunna;
The Kirk an’ State may gae to hell,
And I’ll gae to my Anna.
I like the above very much – The name Anna is Jewish and Indian believe it or not, but my Parents were Irish and Anna is well known in Ireland, so much so I have a first Cousin by the name of Anna. But, my Parents had to complicate my Birth Certificate, I am actually “Hannah, also known as Anna” – My Parents could not quite agree and the Priest who Baptised me said Hannah. Now everything official I sign has to be “Hannah, also known as Anna” – only me!!
ROBERT BURNS – A plowman and the son of a plowman, Robert Burns was born at Alloway in Ayrshire, Scotland, January 25, 1759. With his own hands, his father built the clay cottage which was the poet’s early home – two small rooms, with a concealed bed in the kitchen – and young Burns spent his youth on the farm. He managed to get some schooling; he discovered Shakespeare and Pope, but all he knew of Latin, as he gallantly confessed to a Lady, was Omnia vincit amor, “At the plow, scythe, or reap hook, I feared no competitor.” he wrote, “but I spent the evenings after my own heart….To the sons and daughters of labor and poverty, the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious enjoyments.”
Burns married finally the woman who had borne him four Children and taken in another illegitimate child of Burns, Burns continued to acknowledge all his illegitimate Children (that was nice of him!). In his later years he began to drink very heavily and an early digestive ailment was aggravated by rheumatic fever, and he was warned that he would have to be more temperate. But, Burns could not restrain himself. During a prolonged drinking bout he contracted a severe cold, developed a fever, and never recovered. He died in delirium in his thirty seventh year. Ten thousand people of all classes followed his coffin to the grave.
EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON – 1869 – 1935
I found this poet whilst searching for someone else and I am fascinated by him, I will go deeper into him at another time. But, for the time being just the following.
After Whitman had celebrated “the divine average,” poetry in America became more concerned with the common man. Edwin Arlington Robinson went further; he devoted himself not only to the ordinary individual, but also to the misfits and the outcasts those who were unable to maintain themselves in a world of ruthless efficiency. Robinson protested against acquisitiveness and success at any cost; he almost made a fetish of failure. This was perhaps inevitable, for Robinson’s own life was, except for a few short intervals, a dignified and losing battle.
Robinson was born December 22, 1869, in the village of Head Tide, Maine. In his mid sixties he became seriously ill. When he was finally taken to the New York Hospital, it was impossible to operate successfully. He Died April 6, 1935. He wrote a lovely poem called THE HOUSE ON THE HILL, that is for another day.
So April is here
bright sun outside
and yet in evening
that chill arrives
April is here
and with it joy
and tears unfold
please don’t ask why
of those much loved
perhaps one more than other
but I have enough love
One special Birthday
I’ll never forget
the sweetest girl
who loved me so much
You see, she came from Killarney
yes, by the Lakes
she chose me, just me
and together we shall rest
My special little girl
my Irish baby
Daisy, O my Daisy
I still love to bits
April 29, was your birthdate
along with two others
I shall never forget
but Daisy, April Baby
my late, Cross Border Collie
perhaps you guessed
April is here
sunshine and tears
and to those I love
shared with me
I hope you enjoyed all the above, including the last poem which happens to be by me. Take care.
Bill Evans “You Must Believe In Spring” – yes. yes. yes.