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Ethelwyn Wetherald

I lived from 1857-1940. I was from Canada, and am in the Americas category.

AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD was born of English-Quaker parents at Rockwood, Ontario, April 26th, 1857.



Ethelwyn didn't begin her writing of poetry until later in  her life, later  than most poets.  Her first book of verse, The House of the Trees and Other Poems, was not published until 1895. This book gave her high rank among women poets.



Prior to this, she had collaborated with G. Mercer Adam on writing and publishing a novel, An Algonquin Maiden, and had conducted the Woman's Department in The Globe, Toronto, under the nom de plume, 'Bel Thistlewaite.'



In 1902,her second volume of verse, Tangled in Stars, and, in 1904, her third volume, The Radiant Road.



In the autumn of 1907, a collection of Miss Wetherald's best poems was issued, entitled, The Last Robin: Lyrics and Sonnets. It was welcomed generally, by reviewers and lovers of poetry. The many exquisite poems included appealed to Earl Grey, the then Governor-General of Canada ,so much that he wrote a personal letter of appreciation to the author, and purchased twenty-five copies of the first edition for distribution among his friends.



For years Ethelwyn lived on the homestead farm, near the village of Fenwick, in Pelham Township, Weland County, Ontario.



She died in 1940







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  • Here in the crowded city's busy street,
    Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng,
    14 lines, 1 comment
  • O Master-Builder, blustering as you go
    About your giant work, transforming all
    14 lines
  • Dear grey-winged angel, with the mouth set stern
    And time-devouring eyes, the sweetest sweet
    14 lines, 1 comment
  • Now that the earth has hid her lovely brood
    Of green things in her breast safe out of sight,
    14 lines, 1 comment
  • Unto my friends I give my thoughts,
    Unto my God my soul,
    8 lines, 1 comment
  • Open your doors and take me in,
    Spirit of the wood;
    20 lines
  • When I see,
    High on the tip-top twig of a tree,
    24 lines
  • The wind of death, that softly blows
    The last warm petal from the rose,
    29 lines
  • How dear to hearts by hurtful noises scarred
    In the stillness of the many-leavèd trees,
    18 lines
  • If one might live ten years among the leaves,
    Ten–only ten–of all a life's long day,
    24 lines

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