  Ingram Crockett, whom a group of critics have hailed as one of the most exquisite poets of Nature yet born in Kentucky, first saw the light at Henderson, Kentucky, February 10, 1856. His father, John W. Crockett, was a noted public speaker in his day and generation, and a member of the Confederate Congress from Kentucky. Ingram Crockett was educated in the schools of his native town, but he never went to college. For many years past Mr. Crockett has been cashier of the Planters State Bank, Henderson, but the jingle of the golden coins has not seared the spirit of song within his soul. In 1888 he began his literary career by editing, with the late Charles J. O'Malley, the Kentucky poet and critic, Ye Wassail Bowle, a pamphlet anthology of Kentucky poems and prose pieces. A small collection of Mr. Crockett's poems, entitled The Port of Pleasant Dreams (Henderson, 1892), was followed by a long poem, Rhoda, an Easter Idyl. The first large collection of his lyrics was Beneath Blue Skies and Gray (New York, 1898). This volume won the poet friends in all parts of the country, and proclaimed him a true interpreter of many-mooded Nature. A Year Book of Kentucky Woods and Fields (Buffalo, New York, 1901), a prose-poem, contains some excellent writing. A story of the Christiandelphians of western Kentucky, A Brother of Christ (New York, 1905), is Mr. Crockett's
AUDUBON [From Beneath Blue Skies and Gray (New York, 1898)] Not with clash of arms, Not 'midst war's alarms, Thy splendid work was done, Thy great victory won. Unknown, thro' field and brake, By calm or stormy lake, Lured by swift passing wings— Songs that a new world sings— Thou didst untiring go Led by thine ardor's glow, Cheered by thy kindling thought Leaving thy matchless page Gift to a later age That would revere thy name— Build for thee, surely fame. O, to have been with thee, In that wild life and free, While all the birds passed by Under the new world sky! O, to have heard the song Of that glad-hearted throng, Ere yet the settlers came Giving the woods to flame! O, to have with thee gone Up the white steps of Dawn! Or where the burning west Crimsoned the wild drake's breast! Yet better than bays we bring Are the woods whispering When life and leaf are new Under the tender blue! Master, awake! for May Comes on her rainbowed way— Hear thou bird-song again Sweeter than praise of men! THE LONGING [From The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems (Chicago, 1908)] I am weary of thought, forever the world goes by With laughter and tears, and no one can tell me why— I am weary of thought and all it may ever bring— I have toiled at the mills, I've known the grind and the roar Over and over again one day as the day before— And what does it all avail and the end of it—where? But oh, for the clover in bloom and the breeze blowing there! Fame? What is fame but a glimmering mote, earth cast, That e'en as we grasp it dulls—dust of the dust at last. For what have the ages to say of the myriad dead? But oh, for the frost-silvered hills and the dawn breaking red! Ah, God! the day is so short and the night comes so soon! And who will remember the time, or the wish, or the boon? And who can turn backward our feet from the destined place? But oh, for the bobolink's cheer and the beauty of April's face! DEAREST [From the same] Dearest, there is a scarlet leaf upon the blackgum tree, And in the corn the crickets chirp a ceaseless threnody— And scattered down the purple swales are clumps of marigold, And hazier are the distant fields in many a lilac fold. Dearest, the elder bloom is gone, and heavy, dark maroon, The elderberries bow beneath a mellow, ripening noon— And, shaking out its silver sail, the milkweed-down is blown Through deeps of dreamy amber air in search of ports unknown. Dearest, full many a flower now lies withered by the path, Their fragrance but a memory, the soul's sad aftermath— The birds are flown, save now and then some loiterer thrills the way With joyous bursts of lyric song born of the heart of May. Ah, dearest, it is good-bye time for Summer and her train, And many a golden hour will pass that ne'er shall come again— But, dearest, Love with us abides tho' all the rest should go, And in Love's garden, dearest one, there is no hint of snow. |
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