Community Artists

Introduction to "A White Night"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado. I’m a professor at Western Washington University, and I’ll be introducing the poem, “A White Night,” by Pacific Northwest author Ella Higginson.

Ella Higginson often walked during the day and during the night on Sehome Hill. And one night she was walking on Sehome Hill and she was so enjoying the smells and the sounds and the beauty of Sehome Hill at night. And she knew that when she looked out her window out at Puget Sound, she could see the beauty of Puget Sound. And she thought that this was all so overwhelmingly gorgeous that not even the dead could sleep through an experience like this. And this is the poem that she wrote.

"A White Night"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado, Professor of English at Western Washington University. I’m going to read a poem called, “A White Night” by Pacific Northwest author, Ella Higginson.

A White Night.

The moon burns on the brow of Sehome hill,

The hour is late, the night is still;

Wild clover-stars shine everywhere—

Their breath spills on the blue-white air.

I think you know that one long, mournful cry

Blown by some bird throat, full and high;

Is it a note of tender woes?

Or lonely joy? . . . . Who knows—who knows?

I hear the hurried panting of the mill;

One cricket pipes; all else is still,—

Nay, what lone fluter have we here?

The last frog by the reeded mere.

What does he murmur of, think you, in sleep?

Those long blown notes, drowsy and deep—

Do they not hold a dream of days Idled in long-forgotten Mays?

Below, the sea lies blue and still and fair,

With stars set in her tawny hair;

Within the curled arms of her waves

The dead awaken from their graves,

And reach their yearning arms and strain their eyes,

Wondering if their dreams were lies,

And these the arms and palms and mouth

Of one loved in the far sweet South.

For how, I ask you, can the dead lie still

When moons came over Sehome hill,

And languid winds blow from the South . . . .

And kisses wait on every mouth?

Introduction to "Midnight on Brooklyn Bridge"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado. I’m a professor at Western Washington University, and I’m going to be introducing the poem, “Midnight on Brooklyn Bridge” by Pacific Northwest author Ella Higginson.

Ella Higginson traveled by train with her husband across the entire United States from the Pacific Northwest to the Northeastern United States so that Ella could meet the extended family of her very distinguished husband.

While they were on this trip, they visited New York City, and went to see Brooklyn Bridge, a very notable landmark. And at Brooklyn Bridge, Ella became overwhelmed with the heat and the noise, and the energy of the larger city, so different from the then remote, small town that she lived in the Pacific Northwest. She became homesick thinking about the moon rising over Sehome Hill and she wrote this poem.

"Midnight on Brooklyn Bridge

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado, Professor of English at Western Washington University. I’m going to read a poem called, “Midnight on Brooklyn Bridge” by Pacific Northwest author, Ella Higginson.

Midnight on Brooklyn Bridge.

Ah, me! I know how large and cool and white

The moon lies on the brow of Sehome Hill,

And how the firs stand shadowy and still,

Etched on that luminous background this soft night;

How the nighthawk sinks from his starry height,

And breathes his one note, mournfully and shrill,

And crickets clamor in the marsh until

The dusk grows vocal with their deep delight.

City, a lifetime spent in thee were not

Worth one night in my western solitude!

Thy pulse is feverish, thy blood is hot,

Thine arteries throb with passion heavily;

But oh, how sweet I hear, in interlude,

The beating, moon-lured tides of Puget Sea.

Introduction to "To One Leaving for Sweden"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado. I’m a professor at Western Washington University, and I’ll be introducing the poem, “To One Leaving for Sweden,” by Pacific Northwest author Ella Higginson.

At the turn into the twentieth century, one of Ella Higginson’s very close female friends was about to leave on a trip for Sweden and Ella knew how she would miss her friend when she was gone. How she would look at her window at night watching the moon rising over Sehome Hill and be terribly lonely. And this was the poem she wrote about that experience.

"To One Leaving for Sweden"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado, I’m a Professor at Western Washington University and I’m going to read a poem called, “To One Leaving for Sweden” by Pacific Northwest author, Ella Higginson.

To One Leaving for Sweden.

When soft and deep in Sweden’s skies

Moons burn like golden fire,

And the nightingale thrills all the wood

With exquisite desire,

Turn, turn upon thy pillow then,

And think how dark and still

The firs wait for the rising moon

On lonely Sehome hill.

Turn from thy song-bird’s ravishment—

And think how mournfully

The night-hawk blows its lonely note

By Puget’s lonely sea.

Introduction to "The Awakening"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado. I’m a professor at Western Washington University, and I’m going to be introducing the poem, “The Awakening,” by Ella Higginson

By the beginning of the twentieth century, Ella Higginson had suffered the loss of several very close family members. Her father, her mother, and then her husband had died and she was sunk into grief. During the spring she was walking on Sehome Hill, watching everything start to come to life again. And she prayed to God that she too, could be reborn like the nature around her on Sehome Hill. And this is the poem that she wrote about that experience.

"The Awakening"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado, Professor of English at Western Washington University. I’m going to read a poem called, “The Awakening” by Pacific Northwest author, Ella Higginson.

The Awakening.

I will take heart again; the spring

Comes over Sehome hill,

And like tall, splintered spears of gold

The firs stand, soft and still;

Happily in its moist, brown throat

Chatters a loosened rill.

Below, across the violet sea,

With glistening, restless wings,

The seabirds cleave the purple air

In white and endless rings;

Somewhere, within an open space,

One of God’s own larks sings.

The warm breath of the waking earth

Curls up from myriad lips,

And who has loved and lost now drinks

In deep and trembling sips,

With memory’s passionate pulse astir

From heart to finger-tips.

The ferns lift delicate veiny palms

In dimples of the hills,

The spendthrift hyacinth’s perfume

Along the pure air spills;

There is a breathing, faint and far,

From the dark throats of the mills.

The spider flings a glittering thread

From dewy blade to blade,

A robin drops on bended wing,

Near me, yet unafraid;

The early frosts have taken rout

Before the red sun’s raid.

Behold, the earth is glad again,

And she has taken heart,

And in her swelling, fruitful breast,

God’s own love-flowers start.

(Lord, may I not take courage, too?

I and my old self part?)

Yea, when the birds grow dumb again

With pure delights that thrill

Their rapt and innocent souls, till they

Have not desire or will

For song, or sun, or anything

But passion deep and still,

I will go into the dim wood

And lie prone on the sod,

My breast close to the warm earth-breast,

Prostrate, alone with God,

Of all his poor and useless ones,

The poorest, useless clod;

And I will pray (so earnestly

He cannot help but hear):

“Lord, Lord, let me take heart again,

Let my faith shine white and clear,

Let me awaken with the earth,

And leave my old self here!”

"Four-Leaf Clover"

Transcript:

Laura Laffrado:

This is Laura Laffrado, Professor of English at Western Washington University. I’m going to read Pacific Northwest author Ella Higginson’s most famous poem, “Four-Leaf Clover”.

I know a place where the sun is like gold

And cherry blossoms burst with snow,

And down underneath is the loveliest nook,

Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one for faith

And one is for love, you know,

And God put another one in for luck-

If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have hope, and you must have faith,

You must love and be strong and so-

If you work, if you wait you will find the place

Where the four leaf clovers grow.