The Buckley School's founder believed all public speakers could enhance their presentation skills by reading poetry out loud. We keep that worthwhile practice alive by including a poem in our magazine each month for you to read aloud. Above, a photograph of Maryland poet laureate Lizette Woodworth Reese.
As summer speeds to its end and teachers return to their classrooms, it seems the right time to share this poem from Baltimore's beloved teacher and poet, Lizette Woodworth Reese.
Reese was born (along with twin sister Sophia) in January 1856. Her father fought in the Civil War, while her mother kept the family going at their cottage on the outskirts of Baltimore. The Reese children had a happy and privileged upbringing and were educated in Baltimore's public schools.
After her graduation, Lizette Woodworth Reese pursued two paths that would define her life: She wrote and published poems and taught school. While a respected poet and active member of Baltimore's art circles, Reese was equally devoted and proud of her work as a teacher. You can find a detailed account of her experiences as a teacher here.
Many of Reese's poems include vivid references to nature and the seasons. She published individual poems in magazines, collections of her poetry in books, as well as two memoirs and a novel. In 1931, she was named poet laureate of Maryland. She died in 1935 at age 79.
In Baltimore, Reese is memorialized with a sculpture called "The Good Shepherd" created by her friend Grace Turnbull. It's located on 33rd street where she attended school, now part of the Johns Hopkins campus. You'll also find a plaque honoring her at the Enoch Pratt Free Library.
Below, we provide her poem “August.” We suggest you read it aloud several times and appreciate how cadence and well-timed pauses make all the difference.
August
by LIZETTE WORDWORTH REESE
No wind, no bird. The river flames like brass.
On either side, smitten as with a spell
Of silence, brood the fields. In the deep grass,
Edging the dusty roads, lie as they fell
Handfuls of shriveled leaves from tree and bush.
But 'long the orchard fence and at the gate,
Thrusting their saffron torches through the hush,
Wild lilies blaze, and bees hum soon and late.
Rust-colored the tall straggling briar, not one
Rose left. The spider sets its loom up there
Close to the roots, and spins out in the sun
A silken web from twig to twig. The air
Is full of hot rank scents. Upon the hill
Drifts the noon’s single cloud, white, glaring, still.
