Hi, Claire -
If you want to post the poem or at least tell us what it is, we're pretty good at researching such things.
As far as I know, no nation has longer copyright protection than the United States. Until 1998, copyrights were protected for 75 years after publication, so anything published in 1923 or earlier is in the public domain. Under the Sonny Bono Copyright Term Extension Act, 20 years were added to the copyright of everything not yet in the public domain; and other works would then be protected for 70 years after the author's death. It looks like the European Union has enacted similar extensions.
So, for works published after 1923, it's confusing - but most works are protected for longer than we want to think about.
There are several articles about Katherine Tynan (1861-1931) on the Internet, and here are a few nice examples:
- Wikipedia has a good biography and bibliography
- Irish Culture and Customs - a nice little selection of poems
- Princess Grace Irish Library (Monaco) - another bibliography and biography
And since these are in the Public Domain, how about some poetry?
Flowers of Youth was extraordinarily popular. Copies were sold to aid the Red Cross. A thousand were distributed to bereaved mothers in the South of England and the Bishop of London used it several times in sermons.
Flowers of Youth
by Katharine Tynan Hinkson
Lest Heaven be thronged with greybeards hoary.
God who made boys for His delight
Stoops in a day of grief and glory
And calls them in, in from the night.
When they come trooping from the war
Our skies have many a new young star ... Dear boys! they shall be young forever.
The son of God was once a boy.
they run and leap by a clear river
And of their mirth they have great joy.
God who made boys so clean and good
Smiles with the eyes of fatherhood.’
The Dead Coach
by Katharine Tynan Hinkson
At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
And heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time was come not yet.
Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
On and away through the wild night,
The dead must rest ere morning light.
If one might follow on its track
The coach and horses, midnight black,
Within should sit a shape of doom
That beckons one and all to come.
God pity them to-night who wait
To hear the dead coach at their gate,
And him who hears, though sense be dim,
The mournful dead coach stop for him.
He shall go down with a still face,
And mount the steps and take his place,
The door be shut, the order said!
How fast the pace is with the dead!
Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,
The dead coach climbs the distant hill.
Now, God, the Father of us all,
Wipe Thou the widow’s tears that fall!
All-Souls
by Katharine Tynan Hinkson
The door of Heaven is on the latch
To-night, and many a one is fain
To go home for one's night's watch
With his love again.
Oh, where the father and mother sit
There's a drift of dead leaves at the door
Like pitter-patter of little feet
That come no more.
Their thoughts are in the night and cold,
Their tears are heavier than the clay,
But who is this at the threshold
So young and gay?
They are come from the land o' the young,
They have forgotten how to weep;
Words of comfort on the tongue,
And a kiss to keep.
They sit down and they stay awhile,
Kisses and comfort none shall lack;
At morn they steal forth with a smile
And a long look back.
Turn O' The Year
by Katherine Tynan Hinkson
This is the time when bit by bit
The days begin to lengthen sweet
And every minute gained is joy -
And love stirs in the heart of a boy.
This is the time the sun, of late
Content to lie abed till eight,
Lifts up betimes his sleepy head -
And love stirs in the heart of a maid.
This is the time we dock the night
Of a whole hour of candlelight;
When song of linnet and thrush is heard -
And love stirs in the heart of a bird.
This is the time when sword-blades green,
With gold and purple damascene,
Pierce the brown crocus-bed a-row -
And love stirs in a heart I know.
The Wind that Shakes the Barley
by Katherine Tynan Hinkson
There's music in my heart all day,
I hear it late and early,
It comes from fields are far away,
The wind that shakes the barley.Above the uplands drenched with dew
The sky hangs soft and pearly,
An emerald world is listening to
The wind that shakes the barley.Above the bluest mountain crest
The lark is singing rarely,
It rocks the singer into rest,
The wind that shakes the barley.Oh, still through summers and through springs
It calls me late and early.
Come home, come home, come home, it sings,
The wind that shakes the barley.Any Woman
by Katherine Tynan Hinkson
I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.
I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.
At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.
I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.
I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.
I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!
There is a YouTube recording of "Old Copper Plate" here (click)
And musical notation here (click)