Sunday, November 20, 2016

John Clare - Winter Winds Cold and Blea

       



John Clare - Winter Winds Cold and Blea


Winter winds cold and blea
Chilly blows o'er the lea:
Wander not out to me,
    Jenny so fair,
Wait in thy cottage free.
    I will be there.
Wait in thy cushioned chair
Wi' thy white bosom bare.
Kisses are sweetest there:
    Leave it for me.
Free from the chilly air
    I will meet thee.
How sweet can courting prove,
How can I kiss my love
Muffled in hat and glove
    From the chill air?
Quaking beneath the grove,
    What love is there!
Lay by thy woollen vest,
Drape no cloak o'er thy breast:
Where my hand oft hath pressed,
    Pin nothing there:
Where my head droops to rest,
    Leave its bed bare.











G-K-Chesterton-The-Wife-of-Flanders

G. K. Chesterton - The Wife of Flanders

LOW and brown barns thatched and repatched and tattered
  Where I had seven sons until to-day,
A little hill of hay your spur has scattered …
  This is not Paris. You have lost the way.

You, staring at your sword to find it brittle,      
  Surprised at the surprise that was your plan,
Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little,
  Find never more the death-door of Sedan.

Must I for more than carnage call you claimant,
  Paying you a penny for each son you slay?      
Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment
  For what you have lost. And how shall I repay?

What is the price of that red spark that caught me
  From a kind farm that never had a name?
What is the price of that dead man they brought me?      
  For other dead men do not look the same.

How should I pay for one poor graven steeple
  Whereon you shattered what you shall not know,
How should I pay you, miserable people?
  How should I pay you everything you owe?      

Unhappy, can I give you back your honor?
  Though I forgave would any man forget?
While all the great green land has trampled on her
  The treason and terror of the night we met.

Not any more in vengeance or in pardon      
  An old wife bargains for a bean that’s hers.
You have no word to break; no heart to harden.
  Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.












Geoffrey-Chaucer-The-Wife-of-Baths-Tale

Geoffrey Chaucer - The Wife of Bath's Tale

































William-Butler-Yeats-When-You-are-Old-02

William Butler Yeats - When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


















Archibald-Lampman-What-Do-Poets-Want-With-Gold

Archibald Lampman - What Do Poets Want With Gold?

What do poets want with gold,
    Cringing slaves and cushioned ease;
Are not crusts and garments old
    Better for their souls than these?

Gold is but the juggling rod                                                      
Of a false usurping god,
Graven long ago in hell
With a sombre stony spell,
Working in the world forever.
Hate is not so strong to sever                                                
Beating human heart from heart.
Soul from soul we shrink and part,
And no longer hail each other
With the ancient name of brother
Give the simple poet gold,                                                    
And his song will die of cold.
He must walk with men that reel
On the rugged path, and feel
Every sacred soul that is
Beating very near to his.                                                          
Simple, human, careless, free,
As God made him, he must be:
For the sweetest song of bird
Is the hidden tenor heard
In the dusk, an even-flush,                                                    
From the forest’s inner hush,
Of the simple hermit thrush.

What do poets want with love?
    Flowers that shiver out of hand,
And the fervid fruits that prove                                                
    Only bitter broken sand?

Poets speak of passion best,
When their dreams are undistressed,
And the sweetest songs are sung,
E’er the inner heart is stung.                                                    
Let them dream; ’tis better so;
Ever dream, but never know.
If the their spirits once have drained
All that goblet crimson-stained,
Finding what they dreamed divine,                                        
Only earthly sluggish wine,
Sooner will the warm lips pale,
And the flawless voices fail,
Sooner come the drooping wing,
And the afterdays that bring,                                                  
No such songs as did the spring.




















Laurence-Hope-To-the-Unattainable

Laurence Hope - To the Unattainable: Lament of Mahomed Akram

I would have taken Golden Stars from the sky for your necklace,
I would have shaken rose-leaves for your rest from all the rose-trees.

But you had no need; the short sweet grass sufficed for your slumber,
And you took no heed of such trifles as gold or a necklace.

There is an hour, at twilight, too heavy with memory.
There is a flower that I fear, for your hair had its fragrance.

I would have squandered Youth for you, and its hope and its promise,
Before you wandered, careless, away from my useless passion.

But what is the use of my speech, since I know of no words to recall you?
I am praying that Time may teach, you, your Cruelty, me, Forgetfulness.


















Amy-Lowell-To-a-Friend

Amy Lowell - To a Friend

I ask but one thing of you, only one,
That always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on,
Forever vanished, like a vision gone
Out into the night. Alas, how few
There are who strike in us a chord we knew
Existed, but so seldom heard its tone
We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
The world is full of rude awakenings
And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,
Yet still our human longing vainly clings
To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!

















Emily-Bronte-Sympathy

Emily Brontë - Sympathy

There should be no despair for you
While nightly stars are burning;
While evening pours its silent dew,
And sunshine gilds the morning.
There should be no despair--though tears
May flow down like a river:
Are not the best beloved of years
Around your heart for ever?

They weep, you weep, it must be so;
Winds sigh as you are sighing,
And winter sheds its grief in snow
Where Autumn's leaves are lying:
Yet, these revive, and from their fate
Your fate cannot be parted:
Then, journey on, if not elate,
Still, NEVER broken-hearted!



















George-Pope-Morris-The-Sword-and-the-Staff

George Pope Morris - The Sword and the Staff

The sword of the hero!
The staff of the sage!
Whose valor and wisdom
Are stamped on the age!
Time-hallowed mementos
Of those who have riven
The sceptre from tyrants,
'The lightning from heaven!'

This weapon, O Freedom!
Was drawn by the son,
And it never was sheathed
Till the battle was won!
No stain of dishonor
Upon it we see!
'Twas never surrendered--
Except to the free!

While Fame claims the hero
And patriot sage,
Their names to emblazon
On History's page,
No holier relics
Will liberty hoard
Than FRANKLIN's staff, guarded
By WASHINGTON's sword.
















William-Shakespeare-Sonnet-116

William Shakespeare - Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
























George-Meredith-The-Song-of-Courtesy

George Meredith - The Song of Courtesy

I

When Sir Gawain was led to his bridal-bed,
By Arthur's knights in scorn God-sped:-
How think you he felt?
O the bride within
Was yellow and dry as a snake's old skin;
Loathly as sin!
Scarcely faceable,
Quite unembraceable;
With a hog's bristle on a hag's chin! -
Gentle Gawain felt as should we,
Little of Love's soft fire knew he:
But he was the Knight of Courtesy.

II

When that evil lady he lay beside
Bade him turn to greet his bride,
What think you he did?
O, to spare her pain,
And let not his loathing her loathliness vain
Mirror too plain,
Sadly, sighingly,
Almost dyingly,
Turned he and kissed her once and again.
Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we?
SILENT, ALL! But for pattern agree
There's none like the Knight of Courtesy.

III

Sir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls:
Kisses are not wasted pearls:-
What clung in his arms?
O, a maiden flower,
Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower,
Beauty her dower!
Breathing perfumingly;
Shall I live bloomingly,
Said she, by day, or the bridal hour?
Thereat he clasped her, and whispered he,
Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be.
Said she, Twice blest is Courtesy!

IV

Of gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport,
When it was morning in Arthur's court;
What think you they cried?
Now, life and eyes!
This bride is the very Saint's dream of a prize,
Fresh from the skies!
See ye not, Courtesy
Is the true Alchemy,
Turning to gold all it touches and tries?
Like the true knight, so may we
Make the basest that there be
Beautiful by Courtesy!












George-Pope-Morris-Seventy-Six

George Pope Morris - Seventy-Six

Before the Battle

The clarion call of liberty
Rings on the startled gales!
The rising hills reverberate
The rising of the vales!
Through all the land the thrilling shout
Swift as an arrow goes!
Columbia's champions arm and out
To battle with her foes!

After the Battle

The bugle-song of victory
Is vocal in the air!
The strains, by warrior-voices breathed,
Are echoed by the fair!
The eagle, with the wreath, blood-bought,
Soars proudly to the sun,
Proclaiming the 'good fight is fought,
And the great victory won!'












Emily-Dickinson-A-Service-of-Song

Emily Dickinson - A Service of Song

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church
I keep it, staying at Home
With a Bobolink for a Chorister
And an Orchard, for a Dome

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice
I just wear my Wings
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church
Our little Sexton — sings
God preaches, a noted Clergyman
And the sermon is never long
So instead of getting to Heaven, at least
I'm going, all along





















Amy-Lowell-The-Painter-on-Silk

Amy Lowell - The Painter on Silk

There was a man
Who made his living
By painting roses
Upon silk.

He sat in an upper chamber
And painted,
And the noises of the street
Meant nothing to him.

When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
Bursting in the sunshine,
And smiled as he worked.

He thought only of roses,
And silk.
When he could get no more silk
He stopped painting
And only thought
Of roses.

The day the conquerors
Entered the city,
The old man
Lay dying.
He heard the bugles and drums,
And wished he could paint the roses
Bursting into sound.













Lewis-Morris-Other-Days

Lewis Morris - Other Days

O Thrush , your song is passing sweet,
But never a song that you have sung
Is half so sweet as thrushes sang
When my dear love and I were young.

O Roses, you are sweet and red,
Yet not so red nor sweet as were
The roses that my mistress loved
To bind within her flowing hair.

Time filches fragrance from the flower;
Time steals the sweetness from the song;
Love only scorns the tyrant's power,
And with the growing years grows strong.
























William-Shakespeare-Othello-Iago-from-Othello-Act-3-Scene-3-Part-2

William Shakespeare - Othello - Iago, from Othello, Act. 3, Scene 3 (Part 2)





William-Shakespeare-Othello-Iago-from-Othello-Act-3-Scene-3-Part-1

William Shakespeare - Othello - Iago, from Othello, Act. 3, Scene 3 (Part 1)















Samuel-Woodworth-The-Old-Oaken-Bucket

Samuel Woodworth - The Old Oaken Bucket

HOW dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
  When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
  And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it,      
  The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
  And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well,—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.      

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
  For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
  The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!      
  And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
  And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.      

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
  As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
  Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,        25
  The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,
  And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.











Samuel-Taylor-Coleridge-Ne-Plus-Ultra

Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Ne Plus Ultra

   Sole Positive of Night!
               Antipathist of Light!
Fate’s only essence! primal scorpion rod—
The one permitted opposite of God!—
Condensed blackness and abysmal storm
        Compacted to one sceptre
                 Arms the Grasp enorm—
                    The Interceptor—
The Substance that still casts the shadow Death!—
        The Dragon foul and fell—
            The unrevealable,
And hidden one, whose breath
Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell!—
            Ah! sole despair
        Of both th’eternities in Heaven!
Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer,
            The all-compassionate!
        Save to the Lampads Seven
Reveal’d to none of all th’Angelic State,
        Save to the Lampads Seven,
        That watch the throne of Heaven!

















Mercy-Otis-Warren-Lines-written-after

Mercy Otis Warren - Lines written after a very severe tempest which cleared up extremely pleasant

WHEN rolling thunders shake the skies,
And lightnings fly from pole to pole;
When threat'ning whirlwinds rend the air,
What terrors seize th' affrighted soul! —

Aghast and pale with thrilling fear,
He trembling stands in wild amaze;
Nor knows for shelter where to hide,
To screen him from the livid blaze.

Happy the calm and tranquil breast,
That with a steady equal mind,
Can view those flying shafts of death,
With heart and will at once resign'd! —

Oh! thou Supreme Eternal King,
At whose command the tempests rage,
With equal ease can worlds destroy,
Or with a word, the storm assuage.

And though impetuous tempests roar,
And penetrating flames surround,
Thou bid'st them cease — the thunder's hush'd,
And rest and silence reign profound.

Thus have we seen thy power and might,
Adoring, we thy works survey;
'Tis thou direct'st the pointed flame,
And thus thy goodness dost display.

Thou hast compos'd the rapid winds,
And lull'd to rest the foaming wave;
The clouds dispers'd, each twinkling star
Proclaims aloud thy power to save.

The silver moon, the glorious orbs,
That swim aloft in boundless space,
Their rays resplendent all unite,
To celebrate at once thy praise.

















Ella-Wheeler-Wilcox-Is-it-Done

Ella Wheeler Wilcox - Is it Done?

It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes,
The last line has withered and curled.
In a tiny white heap of dead ashes
Lie buried the hopes of your world.
There were mad foolish vows in each letter,
It is well they have and burned,
And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter
It was better removed and returned.

But, ah, is it done? in the embers,
Where letters and tokens were cast,
Have you burned up the heart that remembers,
And treasures its beautiful past?
Do you think in this swift reckless fashion
To ruthlessly burn and destroy
The months that were freighted with passion,
The dreams that were drunken with joy?

Can you burn up the rapture of kisses
That flashed from the lips to the soul?
Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses
In spite of its strength of control?
Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers
That thrilled through each pulse and each vein,
Or the sound of a voice that still lingers
And hurts with a haunting refrain?

Is it done? is the life drama ended?
You have put all the lights out, and yet,
Though the curtain, rung down, has descended,
Can the actors go home and forget?
Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping
With a strange restless pain in their hearts,
And in darkness, and anguish and weeping,
Will dream they are playing their parts.















Edna-St-Vincent-Millay-Grown-up

Edna St. Vincent Millay - Grown-up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?














Henry-Lawson-The-Green-Hand-Rouseabout

Henry Lawson - The Green-Hand Rouseabout

Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.
(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.
Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)
I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and rolling wool.’
Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;
Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;
Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—
Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)

Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,
And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.
All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;
Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,
Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,
And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.


Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—
Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep yard smell—
Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—
Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—
Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.
Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,
Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;
Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!
Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half-a-dozen Christs they’d sell!
Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;
Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!

Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;
Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!
‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;
When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.
Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—
Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.

‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’
‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’
‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’
‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’
‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?
‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’

Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:
‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling) WOOL!!’


Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—
Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.


What’s that? waiter? me? stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,
I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!

























George-Pope-Morris-The-Fallen-Brave

George Pope Morris - The Fallen Brave

FROM cypress and from laurel boughs
  Are twined, in sorrow and in pride,
The leaves that deck the mouldering brows
  Of those who for their country died:
In sorrow, that the sable pall      
  Enfolds the valiant and the brave;
In pride that those who nobly fall
  Win garlands that adorn the grave.

The onset, the pursuit, the roar
  Of victory o’er the routed foe,  
Will startle from their rest no more
  The fallen brave of Mexico.
To God alone such spirits yield!
  He took them in their strength and bloom,
When gathering, on the tented field,    
  The garlands woven for the tomb.

The shrouded flag, the drooping spear,
  The muffled drum, the solemn bell,
The funeral train, the dirge, the bier,
  The mourners’ sad and last farewell,      
Are fading tributes to the worth
  Of those whose deeds this homage claim;
But Time, who mingles them with earth,
  Keeps green the garlands of their fame.




























Francis-Thompson-Daisy

Francis Thompson - Daisy

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--
O breath of the distant surf!--

The hills look over on the South,
And southward dreams the sea;
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand
Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs;
Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise,
Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake,
Nor knew her own sweet way;
But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
Thronged in whose throat all day.

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
On the turf and on the spray;
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.
She gave me tokens three:--
A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,
A still word,--strings of sand!
And yet they made my wild, wild heart
Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air,
And candid as the skies,
She took the berries with her hand,
And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end,
Their scent survives their close:
But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose.

She looked a little wistfully,
Then went her sunshine way--
The sea's eye had a mist on it,
And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
She went and left in me
The pang of all he partings gone,
And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul
Was sad that she was glad;
At all the sadness in the sweet,
The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
Look up with soft replies,
And take the berries with her hand,
And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan,
For we are born in other's pain,
And perish in our own.























Short Poetry Collection 152















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Hell or The Inferno from The divine comedy - Dante Alighieri

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Teogonía - Hesíodo

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Machado de Assis

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All at Sea - Frederick Moxon

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Ismalia - Alphonsus de Guimaraens

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