Monday, November 21, 2016

The Uncultured Rhymer To His Cultured Critics - Henry Lawson

       




The Uncultured Rhymer To His Cultured Critics - Henry Lawson

Fight through ignorance, want, and care —
Through the griefs that crush the spirit;
Push your way to a fortune fair,
And the smiles of the world you’ll merit.
Long, as a boy, for the chance to learn —
For the chance that Fate denies you;
Win degrees where the Life-lights burn,
And scores will teach and advise you.
My cultured friends! you have come too late
With your bypath nicely graded;
I’ve fought thus far on my track of Fate,
And I’ll follow the rest unaided.
Must I be stopped by a college gate
On the track of Life encroaching?
Be dumb to Love, and be dumb to Hate,
For the lack of a college coaching?

You grope for Truth in a language dead —
In the dust ’neath tower and steeple!
What know you of the tracks we tread?
And what know you of our people?
‘I must read this, and that, and the rest,’
And write as the cult expects me? —
I’ll read the book that may please me best,
And write as my heart directs me!

You were quick to pick on a faulty line
That I strove to put my soul in:
Your eyes were keen for a ‘dash’ of mine
In the place of a semi-colon —
And blind to the rest. And is it for such
As you I must brook restriction?
‘I was taught too little?’ I learnt too much
To care for a pedant’s diction!

Must I turn aside from my destined way
For a task your Joss would find me?
I come with strength of the living day,
And with half the world behind me;
I leave you alone in your cultured halls
To drivel and croak and cavil:
Till your voice goes further than college walls,
Keep out of the tracks we travel!







Robert-Herrick-To-the-Virgins

To the Virgins - Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
   Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
   Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
   The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
   And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
   Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry.










Emilie-Poulsson-To-Sleep

To Sleep - Emilie Poulsson

Sleep , my baby, while I sing
Bed-time news of everything.
Chickens run to mother hen;
Piggy curls up in the pen.
In the field, all tired with play,
Quiet now the lambkins stay.
Kittens cuddle in a heap—
Baby, too, must go to sleep!

Sleep, my baby, while I sing
Bed-time news of everything.
Now the cows from pasture come;
Bees fly home with drowsy hum.
Little birds are in the nest,
Under mother-bird's soft breast.
Over all soft shadows creep—
Baby now must go to sleep.

Sleep, my baby, while I sing
Bed-time news of everything.
Sleepy flowers seem to nod,
Drooping toward the dewy sod;
While the big sun's fading light
Bids my baby dear good-night.
Mother loving watch will keep;
Baby now must go to sleep.









Sara-Teasdale-To-One-Away

To One Away - Sara Teasdale

I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name!

It was your voice I heard,
You waked and loved me so--
I send you back this word,
I know, I know!









Reginald-Heber-Sympathy

Sympathy - Reginald Heber

A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove
While each was in quest of a fugitive love;
A river ran mournfully murmuring by,
And they wept in its waters for sympathy.
"O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!"
"O never was maid so deserted before!"
"From life and its woes let us instantly fly,
And jump in together for company!"
They searched for an eddy that suited the deed,
But here was a bramble and there was a weed;
"How tiresome it is!" said the fair, with a sigh;
So they sat down to rest them in company.
They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight;
How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!
"One mournful embrace," sobbed the youth, "ere we die!
So kissing and crying kept company.
"Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!"
"Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!"
"To miss such perfection how blinded was I!"
Sure now they were excellent company!
At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear,
"The weather is cold for a watery bier;
When summer returns we may easily die,
Till then let us sorrow in company."
















James-Russell-Lowell-Sonnet-XVII

Sonnet XVII - James Russell Lowell

A POET cannot strive for despotism;
His harp falls shattered; for it still must be
The instinct of great spirits to be free,
And the sworn foes of cunning barbarism:
He who has deepest searched the wide abysm
Of that life-giving Soul which men call fate,
Knows that to put more faith in lies and hate
Than truth and love is the true atheism:
Upward the soul forever turns her eyes:
The next hour always shames the hour before;
One beauty, at its highest, prophesies
That by whose side it shall seem mean and poor
No Godlike thing knows aught of less and less,
But widens to the boundless Perfectness.








There never yet was flower fair in vain,
Let classic poets rhyme it as they will;
The seasons toil that it may blow again,
And summer's heart doth feel its every ill;
Nor is a true soul ever born for naught;
Wherever any such hath lived and died,
There hath been something for true freedom wrought,
Some bulwark levelled on the evil side:
Toil on, then, Greatness! thou art in the right,
However narrow souls may call thee wrong;
Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight,
And so thou shalt be in the world's erelong;
For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may,
From man's great soul one great thought hide away.





D-H-Lawrence-Snake

Snake - D. H. Lawrence

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before
me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
i o And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

Taormina, 1923


The poem Snake by D.H. Lawrence was written in the early 1920s. It is a narrative poem that uses imagery and symbolism to convey Lawrence's idea's about society throughout history. One can see many parallels between social class and Snake.
This poem also highly relfects religious ideas. Although it is not clearly stated, Lawrence has subtle hints in his poem. Many of the symbols used are religious symbols by nature.

D.H. Lawrence's Snake is an interesting poem. Lawrence paints a vivid picture of the snake at the trough, yet it seems as if it is a metaphor. Lawrence seems to be mocking society through his use of the snake. The snake represents the upper class while he, D.H. Lawrence, is just a middle class worker. In Stanza's 1 and 2, Lawrence begins by describing that the snake arrived at the trough first and that he therefore must await his turn. There is no hint that the man fears the snake, but instead there seems to be a respect that provides the man with the patience to wait his turn. As the poem continues, Lawrence paints a picture of the snake. In stanze 5 he states that the snake came from "the burning bowls of the earth." This could be an allusion to hell or even a reflection by man that he does not actually respect the social rankings and only does so for lack of choice. In stanza's 6 and 7 he struggles with his conscience and the idea of killing the snake. This could parallel to social rankings because the under classes may always be thinking of a way to "kill" the upper class; revolts, wars, uprisings etc. Since the man does not kill the snake, we see that he has succumbs to the social conventions and is in fact going to wait his turn as any peasant would in society.
When Lawrence says "Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? /Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? /Was it humility, to feel so honoured?/I felt so honoured" it parallels to society. The rich people, being the snake, would drink from the trough first feeling no remorse for the middle class man waiting in their presence. The middle class person, feeling as if he should shew the rich person from their trough, instead feels honored to have such nobility around, and as Lawrence later states, is actually afraid to fight back. D.H. Lawrence is combating social structure through the symbolic use of a snake. Eventually the man acknowledges that is is indeed fear of the snake, not respect, that has him waiting. He hurls a log at the snake. The snake, shocked and angry, leaves the trough; but we end up feeling remorse for the snake. Having done nothing wrong, the snake seems like a kind animal, when in reality we know it is not. This could reflect society because people were aware that the upper classes were sneaky like snakes but instead chose to believe that they did not fear them but instead respected them. The man regrets throwing the log as he feels like he has missed out on a memory with a majestic creature.
Most people would not think of a snakes as a majestic creature, but D.H. Lawrence makes it clear in this poem that he does. Many people would take a snake to symbolize sin and evil as seen in the Bible and the Garden of Eden, but actually Lawrence is using it in a majestic and noble light. Perhaps this is the case because he is paralleling society and the nobility can be sneaky and sinful yet still seem majestic, just like the snake.
"And I have some to expiate, a pettiness" is the last and most powerful line of the poem. Expiate is such a strong word meaning repent or atone. The man wants to atone for his sin. He regrets throwing the log at the snake as he realized that the snake was not going to harm him. He wants to repent his pettiness and atone for the sin he has committed.
The use of the word expiate and the talk of atoning for sins leads one to understand that religion is indeed a theme in this poem. The use of the snake as a symbol and the battle between good and evil in this poem are all reasons that religion can be seen as an undertone. The battle of good vs. evil is ongoing in the Bible and can be seen here in this poem, if not only just in the symbol of the snake itself but also in the interaction between the snake and the man being that the man believes he is good vs. the snake whom he believes to be evil.













Arthur-Guiterman-A-Sketch-from-the-Life

A Sketch from the Life - Arthur Guiterman

 Its eyes are gray;
            Its hair is either brown
                    Or black;
    And, strange to say,
            Its dresses button down
                    The back!

    It wears a plume
            That loves to frisk around
                    My ear.
    It crowds the room
            With cushions in a mound
                    And queer

    Old rugs and lamps
            In corners a la Turque
                    And things.
    It steals my stamps,
            And when I want to work
                    It sings!

    It rides and skates,
            But then it comes and fills
                    My walls
    With plaques and plates
            And keeps me paying bills
                    And calls.

    It's firm; and if
            I should my many woes
                    Deplore,
    'Twould only sniff
            And perk its little nose
                    Some more.

    It's bright, though small;
            Its name, you may have guessed,
                    Is "Wife."
    But, after all,
            It gives a wondrous zest
                    To life!





George-Pope-Morris-Song-of-the-Sewing-Machine

Song of the Sewing-Machine - George Pope Morris

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!
Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;
And, unlike the drudges human,
Never weary night or day;
Never shedding tears of sorrow,
Never mourning friends untrue,
Never caring for the morrow,
Never begging work to do.

Poverty brings no disaster!
Merrily I glide along,
For no thankless, sordid master,
Ever seeks to do me wrong:
No extortioners oppress me,
No insulting words I dread--
I've no children to distress me
With unceasing cries for bread.

I'm of hardy form and feature,
For endurance framed aright;
I'm not pale misfortune's creature,
Doomed life's battle here to fight:
Mine's a song of cheerful measure,
And no under-currents flow
To destroy the throb of pleasure
Which the poor so seldom know.

In the hall I hold my station,
With the wealthy ones of earth,
Who commend me to the nation
For economy and worth,
While unpaid the female labor,
In the attic-chamber lone,
Where the smile of friend or neighbor
Never for a moment shone.

My creation is a blessing
To the indigent secured,
Banishing the cares distressing
Which so many have endured:
Mine are sinews superhuman,
Ribs of oak and nerves of steel--
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman
Born to toil and not to feel.










Ella-Wheeler-Wilcox-The-Past

The Past - Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I fling the past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep
And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of oriental splendor, or complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave
Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued,
It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless luster lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.












Charles-Badger-Clark-The-Outlaw

The Outlaw - Charles Badger Clark

When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old,
By the foot or the neck or the horn,
He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white
But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.
Though the taught ropes sing like a banjo string
And the latigoes creak and strain,
Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer
And I'll tumble him on the plain.
For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,
And the man is the boss of the herd,
And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,
Must come down when he says the word.
When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
And my spurs clinch into his hide,
He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,
But wherever he goes I'll ride.
Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top
Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel
Till he's happy to own he's broke.
For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,
And the hawse may be prince of his clan,
But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot
And own that his boss is the man.
When the devil at rest underneath my vest
Gets up and begins to paw
And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins,
Then I tackle the real outlaw.
When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild
And my temper is fractious growed,
If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,
Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.
For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast.
He kin brag till he makes you deaf,
But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,
That he kain't quite break is himse'f.











Eliza-Cook-The-Old-Arm-Chair

Eliza Cook - The Old Arm-Chair

I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair ?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
' Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? -- a mother sat there ;
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.

In Childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear ;
And gentle words that mother would give ;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide ;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ;
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey :
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped--
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled :
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow :
'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died :
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek ;
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.













John-Keats-Ode-to-a-Nightingale

John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
                        And mid-May's eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
         No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                        The same that oft-times hath
         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
                        In the next valley-glades:
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?












Adam-Lindsay-Gordon-A-Legend-Of-Madrid

Adam Lindsay Gordon - A Legend Of Madrid

[Translated from the Spanish.]

Francesca.
Crush'd and throng'd are all the places
In our amphitheatre,
'Midst a sea of swarming faces
I can yet distinguish her;
Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina?
Is my secret known to thee?
On the sands of yon arena
I shall yet my vengeance see.
Now through portals fast careering
Picadors are disappearing;
Now the barriers nimbly clearing
Has the hindmost chulo flown.
Clots of dusky crimson streaking,
Brindled flanks and haunches reeking,
Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking,
On the matador alone.
Features by sombrero shaded,
Pale and passionless and cold;
Doublet richly laced and braided,
Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold,
Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo, —
Mask more subtle, and disguise
Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh,
Traitor, to deceive my eyes.
Shouts of noisy acclamation,
Breathing savage expectation,
Greet him while he takes his station
Leisurely, disdaining haste;
Now he doffs his tall sombrero,
Fools! applaud your butcher hero,
Ye would idolise a Nero,
Pandering to public taste.
From the restless Guadalquivir
To my sire's estates he came,
Woo'd and won me, how I shiver!
Though my temples burn with shame.
I, a proud and high-born lady,
Daughter of an ancient race,
'Neath the vine and olive shade I
Yielded to a churl's embrace.
To a churl my vows were plighted,
Well my madness he requited,
Since, by priestly ties, united
To the muleteer's child;
And my prayers are wafted o'er him,
That the bull may crush and gore him,
Since the love that once I bore him
Has been changed to hatred wild.
Nina.
Save him! aid him! oh, Madonna!
Two are slain if he is slain;
Shield his life, and guard his honour,
Let me not entreat in vain.
Sullenly the brindled savage
Tears and tosses up the sand;
Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage,
How shall man your shock withstand?
On the shaggy neck and head lie
Frothy flakes, the eyeballs redly
Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly
Lower, short, and strong, and straight;
Fast, and furious, and fearless,
Now he charges; — virgin peerless,
Lifting lids, all dry and tearless,
At thy throne I supplicate.
Francesca.
Cool and calm, the perjured varlet
Stands on strongly-planted heel,
In his left a strip of scarlet,
In his right a streak of steel;
Ah! the monster topples over,
Till his haunches strike the plain! —
Low-born clown and lying lover,
Thou hast conquer'd once again.
Nina.
Sweet Madonna, maiden mother,
Thou hast saved him, and no other;
Now the tears I cannot smother,
Tears of joy my vision blind;
Where thou sittest I am gazing,
These glad, misty eyes upraising,
I have pray'd, and I am praising,
Bless thee! bless thee! virgin kind.
Francesca.
While the crowd still sways and surges,
Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd,
See, the second bull emerges —
'Tis the famed Cordovan beast, —
By the picador ungoaded,
Scathless of the chulo's dart.
Slay him, and with guerdon loaded,
And with honours crown'd depart.
No vain brutish strife he wages,
Never uselessly he rages,
And his cunning, as he ages,
With his hatred seems to grow;
Though he stands amid the cheering,
Sluggish to the eye appearing,
Few will venture on the spearing
Of so resolute a foe.
Nina.
Courage, there is little danger,
Yonder dull-eyed craven seems
Fitter far for stall and manger
Than for scarf and blade that gleams;
Shorter, and of frame less massive,
Than his comrade lying low,
Tame, and cowardly, and passive, —
He will prove a feebler foe.
I have done with doubt and anguish,
Fears like dews in sunshine languish,
Courage, husband, we shall vanquish,
Thou art calm and so am I.
For the rush he has not waited,
On he strides with step elated,
And the steel with blood unsated,
Leaps to end the butchery.
Francesca.
Tyro! mark the brands of battle
On those shoulders dusk and dun,
Such as he is are the cattle
Skill'd tauridors gladly shun;
Warier than the Andalusian,
Swifter far, though not so large,
Think'st thou, to his own confusion,
He, like him, will blindly charge?
Inch by inch the brute advances,
Stealthy yet vindictive glances,
Horns as straight as levell'd lances,
Crouching withers, stooping haunches; —
Closer yet, until the tightening
Strains of rapt excitement height'ning
Grows oppressive. Ha! like lightning
On his enemy he launches.
Nina.
O'er the horn'd front drops the streamer,
In the nape the sharp steel hisses,
Glances, grazes, — Christ! Redeemer!
By a hair the spine he misses.
Francesca.
Hark! that shock like muffled thunder,
Booming from the Pyrenees!
Both are down — the man is under —
Now he struggles to his knees,
Now he sinks, his features leaden
Sharpen rigidly and deaden,
Sands beneath him soak and redden,
Skies above him spin and veer;
Through the doublet torn and riven,
Where the stunted horn was driven,
Wells the life-blood — We are even,
Daughter of the muleteer!












A-E-Housman-Is-My-Team-Ploughing

A. E. Housman - Is My Team Ploughing

“Is my team ploughing,
   That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
   When I was man alive?”

Ay, the horses trample,
   The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
   The land you used to plough.

“Is football playing
   Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
   Now I stand up no more?”

Ay the ball is flying,
   The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
   Stands up to keep the goal.

“Is my girl happy,
   That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
   As she lies down at eve?”

Ay, she lies down lightly,
   She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
   Be still, my lad, and sleep.

“Is my friend hearty,
   Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
   A better bed than mine?”

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
   I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
   Never ask me whose.






R-Stewart-In-The-Dead-Letter-Office

R. Stewart - In The Dead-Letter Office

COME, rip the mail-bags open, chaps, and sort the stuff away;
A thumping mail again from Perth—we'll have some work to-day.
Two thousand unclaimed letters here, if there's a single one;
So bustle round the tables, boys, and get the sorting done
That we may have them opened up and let the senders know
The reason why there's no reply come back from “Westward-Ho!”
For wives have husbands over there, and girls their sweethearts, too,
And sons who found the old land hard sought fortune in the new;
And some died in the hospitals, who nameless there have lain,
And some lie dead where no man knows upon the scorching plain;
And some have glared on blazing skies and cruel desert sands
Till reeling brain and bursting heart they stilled with desp'rate hands;
And timid men stay near the towns,—but some in quest of gold
Have wandered from the mailman's track: no letters reach the bold.
Then stir yourselves and toss them out; for some are on the rack
These three months past with sorrowing when no reply came back;
A gleam of hope to many send who mourn their loved to-day,
For oft the envelopes are marked Unclaimed, or Gone Away;
But some have scored across the face the mournful legend, Dead,
Or Died in Hospital.—Ah me! sad missives never read.
The daring heart that crossed the sea to win his dear ones bread
Had perished 'neath the fever-pang, no friend beside his bed;
And hardly had his sunken eyes filmed in approaching death,
And still his frame seemed quivering with one last sobbing breath,
When from his wife the letter came so full of loving cheer:
“I'm longing for your safe return; God bless and keep you, dear!
The children all are well and strong—they send their love to you;
We manage just to get along; but one week's rent is due,
And that can wait, the landlord says—he's better than we thought;
He thinks, perhaps, you'll strike the gold; there's plenty there; you ought.”
Ah, well! such tales are common now, they're multiplying fast—
See! yonder lazy fourth-class man is working hard at last!
He's crusty and cantankerous, and selfish as can be:
He growls and grumbles all the day, and little work does he;
His tongue is always on the nag; but since the goldfields' mail
Comes once a month from Albany with many a mournful tale,
He's seized with a desire to show a heart he does not lack,
And grafts away with might and main to send the letters back.
The junior clerks are writing fast, their pen-nibs fairly fly;
The usual chatt'ring is not heard, and little wonder why—
When sending back to some poor girl the tender, loving note
That never met the eyes of him for whose dear sake she wrote;
And right across the envelope a legend, scrawled in red,
Tells how, while she poured forth her heart, the youth lay stark and dead.
Alas for those unfortunates whose hopes are in the West,—
With husbands, fathers, toiling there for gold in fierce unrest!
For fever, drought, and pestilence will reap a harvest grand—
The stoutest hearts Australia owns throb in that deadly land:
So, when you pass our office by, and hear no noisy din,
You'll maybe murmur with a sigh, “The Perth Dead Mail is in.”












A-E-Housman-In-Summertime-on-Bredon

A. E. Housman - In Summertime on Bredon

IN summertime on Bredon
  The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
  In steeples far and near,
  A happy noise to hear.      

Here of a Sunday morning
  My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
  And hear the larks so high
  About us in the sky.      

The bells would ring to call her
  In valleys miles away:
‘Come all to church, good people;
  Good people, come and pray.’
  But here my love would stay.      

And I would turn and answer
  Among the springing thyme,
‘Oh, peal upon our wedding,
  And we will hear the chime,
  And come to church in time.’      

But when the snows at Christmas
  On Bredon top were strown,
My love rose up so early
  And stole out unbeknown
  And went to church alone.      

They tolled the one bell only,
  Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
  And so to church went she,
  And would not wait for me.      

The bells they sound on Bredon,
  And still the steeples hum.
‘Come all to church, good people,’—
  Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
  I hear you, I will come.













John-Clare-Insects

John Clare - Insects

These tiny loiterers on the barley's beard,
And happy units of a numerous herd
Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,
Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings,
How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!
No kin they bear to labour's drudgery,
Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;
And where they fly for dinner no one knows -
The dew-drops feed them not - they love the shine
Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine
All day they're playing in their Sunday dress -
When night reposes, for they can do no less;
Then, to the heath-bell's purple hood they fly,
And like to princes in their slumbers lie,
Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all,
In silken beds and roomy painted hall.
So merrily they spend their summer-day,
Now in the corn-fields, now in the new-mown hay.
One almost fancies that such happy things,
With coloured hoods and richly burnished wings,
Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade
Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid,
Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,
Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.









Joseph-Leycester-Lyne-The-Holy-Isle

Joseph Leycester Lyne - The Holy Isle











Henry-Lawson-The-Heart-of-Australia

Henry Lawson - The Heart of Australia

When the wars of the world seemed ended, and silent the distant drum,
Ten years ago in Australia, I wrote of a war to come:
And I pictured Australians fighting as their fathers fought of old
For the old things, pride or country, for God or the Devil or gold.

And they lounged on the rim of Australia in the peace that had come to last,
And they laughed at my "cavalry charges" for such things belonged to the past;
Then our wise men smiled with indulgence – ere the swift years proved me right –
Saying: "What shall Australia fight for? And whom shall Australia fight?"

I wrote of the unlocked rivers in the days when my heart was full,
And I pleaded for irrigation where they sacrifice all for wool.
I pictured Australia fighting when the coast had been lost and won –
With arsenals west of the mountains and every spur its gun.

And what shall Australia fight for? The reason may yet be found,
When strange shells scatter the wickets and burst on the football ground.
And "Who shall invade Australia?" let the wisdom of ages say
"The friend of a further future – or the ally of yesterday!"

Aye! What must Australia fight for? In the strife that never shall cease,
She must fight for her work unfinished: she must fight for her life and peace,
For the sins of the older nations. She must fight for her own reward.
She has taken the sword in her blindness and shall live or die by the sword.

But the statesman, the churchman, the scholar still peer through their glasses dim
And they see no cloud on the future as they roost on Australia's rim:
Where the farmer works with the lumpers and the drover drives a dray,
And the shearer on Garden Island is shifting a hill to-day.

Had we used the wealth we have squandered and the land that we kept from the plough,
A prosperous Federal City would be over the mountains now,
With farms that sweep to horizons and gardens where plains lay bare,
And the bulk of the population and the Heart of Australia there.

Had we used the time we have wasted and the gold we have thrown away,
The pick of the world's mechanics would be over the range to-day –
In the Valley of Coal and Iron where the breeze from the bush comes down,
And where thousands of makers of all things should be happy in Factory Town.

They droned on the rim of Australia, the wise men who never could learn;
Our substance we sent to the nations, and their shoddy we bought in return.
In the end, shall our soldiers fight naked, no help for them under the sun –
And never a cartridge to stick in the breech of a Brummagem gun?

With the Wars of the World coming near us the wise men are waking to-day.
Hurry out ammunition from England! Mount guns on the cliffs while you may!
And God pardon our sins as a people if Invasion's unmerciful hand
Should strike at the heart of Australia drought-cramped on the verge of the land








Samuel-G-Goodrich-Good-and-Evil

Samuel G Goodrich - Good and Evil

When man from Paradise was driven,
And thorns around his pathway sprung,
Sweet Mercy wandering there from heaven
Upon those thorns bright roses flung.

Aye, and as Justice cursed the ground,
She stole behind, unheard, unseen--
And while the curses fell around,
She scattered seeds of joy between.

And thus, as evils sprung to light,
And spread, like weeds, their poisons wide,
Fresh healing plants came blooming bright,
And stood, to check them, side by side.

And now, though Eden blooms afar,
And man is exiled from its bowers,
Still mercy steals through bolt and bar,
And brings away its choicest flowers.

The very toil, the thorns of care,
That Heaven in wrath for sin imposes,
By mercy changed, no curses are--
One brings us rest, the other roses.

Thus joy is linked with every woe--
Each cup of ill its pleasure brings;
The rose is crushed, but then, you know,
The sweeter fragrance from it springs.

If justice throw athwart our way,
A deepening eve of fear and sorrow,
Hope, like the moon, reflects the ray
Of the bright sun that shines to-morrow.

And mercy gilds with stars the night;
Sweet music plays through weeping willows;
The blackest cave with gems is bright,
And pearls illume the ocean billows.

The very grave, though clouds may rise,
And shroud it o'er with midnight gloom,
Unfolds to faith the deep blue skies,
That glorious shine beyond the tomb.










John-Clare-First-Love

John Clare - First Love

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start --
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love's appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more






James-Russell-Lowell-Fancies-about-a-Rosebud-Pressed-in-an-Old-Copy-of-Spenser

James Russell Lowell - Fancies about a Rosebud, Pressed in an Old Copy of Spenser






Gordon-Bottomley-The-End-of-the-World

Gordon Bottomley - The End of the World

The snow had fallen many nights and days;
     The sky was come upon the earth at last,
     Sifting thinly down as endlessly
     As though within the system of blind planets
     Something had been forgot or overdriven.
     The dawn now seemed neglected in the grey
     Where mountains were unbuilt and shadowless trees
     Rootlessly paused or hung upon the air.
     There was no wind, but now and then a sigh
     Crossed that dry falling dust and rifted it
     Through crevices of slate and door and casement.
     Perhaps the new moon's time was even past.
     Outside, the first white twilights were too void
     Until a sheep called once, as to a lamb,
     And tenderness crept everywhere from it;
     But now the flock must have strayed far away,
     The lights across the valley must be veiled,
     The smoke lost in the greyness or the dusk.
     For more than three days now the snow had thatched
     That cow-house roof where it had ever melted
     With yellow stains from the beasts' breath inside;
     But yet a dog howled there, though not quite lately.
     Someone passed down the valley swift and singing,
     Yes, with locks spreaded like a son of morning;
     But if he seemed too tall to be a man
     It was that men had been so long unseen,
     Or shapes loom larger through a moving snow.
     And he was gone and food had not been given him.
     When snow slid from an overweighted leaf,
     Shaking the tree, it might have been a bird
     Slipping in sleep or shelter, whirring wings;
     Yet never did bird fall out, save once a dead one —
     And in two days the snow had covered it.
     The dog had howled again — or thus it seemed
     Until a lean fox passed and cried no more.
     All was so safe indoors where life went on
     Glad of the close enfolding snow — O glad
     To be so safe and secret at its heart,
     Watching the strangeness of familiar things.
     They knew not what dim hours went on, went by,
     For while they slept the clock stopt newly wound
     As the cold hardened. Once they watched the road,
     Thinking to be remembered. Once they doubted
     If they had kept the sequence of the days,
     Because they heard not any sound of bells.
     A butterfly, that hid until the Spring
     Under a ceiling's shadow, dropt, was dead.
     The coldness seemed more nigh, the coldness deepened
     As a sound deepens into silences;
     It was of earth and came not by the air;
     The earth was cooling and drew down the sky.
     The air was crumbling. There was no more sky.
     Rails of a broken bed charred in the grate,
     And when he touched the bars he thought the sting
     Came from their heat — he could not feel such cold . . .
     She said, 'O, do not sleep,
     Heart, heart of mine, keep near me. No, no; sleep.
     I will not lift his fallen, quiet eyelids,
     Although I know he would awaken then —
     He closed them thus but now of his own will.
He can stay with me while I do not lift them.'















Sara-Teasdale-Driftwood

Sara Teasdale - Driftwood

MY forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.
But it was my lovers,
And not my sleeping sires,
Who gave the flame its changeful
And iridescent fires;
As the driftwood burning
Learned its jewelled blaze
From the sea's blue splendor
Of colored nights and days.








William-Butler-Yeats-A-Dream-of-Death

William Butler Yeats - A Dream of Death

I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
i{She was more beautiful than thy first love,}
i{But now lies under boards.}








John-Keats-Bright-Star

John Keats - Bright Star

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
         Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
         Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
         Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
         Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
         Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
         Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.













William-Wordsworth-It-is-a-beauteous-evening-calm-and-free

William Wordsworth - It is a beauteous evening, calm and free

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.











Wallace-Irwin-To-the-Average-Man

Wallace Irwin - To the Average Man

THE AVERAGE MAN wears the average clothes
  And the average hat on his head;
He eats at a table and sits on a chair
  And (normally) sleeps on a bed;
For he scorns the eccentric, and never would dare      
To sleep on a table or eat on a chair.

The Average Man seeks the corner saloon
  Omeric refreshment to find;
But, shunning the tipple, he wanders to church
  Where he is devoutly inclined—      
Nor does he expect to find whiskey or dice
In the place that is famed for religious advice.

The Average Man says the average things
  And sings just the average songs;
He’s deucedly fond of the Average Girl,      
  For whom he unceasingly longs—
And his vices and virtues, too many to tell,
Are oddly at odds—but they average well.

Statistics declare that the Average Man
  Finds the Average Woman and mates;      
That the Average Family, children all told,
  Is something like two and three-eighths.
(Though fractional children disturb and appal,
The Average Man isn’t worried at all.)

The Average Man reads the average books,      
  And sometimes he writes ’em, I hear;
He’s neither a genius, a knave, nor a fool,
  In fact he despises the queer;
For if he departed the Average Plan
He’d cease to be known as the Average Man.      

But deep in the breast of the Average Man
  The passions of ages are swirled,
And the loves and the hates of the Average Man
  Are old as the heart of the world—
For the thought of the Race, as we live and we die,      
Is in keeping the Man and the Average high.










Fernando-Pessoa-Antinous

Fernando Pessoa - Antinous

It rained outside right into Hadrian's soul.

The boy lay dead
On the low couch, on whose denuded whole,
To Hadrian's eyes, that at their seeing bled,
The shadowy light of Death's eclipse was shed.

The boy lay dead and the day seemed a night
Outside. The rain fell like a sick affright
Of Nature at her work in killing him.
Through the mind's galleries of their past delight
The very light of memory was dim.

O hands that clasped erewhile Hadrian's warm hands,
That now found them but cold!
O hair bound erstwhile with the pressing bands!
O eyes too diffidently bold!
O bare female male-body like
A god that dawns into humanity!
O lips whose opening redness erst could strike
Lust's seats with a soiled art's variety!
O fingers skilled in things not to be named!
O tongue which, counter-tongued, the throbbed brows flamed!
O glory of a wrong lust pillowed on
Raged conciousness's spilled suspension!
These things are things that now must be no more.
The rain is silent, and the Emperor
Sinks by the couch. His grief is like a rage,
For the gods take away the life they give
And spoil the beauty they made live.
He weeps and knows that every future age
Is staring at him out of the to-be.
His love is on a universal stage.
A thousand unborn eyes weep with his misery.

Antinous is dead, is dead forever,
Is dead forever and the loves lament.
Venus herself, that was Adonis' lover,
Seeing him again, having lived, dead again,
Lends her great skyey grief now to be blent
With Hadrian's pain.

Now is Apollo sad because the stealer
Of his white body is forever cold.
In vain shall kisses on that nippled point
Covering his heart-beats' silent place implore
His life again to ope his eyes and feel her
Presence along his veins this fortress hold
Of love. Now no caressing hands anoint
With growing joy that body's lusting lore.

The rain falls, and he lies like one who hath
Forgotten all the gestures of his love
And lies awake waiting their hot return.
But all his vices' art is now with Death:
He lies with her, whose sex cannot him move,
Whose hand, were't not cold, still ne'er his could burn.
Lilies were on his cheeks and roses too.
His eyes were sad in joy sometimes. He said
Oft in his close abandonments, that woo
Love to be more love than love can be, «Kiss
My eyelids till my closed eyes seem to guess
The kiss they feel laid in my heart's breast-bed.»

O Hadrian, what shall now thy cold life be?
What boots it to be emperor over all?
His absence o'er thy visible empery
Throws a dim pall.
Now are thy nights widowed of love and kisses,
Now are thy days robbed of the night's awaiting,
Now are thy lips purposeless and thy blisses
No longer of the size of thy life, mating
Thy empire with thy love's bold tendernesses.

Now are thy doors closed upon beauty and joy.
Throw ashes on thy head!
Lo, lift thine eyes and see the lovely boy!
Naked he lies upon that memoried bed;
By thine own hand he lies uncovered.
There was he wont thy dangling sense to cloy,
And uncloy with more cloying, and annoy
With newer uncloying till thy senses bled.

His hand and mouth knew gamuts musical
Of vices thy worn spine was hurt to follow.
Sometimes it seemed to thee that all was hollow
In sense in each new straining of sucked lust.
Then still new crimes of fancy would he call
To thy shaken flesh, and thou wouldst tremble and fall
Back on thy cushions with thy mind's sense hushed.

«Beautiful was my love, yet melancholy.
He had that art, of love's arts most unholy,
Of being lithely sad among lust's rages.
Now the Nile gave him up, the eternal Nile.
Under his wet locks Death's blue paleness wages
Now war upon our pity with sad smile».

Even as he thinks, the lust that is no more
Than a memory of lust revives and takes
His senses by the hand, and his flesh quakes
Till all becomes again what 'twas before.
The dead body on the bed gets up and lives
Along his every nerve ripped up and twanged,
And a love-o'er-wise and invisible hand
At every body-entrance to his lust
Utters caresses which flit off, yet just
Remain enough to bleed his last nerve's strand,
O sweet and cruel Parthian fugitives!

He rises, mad, and looks upon his lover,
That now can love nothing but what none know.
Then his cold lips run all the body over--
His lips that scarce remember their warmth, now
So blent with feeling the death they behold;
And so ice-senseless are his lips that, lo!,
He scarce tastes death from the dead body's cold,
But it seems both are dead or living both
And love is still the Presence and the Mover.
Then his lips cease on the other lips' cold sloth.

But there the wanting breath reminds his lips
That between him and his boy-love the mist
That comes out of the gods has crept. The tips
Of his fingers, still idly tickling, list
To some flesh-response to their purple mood.
But their love-orison is not understood.
The god is dead whose cult was to be kissed!

He lifts his hand up to where heaven should be
And cries on the mute gods to know his pain.
Lo, list!, o divine watchers of our glee
And sorrow!, list!, he will yield up his reign.
He will live in the deserts and be parched
On the hot sands, he will be beggar and slave;
But give again the boy to be arm-reached!
Forego that space ye meant to be his grave!

Take all the female beauties of the earth!
Take all afar and rend them if ye will!
But, by sweet Ganymede, that Jove found worth
And above Hebe did elect to fill
His cup at his high festivals, and spill
His fairer vice wherefrom comes newer birth--,
The clod of female embraces resolve
To dust, o father of the gods!, but spare
This boy and his white body and golden hair.
Maybe thy newer Ganymede thou m?eanst
That he should be, and out of jealous care
From Hadrian's arms to thine his beauty steal'st.

He was a kitten playing with lust, playing
With his own and with Hadrian's, sometimes one
And sometimes two, now splitting, now one grown,
Now leaving lust, now lust's high lusts delaying,
Now eyeing lust not wide, but from askance
Jumping round on lust's half-unexpectance;
Then softly gripping, then with fury holding,
Now playfully playing, now seriously, now lying
By the side of lust looking at it, now spying
Which way to take lust in his lust's withholding.

Thus did the hours slide from their tangled hands
And from their mixed limbs the moments slip.
Now were his arms dead leaves, now iron bands,
Now were his lips cups, now the things that sip,
Now were his eyes too closed, and now too open,
Now were his ways such as none thought might happen,
Now were his arts a feather and now a whip.

That love they lived as a religion
Offered to gods that do to presence bend.
Sometimes he was adorned and made to don
Half-costumes, now a posing nudity
That imitates some god's eternity
Of body statue-known to craving men.
Now was he Venus, risen from the seas;
And now was he Apollo, white and golden;
Now as Jove sate he in mock-judgment over
The presence at his feet of his slaved lover;
Now was he an acted rite, by one beholden,
In ever-repositioned mysteries.

Now he is something anyone can be.
O white negation of the thing it is!
O golden-haired moon-cold loveliness!
Too cold! too cold! and love as cold as he.
Love wanders through the memories of his vice
As through a labyrinth, in sad madness glad,
And now calls on his name and bids him rise,
And now is smiling at his imaged coming
That is i'th'heart like faces in the gloaming--
Mere shining shadows of the forms they had.

The rain again like a vague pain arose
And put the sense of wetness in the air.
Suddenly did the Emperor suppose
He saw this room and all in it from far.
He saw the couch, the boy and his own frame
Cast down against the couch, and he became
A clearer presence to himself, and said
These words unuttered, save to his soul's dread:

«I shall build thee a statue that will be
To the astonished future evidence
Of my love and thy beauty and the sense
That beauty giveth of infinity,
Though death with subtle uncovering hands remove
The apparel of life and empire from our love,
Yet its nude statue-soul of lust made spirit
All future times, whether they will't or not,
Shall, like a curse-seeming god's boon earth-brought,
Inevitably inherit.

«Ay, this thy statue shall I build, and set
Upon the pinnacle of being-thine. Let Time
By its subtle dim crime
Eat it from life, or with men's violence fret
To pieces out of unity and presence.
Ay, let that be! Our love shall stand so great
In thy statue of us, like a god's fate,
Our love's incarnate and discarnate essence,
That, like a trumpet reaching over seas
And going from continent to continent,
Our love shall speak its joy and woe, death-blent,
Over infinities and eternities!

«The memory of our love shall bridge the ages.
It shall loom white out of the past and be
Eternal, like a Grecian victory,
In every heart the future shall give rages
Of not being our love's contemporary.

«Yet oh that this were needed not, and thou
Wert the red flower perfuming my life,
The garland on the brows of my delight,
The living flame on altars of my soul!
Would all this were a thing thou mightest now
Smile at from under thy death-mocking lids
And wonder that I should so put a strife
Twixt me and gods for thy lost presence bright;
Were there nought in this but my empty dole
And thy awakening smile half to condole
With what my dreaming pain to hope forbids».

Thus went he, like a lover who is waiting,
From place to place in his dim doubting mind.
Now was his hope a great bulk of will fating
Its wish to being, now felt he he was blind
In some point of his seen wish undefined.

When love meets death we know not what to feel.
When death foils love we know not what to know.
Now did his doubt hope, now did his hope doubt.
Now what his wish dreamed the dream's sense did flout
And to a sullen emptiness congeal.
Then again the gods fanned love's darkening glow.

«Thy death has given me a newer lust--
A flesh-lust raging for eternity.
On my imperial will I put my trust
That the high gods, that made me emperor be,
Will not annul from a more real life
My wish that thou shouldst live for e'er and stand
A fleshly presence on their better land,
More beautiful and as beautiful, for there
No things impossible our wishes mar
Nor pain our hearts with change and time and strife.

«Love, love, my love! thou art already a god.
This thought of mine, which I a wish believe,
Is no wish, but a sight, to me allowed
By the great gods, that love love and can give
To mortal hearts, under the shape of wishes--
Of wishes strong, having imperial reaches--
A vision of the real things beyond
Our life-imprisoned life, our sense-bound sense.
Ay, what I will thee to be thou art now
Already. Already on Olympic ground
Thou walkest and art perfect, yet art thou,
For thou needst no excess of thee to don
To perfect be, being perfection.

«My heart is singing like a morning bird.
A great hope from the gods comes down to me
And bids my heart to subtler sense be stirred
And think not that strange evil of thee
That to think thee mortal would be.

«My love, my love! My god-love! Let me kiss
On thy cold lips thy hot lips now immortal,
Greeting thee at Death's portal's happiness,
For to the gods Death's portal is Life's portal.

«Thus is the memory of thee a god
Already, already a statue made of me--
Of that part of me that, like a great sea,
Girds in me a great red empire more broad
Than all the lands and peoples that are in
My power's reach. Thus art thou myself made
In that great stretch Olympic that betrays
The true-wholed gods present in river and glade
And hours eternal in its different days.

«So strong my love is that it is thyself,
Thy body as it was ere death was it,
Towering above the silence infinite
That girds round life and its unduring pelf.
Even as thou wert in life, thy corporal shade
Is in the presence of the gods. My love
Permits not that its carnal being fade
Or one whit false to fleshly presence prove.
Creeds may arise and pass, and passions change,
Other ways may be born out of Time's dream,
But this our love, made but thy body, 'll range
On deathless meads from happy stream to stream.

«Were there no Olympus for thee, my love
Would make thee one, where thou sole god mightst prove,
And I thy sole adorer, glad to be
Thy sole adorer through infinity.
That were a divine universe enough
For love and me and what to me thou art.
To have thee is a thing made of gods' stuff
And to look on thee eternity's best part.

«O love, my love! Awake with my strong will
Of loving to Olympus and be there
The latest god, whose honey-coloured hair
Takes divine eyes! As thou wert on earth, still
In heaven bodifully be and roam,
A prisoner of that happiness of home,
With elder gods, while I on earth do make
A statue for thy deathlessness' seen sake.

«That deathless statue of thee I shall build
Will be no stone thing, but my great regret
By which our love's eternity is willed.
My sorrow shall make thee its god, and set
Thy naked presence on the parapet
That looks over the seas of future times.
Some shall say all our love was vice and crimes.
Others against our names, as stones, shall whet
The knife of their glad hate of beauty, and make
Our name a pillory, a scaffold and a stake
Whereon to burn our brothers yet unborn.
Yet shall our presence, like eternal morn,
Ever return at Beauty's hour, and shine
Out of the East of Love, and be the shrine
Of future gods that nothing human scorn.

«My love for thee is part of what thou wert
And shall be part of what thy statue will be.
Our double presence unified in thee
Shall make to beat many a future heart.
Ay, were't a statue to be broken and missed,
Yet its stone-perfect memory
Would, still more perfect, on Time's shoulders borne,
Overlook the great Morn
From an eternal East.

«Thy statue is of thyself and of me.
Our dual presence has its unity
In that perfection of body, which my love,
In loving it, did out of mortal life
Raise into godness, set above the strife
Of times and changing passions far above.

«The end of days, when Jove is born again,
And Ganymede again pour at his feast,
Shall see our dual soul from death released
And recreated unto love, joy, pain,
Life--all the beauty and the vice and lust,
All the diviner side of flesh, flesh-staged.
And, if our very memory wore to dust,
By the giant race of the end of ages must
Our dual presence once again be raised.»

It rained still. But slow-treading night came in
Closing the weary eyelids of each sense.
The very consciousness of self and soul
Grew, like a landscape through dim raining, dim.
The? Emperor lay still, so still that now
He half forgot where now he lay, or whence
The sorrow that was still salt on his lips.
All had been something very far, a scroll
Rolled up. The things he felt were like the rim
That haloes round the moon when the night weeps.

His head was bowed into his arms, and they
On the low couch, foreign to his sense, lay.
His closed eyes seemed open to him and seeing
The naked floor, dark, cold, sad and unmeaning.
His hurting breath was all his sense could know.
Out of the falling darkness the wind rose
And fell. A voice swooned in the courts below.
And the Emperor slept.

                        The gods came now
And bore something away, no sense knows how,
On unseen arms of power and repose.


LISBON, 1915.



------------------------------------------------


Antinous - Fernando Pessoa - Tradução do poema em Português


LÁ FORA A CHUVA de Adriano a alma engelhava.



Morto jazia o mancebo

Em sua nudez completa, no baixo leito,

Ante os olhos de Adriano, cujo sofrimento algo terrível lhe era.



Do eclipse da morte, sombreada, esparzia-se a luz.

Inerte jazia o mancebo. Lembrava o dia uma noite.

La fora, caía a chuva qual um enfermo apavorado

Com a Natureza que lhe roubava a vida.

De sua memória o legado nada contentava

Pois morta e apagada a alegria do que tinha sido estava.



Ó mãos que outrora abraçado haviam de Adriano as mãos cálidas

Que, agora, pelo friagem, gélidas sentia!

Ó cabelos com fitas vigorosas amarradas antigamente!

Ó olhos de ousadia meio tímida!

Ó corpo nu macho-fêmeo

Que, aos olhos da humanidade, a um deus semelhava!

Ó lábios, cuja vermelha abertura outrora roçar sabiam

Da luxúria os lugares com uma vívida variedade de artifícios!



Ó hábeis dedos das indizíveis coisas!

Ó línguas que, tornadas uma só, o sangue incandesciam!

Ó domínio completo da concupiscência entronizada

Na interrupção líquida da consciência em fúria!

Inexistentes para sempre devem ser agora todas essas coisas.

Silenciosa é a chuva, e o Imperador,

Ao pé do leito, se desespera.. Fúria é sua dor.,

Pois os deuses consigo levam a vida que nos deu

E arruínam a beleza à qual da vida o sopro deram.

Ele chora e sabe que, cada época vindoura,

Além do futuro, o observa.

Num nível universal posiciona seu amor.

Milhares de olhos futuros a miséria pranteiam-lhe.



Morto está Antinous. Morto para sempre,

Para sempre extinto. De todos os amores geral lamentação.

A própria Vênus, que era o amor de Adônis,

Vendo-o, aquele que de novo viveu e, agora, novamente morto está,

Aquele que há pouco existia e, agora, de novo defunto está,

Leva-a do antigo pesar a comungar.



Apolo, agora, triste anda porque o ladrão

De seu alvo corpo para sempre gélido fica.

Naquele ponto do mamilo nenhum beijo cuidadoso

Cobrindo o lugar silencioso das batidas do coração restaura

Para lhe abrir os olhos outra vez e sentir-lhe

A presença nas veias seguras da fortaleza do Amor.

Nenhum calor seu do outro calor exige

Suas mãos, soltas agora, por detrás de sua cabeça,

Naquela postura que tudo concede exceto as mãos,

Sobre o corpo projetado suplicarão mãos.



Cai a chuva e ele jaz como alguém que

Todos os gestos de seu amor esqueceu

E, despertado, continua por seu apaixonado amor esperando

Com a Morte se foram todas as suas habilidades e galanterias.

Não pode este gelo humano calor algum mover.

De um fogo estas cinzas nenhuma chama queimar não podem.



Ó Adriano, o que farás agora de vossa gélida vida?

Que botas deveriam ser senhor dos homens e do poder?

Por sobre o teu império visível sua ausência

Dele a ausência se faz sentida qual um noite.

Não mais existirão manhãs de esperanças e de delícias.

Agora enviuvadas são tuas noites de amor e beijos.

Os dias de esperas noturnas te foram agora roubados.

Teus lábios agora o sentido perderam de tuas alegrias,

A não ser para nomear que a Morte é

Companheira da solidão, da tristeza e do medo.



Tuas mãos indefinidas tateiam, como se tivessem deixado escapar a alegria.

Tua cabeça ergue a fim de ouvires que a chuva acabou,

E dirige ao teu adorável mancebo o teu levantado olhar.

Sobre aquele leito memorial nu, jaz ele.

Descoberto por tua própria mão, ali permanece.

Afeito a saciar teu senso instável, lá estava ele.

Insaciável e saciando mais e importunando-o

Com renovadas insaciabilidades até que sangrassem os sentidos.



Jogos conheciam sua mão e sua boca para restabelecerem

Desejos que tua gasta espinha com dificuldades suportaria.

Às vezes, a ti afigurava que era tudo vazio

De percepção em cada novo esforço de chupada luxúria.

Em seguida, para novos volteios de galanterias convocaria eles

À carne de teus nervos e tu estremecerias

sobre tuas almofadas recaindo com a sensação de teu espírito silente





.”Belo foi meu amor, , melancólico, todavia.

Daquela arte senhor que o amor cativo por inteiro torna,

Por ser lentamente triste entre as paixões da lascívia.

O Nilo, agora, o abandonou, o eterno Nilo

Sob suas madeixas molhadas da Morte a palidez azul

Contra nossos anelos de sorrisos tristes agora guerra trava.”



Até mesmo quando, pelo pensamento, a luxúria, que não é mais

Do que um esquecimento que pelas mãos reacende-lhe,

Desperta-lhe os sentidos a carne viva

E tudo de novo parece o que antes fora.

O corpo inerte no leito recompõe-se, vive

E vem para junto dele, cada vez mais junto e

Em movimentos uma invisível mão com gestos amorosos

Direcionados a todas as aberturas do corpo, a concupiscência estimulando,

Sussurra carícias rápidas que, no entanto, apenas

Demoram o bastante para sangrar de seu derradeiro vigor as fibras.

Ó doces e cruéis fugitivos paritas!



Destarte, meio que se levanta com os olhos no amante postos,

O qual, agora, nada amar pode senão o que ninguém conhece.

Vagamente, meio enxergando o que na verdade observa,

Percorre com os lábios frios o corpo inteiro.

E, assim, sem se importar com a gelidez, são os lábios que, olha!,

Na frieza do corpo imóvel mal sente ele a presença da morte,

No entanto, parece que ambos mortos ou vivos estão

Pois é o amor ainda a presença e o alento,

Enfim, na indolência gélida dos lábios do outro se cansam seus lábios.



Ah, ali a respiração pesada faz-lhe recordar os lábios

Que, independente dos deuses, uma neblina dissipou,.

Entre ele e o mancebo. As pontas dos dedos

Ainda indolentemente examinando-lhe o corpo, aguardam

Alguma reação da carne a seu estímulo para despertar.

Porém, a pergunta deles sobre o amor entendida não é:

Morto é o deus cujo culto devesse ser beijado!



As mão se levanta para o lugar onde o céu deveria estar

E grita para que mudos os deuses sua dor ouçam

Que que vossas mansas faces à sua súplica atendam,

Ó forças decisórias! De seu reino ele abdicará.

Ressequido viverá nos calmos desertos.

Nos distantes e selvagens caminhos um mendigo ou escravo será,

Porém, devolvei aos seus braços novamente o caloroso mancebo!

Se o privardes dessa oportunidade, estareis sua morte decretando!



Retirai da terra toda a feminina delicadeza

E num túmulo ainda restará algum vestígio!

Porém, pelo suave e valioso Ganimedes, Júpiter

Substituiu Hebe por ele e decidiu encher

Sua taça em grande festejo, instilando

O amor mais propício que a falta do outro.

Dos abraços femininos dissolve-se a terra

Em pó. Ó pai dos deuses, poupai, contudo,

Este mancebo, seu alvo corpo e seus áureos cabelos!

Talvez se fosse por vosso grandioso Ganimedes

Vós o farias, mas só por razões de ciúmes

Dos braços de Adriano a sua beleza para ti arrebatastes.



Um gatinho ele era fazendo o jogo da volúpia,

Sem ninguém, ou com Adriano, às vezes, só.

E às vezes ambos, ora unidos, ora afastados.

Ora sem sensualidade, ora prolongando-a em altas doses;

Ora com os olhos nela não tão abertos, no entanto, de esguelha

Saltando em volta em meia expectativa libidinosa;

Ora levemente reprimindo-a, em seguida, em incontida fúria,

Ora brincando só por brincar, ora com vontade, ora deitando-se

Junto dele, olhando-o, ora espreitando

Qual maneira de segurá-lo em seu justo controle de libidinagem.



Assim passavam as horas nos gestos das entrelaçadas mãos

E com seus membros unidos as horas voam.

Ora folhas mortais seus braços eram., ora fitas de ferro;

Ora eram seus lábios xícaras, ora as coisas que sorvem;

Ora seus olhos ficavam muito unidos; ora eram apenas olhares;

Ora em ação se achavam em descontínuos delírios;

Ora eram suas destrezas uma pluma, ora finalmente um chicote.



Uma religião se lhes tornara o amor.

Oferecida aos deuses que aos homens surgem.

Por vezes, adornava-se ou se deixava vestir

Parcialmente, depois, em e nudez de estátuas,

Imitavam, na realidade, algum deus que semelhava ser,

Em virtude da qualidade apurada do mármore, novamente homens.

Ora era Vênus, branca dos mares surgindo;

Ora era Apolo, jovem e louro;

Ora era Júpiter sentado, saciado ele em julgamento simulado diante da

Presença de seu amante a seus pés.;

Ora era ele um rito representado por alguém vigiado

Em mistérios sempre renovados.



É ele agora alguma coisa que qualquer um pode ser.

Ó inflexível negação da coisa que existe!

Ó amorosidade qual a lua de áureos cabelos!

Em demasia frios! Excessivamente frios! e o amor como ele tão frio!

Vagueia sim o amor através da memória de seu amor,

Como num labirinto, em triste júbilo da loucura.

Muito frio! Demasiadamente frio! e o amor tão frio como ele!

Vagueia sim através da memória de seu amor,

Qual num labirinto, em triste júbilo da loucura,

Que ora lhe invoca o nome e lhe pede que venha,

E ora sorria para a sua vinda representada,

Que é o coração como rostos vespertinos –

Puras sombras brilhantes das originais formas.



De volta veio a chuva qual uma indefinida dor

E no ar pôs a sensação líquida.

De súbito, o Imperador supôs que,

Bem distante, avistava esta sala e tudo ao seu redor.

Viu, então, o leito, o mancebo e a sua própria imagem

Lançada contra o leito e ele para si mesmo se tornou

Uma presença mais evidente, dizendo

Estas não proferidas palavras, exceto para a angústia de sua alma:



“ Para vós uma estátua edificarei, que servirá como

Prova, aos tempos futuros,

De meu amor, da vossa beleza e da percepção

Da divindade que a beleza propicia,

Posto que a morte, com sutis mãos reveladoras, destrói

da vida o aparato e de nosso amor o império.

Entretanto, sua estátua nua, à qual realmente vós dais vida,

A posteridade, contra a sua vontade ou não,

Sem dúvida, há de herdar, como uma dádiva de um deus constrangido.



“Sim, uma estatua vossa hei de erigir e marcar

Sobre o pináculo de vosso ser,

Por seu sutil e obscuro crime, aquele Tempo

Que receará destruir-te a vida, ou desgastar-se

Com a ferocidade da guerra e da inveja da massa e da pedra.

Não pode ser isso o Destino! Os próprios deuses, que fazem

Alterar as coisas, se transformam, a própria mão

Do Destino que por força suplanta

Os deuses propriamente ditos com a escuridão, recuará

Em arruinar desta forma vossa estátua e minha dádiva.



“Esta imagem de nosso amor os tempos cimentará.

Surgirá ele límpido do passado e será

Eterno que nem uma vitória romana.

Em cada coração se enfurecerá o futuro

Por não ter sido contemporâneo de nosso amor.



“No entanto, oh, se tudo sucedesse diversamente

Seríeis a vermelha flor minha vida perfumando.

Sobre as fontes das minhas delícias as grinaldas,

Da minh’alma a viva chama dos altares!

Fosse tudo isso algo de que agora pudésseis

Sorrir por sob as pálpebras da morte zombeteiras.

Imaginar que eu pudesse assim um prélio travar

Entre mim e os deuses em favor do brilho de vossa perdida presença;

Nada disso houve, salvo o vazio do meu ser

E vosso sorriso despertando meio consolando

O que proíbe a dor de com a esperança sonhar .”



Destarte, encaminhava-se ele qual um amante em espera,

Com esta tênue dúvida, de lugar para lugar.

Sua esperança, ora era uma grande intenção condenando-lhe

O desejo do ser, ora sentia ele que cego estava

De certo modo à percepção de seu indefinido desejo.



Não sabemos o que sentimos quando o amor a morte encontra.

Não sabemos o que r quando o amor a morte frustra.

Ora da esperança duvidava ele, ora sua esperança duvidava;

Ora o que seu desejo sonhava, a razão do sonho na realidade dele escarnecia.

E congelava a avivam um exasperado vazio.

Por outro lado, avivam os deuses do amor o escuro brilho.



“Vossa morte uma sensualidade mais elevada me concedeu -

Uma fulminante licenciosidade para a eternidade vociferando.

No meu destino imperial minha confiança deposito

A fim de que os altos deuses, que imperador me fizeram,

De mais autêntica uma vida não me negarão

O desejo de que vós devíeis viver para sempre e permanecerdes

Uma fresca presença no mundo deles melhor,

Mais encantadora e no entanto não mais sedutora,

Coisas impossíveis não há que destruam nossos desejos,

Nem nossos corações aflijam com mudança, tempo e luta.



“Amor, amor, amor meu! Sois um deus completo.

Este pensamento meu que, creio eu, seja um desejo,

Não o é , mas uma visão a mim concedida

Pelos grandes deuses, os quais amam de verdade e podem dar

Aos corações mortais, sob a forma de desejos –

De desejos contendo limites ocultos –

Das coisas genuínas uma visão além de

Nossa vida emparedada, de nossa percepção aos sentidos presa.

Sim, o que vos desejo que sejais já o sois.

Agora. Já n solo Olímpico.

Caminhais e sois perfeito, sois, todavia, o que sois,

Porquanto de nada mais necessitais para vos assumirdes

Perfeito, de vez que a perfeição sois.



“Canta meu coração qual um pássaro matinal

Nos deuses chega até mim uma grande esperança

E a meu coração pede que animado seja pelo mais sutil sentimento

E que maldade estranha alguma vos atinja

Pois pensar assim de vós mortal seria.



“Meu amor, meu amor, meu deus-amor! Deixai-me beijar

Vosso frígidos lábios ferventes, imortais agora,

Saudando-vos ante a ventura do portal da Morte.



“Não houvesse ainda nenhum Olimpo para vós, meu amor

Dar-vos-ia um , no qual o único deus poderia domínio ter

E eu vosso único adorador alegremente seria.

Vosso exclusivo adorador por toda eternidade.

Que um divino universo suficiente fosse

Para o amor e para mim e o que para mim sois.

Ter-vos é algo feito da matéria dos deuses.



“Esta, contudo, é a verdade, e a minha própria arte: o deus

Que agora sois corpo é por mim criado.

Porque, se agora sois da carne realidade

Além da qual os homens envelhecem e a noite ainda desce,

É graças ao meu grandioso poder de criar o amor que vós deveis

Essa vida que infundistes em vossa memória

E a tornastes carnal. Não tivesse meu amor

Possuído um império feito de minha poderosa vontade legionária,

Não teríeis sido enviado à companhia dos deuses.



“Descobriu-vos meu amor no momento em que vos

Acháveis apenas no vosso próprio corpo e natural aparência.

Portanto, quando agora invoco vossa lembrança, Eu apenas ascendo

Ao topo da altaneira coluna da morte na forma que assumiu

E a ponho lá como uma visão de todos os amores.



“Ó amor, meu amado, com a minha firme amorosa vontade, juntai-vos

Ao Olimpo, e lá sede o último dos deuses, cujos cabelos da cor de mel

Revelem divinos olhos! Assim como fostes na terra, ainda

No céu vos mostrais em forma física e vos movimentais,

Daquela felicidade do lar, um prisioneiro

Junto aos deuses mais antigos, enquanto eu na terra farei, sim,

Uma estátua em louvor à vossa viva imortalidade.



Entretanto, vossa verdadeira estátua viva hei de construir.

Não será de pedra somente, porém daquela mesma tristeza

Ditada pela vontade do eterno amor.

Sois um lado dela, consoante vos veem os deuses

Agora, e o outro, aqui, fala da memória vossa.

O deus daqueles homens meu lamento tornar-se-á e porão

No parapeito vossa nua memória

A qual dá para os mares dos tempos pósteros.

Dirão alguns que todo nosso amor não foi senão nossos crimes;

Outros afiarão contra nosso nomes os punhais

De seu ódios feliz contra a beleza da beleza e farão

Com que nossos nomes uma base de apoio sejam com a qual apaguem

Com desprezo total os nomes de todos os nossos irmãos.

Contudo, nossa presença, como eterna Manhã,

Haverá sempre de retornar à hora da Beleza e cintilar

Do Leste do Amor, como luz em relicários engastando

Novos futuros deuses, com o fim de adornar o mundo carente.



“Tudo que agora sois somos eu e vós.

Contém sua unidade nossa dual presença

Naquela perfeição do corpo em que meu amor,

Por vos amar, se tornou e na verdade da vida

Fez-se deusa, em paz superior à luta

Dos tempos, e das muito superiores cambiantes paixões.



“Dado que, porém, os homens veem mais com os olhos do que com a alma,

Imóvel eu, na condição de pedra, confessarei esta grande dor;

Imóvel, desejosa de que anseiem os homens por vossa presença,

Este pesar conduzirei até ao mármore

Que, em meu coração, se incrusta qual uma estrela especial.

Destarte, mesmo na pedra, nosso amor

Há de tão grandioso permanecer

Em vossa nossa, como, destino dos deuses,

De nosso amor encarnado e desencarnado a essência,

O qual, à semelhança de uma trombeta pelos mares ressoando

E atravessando de continente a continente

Sua alegre tristeza, com o sabor da morte nosso amor há de exclamar

Por sobre infinidades e eternidades.



“E aqui, memória ou estátua, continuaremos,

Ainda unidos, de mãos dadas, sempre.

Simplesmente por sentir, não sentimos a mão um do outro.

Ainda me compreenderão os homens quando perceberem o vosso sentimento.

Poderiam todos os deuses passar pela enorme rotação dos

Tempos terrestres. Se, a não ser por vossa causa, e sendo vós um deles, foi

Que vós havíeis acompanhado a partida daqueles deuses.

Ainda assim, retornariam eles, porquanto, para despertarem, dormido haviam.



“Então, no fim dos dias, logo que Júpiter renascesse

E Ganimedes outra vez início desse a seus dias festivos,

Veria nossa dual alma da morte libertada

E re nascida para a alacridade, o medo, a dor –

Ou seja, tudo que no amor se encerra;

A vida – toda a beleza que realmente em lascívia se torna .

Do lídimo amor propriamente dito do amor com o encanto surpreso;

E, se nossa própria memória por inteiro se apagasse,

Mercê da raça de alguns deuses do final dos tempos, ressuscitar

Deveria nossa dual unidade.”

Prossegue a chuva. Todavia, noites ocm passos lentos caíam,

Fechando as pálpebras de cada sentido cansadas,

A consciência própria de si mesmo e da alma

Aumentou, tal qual uma paisagem em que pouco chovia, pouco mesmo.

Imóvel se encontrava o Imperador, tão imóvel que, agora,

Com que meio olvidara onde a gora estava, ou

De onde vinha aquele lamento que era ainda sal para seus lábios.

Fora tudo algo muito distante, um pergaminho

Fechou-se. Aquilo que sentia era igual a um círculo

Que a lua aureola assim que chora a noite.



Curvada estava sua cabeça sobre os braços, e eles, deitados,

Sobre o baixo leito repousavam, aos seus sentidos alheios.

Seus olhos cerrados se lhe figuravam abertos e vendo

O chão vazio, escuro, frio, triste e sem sentido.

Seu arfar doente era tudo o que sua percepção saber podia.

Da escuridão que descia o vento levantou-se

E caiu.Nos pátios inferiores uma voz sumiu;

O Imperador dormia.

Os deuses, agora, surgiram

E consigo alguma coisa levaram - não há como saber o que fosse –

Nos invisíveis braços do poder e do descanso.


From Greenland's Icy Mountains - Reginald Heber

FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand;
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand:
From many ancient rivers,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
What tho' the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile?
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown;
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Shall we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! O Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till earth's remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole:
Till o'er our ransomed nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.



If Thou Wert By My Side - Reginald Heber

IF thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!
If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.
I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.
But when of morn or eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still;
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark-blue sea;
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As then shall meet in thee!

Trinity Sunday - Reginald Hebe

HOLY, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee;
Holy, holy, holy! merciful and mighty!
God in three persons, blessed Trinity!
Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore Thee,
Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;
Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee,
Which wert and art and everymore shall be!
Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee,
Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see,
Only Thou art holy, there is none beside Thee,
Perfect in power, in love, and purity!
Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!
All Thy works shall praise Thy name, in earth, and sky, and sea.
Holy, holy, holy! merciful and mighty!
God in three persons, blessed Trinity!



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