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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Hesperia</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">OUT OF the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is,<br>Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy,<br>As a wind sets in with the autumn that blows from the region of stories,<br>Blows with a perfume of songs and of memories beloved from a boy,<br>Blows from the capes of the past oversea to the bays of the present,<br>Filled as with shadow of sound with the pulse of invisible feet,<br>Far out to the shallows and straits of the future, by rough ways or pleasant,<br>Is it thither the wind’s wings beat? is it hither to me, O my sweet?<br>For thee, in the stream of the deep tide-wind blowing in with the water,<br>Thee I behold as a bird borne in with the wind from the west,<br>Straight from the sunset, across white waves whence rose as a daughter<br>Venus thy mother, in years when the world was a water at rest.<br>Out of the distance of dreams, as a dream that abides after slumber,<br>Strayed from the fugitive flock of the night, when the moon overhead<br>Wanes in the wan waste heights of the heaven, and stars without number<br>Die without sound, and are spent like lamps that are burnt by the dead,<br>Comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me with touch of forgotten caresses,<br>One warm dream clad about with a fire as of life that endures;<br>The delight of thy face, and the sound of thy feet, and the wind of thy tresses,<br>And all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid that allures.<br>But thy bosom is warm for my face and profound as a manifold flower,<br>Thy silence as music, thy voice as an odour that fades in a flame;<br>Not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thy mouth, and the bountiful hour<br>That makes me forget what was sin, and would make me forget were it shame.<br>Thine eyes that are quiet, thine hands that are tender, thy lips that are loving,<br>Comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of a moon like a dream;<br>And my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved vainly toward thee, and moving<br>As the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exuberant stream,<br>Fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under water in prison,<br>That stretches and swings to the slow passionate pulse of the sea,<br>Closed up from the air and the sun, but alive, as a ghost rearisen,<br>Pale as the love that revives as a ghost rearisen in me.<br>From the bountiful infinite west, from the happy memorial places<br>Full of the stately repose and the lordly delight of the dead,<br>Where the fortunate islands are lit with the light of ineffable faces,<br>And the sound of a sea without wind is about them, and sunset is red,<br>Come back to redeem and release me from love that recalls and represses,<br>That cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till the serpent has eaten his fill;<br>From the bitter delights of the dark, and the feverish, the furtive caresses<br>That murder the youth in a man or ever his heart have its will.<br>Thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes cannot weep; thou art pale as a rose is,<br>Paler and sweeter than leaves that cover the blush of the bud;<br>And the heart of the flower is compassion, and pity the core it encloses,<br>Pity, not love, that is born of the breath and decays with the blood.<br>As the cross that a wild nun clasps till the edge of it bruises her bosom,<br>So love wounds as we grasp it, and blackens and burns as a flame;<br>I have loved overmuch in my life; when the live bud bursts with the blossom,<br>Bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and the wine thereof shame.<br>As a heart that its anguish divides is the green bud cloven asunder;<br>As the blood of a man self-slain is the flush of the leaves that allure;<br>And the perfume as poison and wine to the brain, a delight and a wonder;<br>And the thorns are too sharp for a boy, too slight for a man, to endure.<br>Too soon did I love it, and lost love’s rose; and I cared not for glory’s;<br>Only the blossoms of sleep and of pleasure were mixed in my hair.<br>Was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was woven with, O my Dolores?<br>Was it pallor of slumber, or blush as of blood, that I found in thee fair?<br>For desire is a respite from love, and the flesh not the heart is her fuel;<br>She was sweet to me once, who am fled and escaped from the rage of her reign;<br>Who behold as of old time at hand as I turn, with her mouth growing cruel,<br>And flushed as with wine with the blood of her lovers, Our Lady of Pain.<br>Low down where the thicket is thicker with thorns than with leaves in the summer,<br>In the brake is a gleaming of eyes and a hissing of tongues that I knew;<br>And the lithe long throats of her snakes reach round her, their mouths overcome her,<br>And her lips grow cool with their foam, made moist as a desert with dew.<br>With the thirst and the hunger of lust though her beautiful lips be so bitter,<br>With the cold foul foam of the snakes they soften and redden and smile;<br>And her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes wax wide and her eyelashes glitter,<br>And she laughs with a savour of blood in her face, and a savour of guile.<br>She laughs, and her hands reach hither, her hair blows hither and hisses,<br>As a low-lit flame in a wind, back-blown till it shudder and leap;<br>Let her lips not again lay hold on my soul, nor her poisonous kisses,<br>To consume it alive and divide from thy bosom, Our Lady of Sleep.<br>Ah daughter of sunset and slumber, if now it return into prison,<br>Who shall redeem it anew? but we, if thou wilt, let us fly;<br>Let us take to us, now that the white skies thrill with a moon unarisen,<br>Swift horses of fear or of love, take flight and depart and not die.<br>They are swifter than dreams, they are stronger than death; there is none that hath ridden,<br>None that shall ride in the dim strange ways of his life as we ride;<br>By the meadows of memory, the highlands of hope, and the shore that is hidden,<br>Where life breaks loud and unseen, a sonorous invisible tide;<br>By the sands where sorrow has trodden, the salt pools bitter and sterile,<br>By the thundering reef and the low sea-wall and the channel of years,<br>Our wild steeds press on the night, strain hard through pleasure and peril,<br>Labour and listen and pant not or pause for the peril that nears;<br>And the sound of them trampling the way cleaves night as an arrow asunder,<br>And slow by the sand-hill and swift by the down with its glimpses of grass,<br>Sudden and steady the music, as eight hoofs trample and thunder,<br>Rings in the ear of the low blind wind of the night as we pass;<br>Shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland air that was mute as a maiden,<br>Stung into storm by the speed of our passage, and deaf where we past;<br>And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine holy but mine heavy-laden,<br>As we burn with the fire of our flight; ah love, shall we win at the last?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Algernon+Charles+Swinburne">Algernon Charles Swinburne</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341997" data-title="Hesperia de Algernon Charles Swinburne" data-description="OUT OF the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is,
Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy,
As a wind sets in with the autumn that blows from the region of stories,
Blows with a perfume of songs and of memor..."></div>
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