Sonnet XII
Well has thy classick chisel, Banks, express'd
The graceful lineaments of that fine form,
Which late with conscious, living beauty warm,
Now here beneath does in dread silence rest.
And, oh, while life shall agitate my breast,
Recorded there exists her every charm,
In vivid colours, safe from change or harm,
Till my last sigh unalter'd love attest.
That form, as fair as ever fancy drew,
The marble cold, inanimate, retains;
But of the radiant smile that round her threw
Joys, that beguiled my soul of mortal pains,
And each divine expression's varying hue,
A little senseless dust alone remains.
poem by Brooke Boothby
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dreams
While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye
With scenes and pleasures of its own.
Then I may cherish at my breast
An infant's form beloved and fair,
May smile and soothe it into rest
With all a Mother's fondest care.
How sweet to feel its helpless form
Depending thus on me alone!
And while I hold it safe and warm
What bliss to think it is my own!
And glances then may meet my eyes
That daylight never showed to me;
What raptures in my bosom rise,
Those earnest looks of love to see,
To feel my hand so kindly prest,
To know myself beloved at last,
To think my heart has found a rest,
My life of solitude is past!
But then to wake and find it flown,
The dream of happiness destroyed,
To find myself unloved, alone,
What tongue can speak the dreary void?
A heart whence warm affections flow,
Creator, thou hast given to me,
And am I only thus to know
How sweet the joys of love would be?
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet I
ON SEEING THE BUST OF THE YOUNG PRINCESS DE MONTFORT
(In the studio of Bartolini, at Florence).
SWEET marble I didst thou merely represent,
In lieu of her on whom our glances rest,
Some common loveliness,--we were content,
As with a modell'd beauty, well express'd;
But, by the very skill which makes thee seem
So like HER bright and intellectual face,
The heart is led unsatisfied to dream;
For sculpture cannot give the breathing grace,
The light which plays beneath that shadowy brow,
Like sunshine on the fountains of the south,--
The blush which tints that cheek with roseate glow,--
The smile which hovers round that angel-mouth:
No! such the form o'er which Pygmalion sigh'd--
Too fair to be complete while SOUL was still denied!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Fancy Colours
Going where the orange sun has never died
And your swirling marble eyes shine
Laughing
Burning blue the light
Bittersweet the drops of life
Memories only fading
Fancy colours
Fancy colours
All we ever did see
When were down at the sea
We see things so very clear at the sea
Fancy colours
Fancy colours
All we ever can do
The morning covered with dew
We do things so very fine in the dew
Fancy colours
Fancy colours
All we ever do hear
But whether were here or there
We hear things so very fine when were there
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Silence (Part I)
Sometimes I see you as my child,
Sometimes I see you as my sweetheart,
And when I look into your eyes,
I see that tender and sweet smile,
And I want to say what’s in my heart,
And I want to tell you how I feel,
But my voice remains there, still,
And I just stare at your loving face,
And let the love from my heart,
Flow like a wild river in furious race,
to enfold your sweet and pure soul
with a sea of love and tenderness.
Sometimes there’s so much to say,
but nothing flows from my lips,
And only silence is there to stay,
And only the silence I should keep,
Because what I had to say was already said,
How words could express
never-ending love and tenderness?
How could I just say at one time,
I love you more than my own life?
And there remains the deep silence,
Silence and more silence,
to signal that divine presence,
of my silent love; my heart’s essence.
But this silence is not empty silence,
when divine love fills all my senses,
when nature’s beauty colours your soul,
and fades away all pity and woe.
Because when there is silence,
you can hear the silent language,
the heavenly music of my heart’s song,
God’s eternal music He’s been playing all along,
And in that silence you’ll hear my song,
The endless tune that my love sings,
with the sweetest notes in your luscious dreams,
which eternally flow like endless streams.
(2009)
poem by Roberto Echanes
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Fancy Colors
Robert Lamm, 1970)
Going where the orange sun has never died
And your swirling marble eyes shine
Laughing
Burning through the light
Bittersweet the drops of life
Memories only fading
Fancy Colours, fancy Colours
All we ever did see
When we're down at the sea
We see things so very bright at the sea
Fancy Colours, fancy Colours
All we ever can do
The morning covered with dew
We do things so very fine at the dew
Fancy Colours, fancy Colours
All we ever do hear
The world wether we're hear or there
We hear things so very fine when we're there
Andr Velloso - Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
[email protected]
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Colours
All different colours absorbed in as VIBGYOR,
Choice different but they are choice of yours,
Colours do form part of our life and aim,
Not particular choice of colour we can claim,
When rays pass through particles, form rainbow,
Nature’s beauty boom not with angle narrow,
All splashed in the sky and across the horizons,
No restrictions and can be seen by every ones,
Colours not confine with simple object,
Adding colour to it means new ideas inject,
Who can ignore without praise and reject?
Embodiment of love in vastness and subject,
Praise of redness on cheeks may add to beauty,
Pearls, jewels, diamonds may form part of booty,
Colours to all and colours too few,
Sweetness in honey dew or morning dew,
Colourful fancy dresses always attraction of fair,
Pointer always at beautiful well dressed pair,
Rose pink or any flower when put in hair,
Cooked food smell sweet fragrance and flair,
Note: - V..Violet, I..indigo and so on for VIBGYOR
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Sonnet To Expression
Expression, child of soul! I fondly trace
Thy strong enchantments, when the poet's lyre,
The painter's pencil catch thy sacred fire,
And beauty wakes for thee her touching grace-
But from this frighted glance thy form avert
When horrors check thy tear, thy struggling sigh,
When frenzy rolls in thy impassion'd eye,
Or guilt sits heavy on thy lab'ring heart-
Nor ever let my shudd'ring fancy bear
The wasting groan, or view the pallid look
Of him[A] the Muses lov'd-when hope forsook
His spirit, vainly to the Muses dear!
For charm'd with heav'nly song, this bleeding breast,
Mourns the blest power of verse could give despair no rest.-
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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An Old Sweetheart Of Mine
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till in shadowy design
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.
The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low, to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco, and to vanish with the smoke.
'Tis a fragrant retrospection, for the loving thoughts that start
Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine—
When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart of mine.
Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings,
The voices of my children and the mother as she sings,
I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme
When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream.
In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm;
For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine
That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.
A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace,
Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase;
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes,
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.
I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress
She wore when first I kissed her, and she answered the caress
With the written declaration that, 'as surely as the vine
Grew round the stump,' she loved me,—that old sweetheart of mine!
And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,
As we used to talk together of the future we had planned:
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do
But write the tender verses that she set the music to;
When we should live together in a cozy little cot,
Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot,
Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine;
And I should be her lover forever and a day,
And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;
And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb
They would not smile in heaven till the other's kiss had come.
But ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair,
And the door is softly opened, and my wife is standing there!
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign
To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Sonnet 2
my mind's eye from outer eye remove.
make senseless the argument of sense
that beauty not subject to sense prove
nor object to time that takes you hence.
then, mind from eye withdrawn,
in dark, sense may shine bright
and mind itself your beauty form,
forming mind to your illuminate.
but not thought's sense to hear
nor sense of mind in sense feel,
dimensional sight and intelligent ear
bereft of mind from mind would reel.
no war between your feature and form
exists except in eye - that does harm.
poem by Doug Bentley
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Hail, Zaragoza! If With Unwet eye
HAIL, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold,
Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold;
Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh.
These desolate remains are trophies high
Of more than martial courage in the breast
Of peaceful civic virtue: they attest
Thy matchless worth to all posterity.
Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse;
Disease consumed thy vitals; War upheaved
The ground beneath thee with volcanic force:
Dread trials! yet encountered and sustained
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained,
And law was from necessity received.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Poet’s Choice
I.
'Twas in youth, that hour of dreaming;
Round me, visions fair were beaming,
Golden fancies, brightly gleaming,
Such as start to birth
When the wandering restless mind,
Drunk with beauty, thinks to find
Creatures of a fairy kind
Realised on Earth!
II.
Then, for me, in every dell
Hamadryads seem'd to dwell
(They who die, as Poets tell,
Each with her own tree);
And sweet mermaids, low reclining,
Dim light through their grottos shining,
Green weeds round their soft limbs twinng,
Peopled the deep Sea.
III.
Then, when moon and stars were fair,
Nymph-like visions fill'd the air,
With blue wings and golden hair
Bending from the skies;
And each cave by echo haunted
In its depth of shadow granted,
Brightly, the Egeria wanted,
To my eager eyes.
IV.
But those glories pass'd away;
Earth seem'd left to dull decay,
And my heart in sadness lay,
Desolate, uncheer'd;
Like one wrapt in painful sleeping,
Pining, thirsting, waaking, weeping,
Watsh thro' Life's dark midnight keeping,
Till THY form appear'd!
V.
THEN my soul, whose erring measure
Knew not where to find true pleasure
Woke and seized the golden treasure
Of thy human love;
And, looking on thy radiant brow,
My lips in gladness breathed the vow
Which angels, not more fair than thou,
Have register'd above.
VI.
And now I take my quiet rest,
With my head upon thy breast,
I will make no fiurther quest
In Fancy's realms of light;
Fay, nor nymph, nor wingēd spirit,
Shall my store of love inherit;
More thy mortal charm doth merit
Than dream, however bright:
VII.
And my soul,-like some sweet bird
Whose song at summer eve is heard,
When the breeze, so lightly stirr'd,
Leaves the branch unbent,--
Sits and all-triumphant sings,
Folding up her brooding wings,
And gazing out on earthly things
With a calm content.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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To A Young Lady
In vain, fair Maid, you ask in vain,
My pen should try th' advent'rous strain,
And following truth's unalter'd law,
Attempt your character to draw.
I own indeed, that generous mind
That weeps the woes of human kind,
That heart by friendship's charms inspired,
That soul with sprightly fancy fired,
The air of life, the vivid eye,
The flowing wit, the keen reply--
To paint these beauties as they shine,
Might ask a nobler pen than mine.
Yet what sure strokes can draw the Fair,
Who vary, like the fleeting air,
Like willows bending to the force,
Where'er the gales direct their course,
Opposed to no misfortune's power,
And changing with the changing hour.
Now gaily sporting on the plain,
They charm the grove with pleasing strain;
Anon disturb'd, they know not why,
The sad tear trembles in their eye:
Led through vain life's uncertain dance,
The dupes of whim, the slaves of chance.
From me, not famed for much goodnature,
Expect not compliment, but satire;
To draw your picture quite unable,
Instead of fact accept a Fable.
One morn, in Æsop's noisy time,
When all things talk'd, and talk'd in rhyme,
A cloud exhaled by vernal beams
Rose curling o'er the glassy streams.
The dawn her orient blushes spread,
And tinged its lucid skirts with red,
Wide waved its folds with glitt'ring dies,
And gaily streak'd the eastern skies;
Beneath, illumed with rising day,
The sea's broad mirror floating lay.
Pleased, o'er the wave it hung in air,
Survey'd its glittering glories there,
And fancied, dress'd in gorgeous show,
Itself the brightest thing below:
For clouds could raise the vaunting strain,
And not the fair alone were vain.
Yet well it knew, howe'er array'd,
That beauty, e'en in clouds, might fade,
That nothing sure its charms could boast
Above the loveliest earthly toast;
And so, like them, in early dawn
Resolved its picture should be drawn,
That when old age with length'ning day
Should brush the vivid rose away,
The world should from the portrait own
Beyond all clouds how bright it shone.
Hard by, a painter raised his stage,
Far famed, the Copley[1] of his age.
So just a form his colours drew,
Each eye the perfect semblance knew;
Yet still on every blooming face
He pour'd the pencil's flowing grace;
Each critic praised the artist rare,
Who drew so like, and yet so fair.
To him, high floating in the sky
Th' elated Cloud advanced t' apply.
The painter soon his colours brought,
The Cloud then sat, the artist wrought;
Survey'd her form, with flatt'ring strictures,
Just as when ladies sit for pictures,
Declared "whatever art can do,
My utmost skill shall try for you:
But sure those strong and golden dies
Dipp'd in the radiance of the skies,
Those folds of gay celestial dress,
No mortal colours can express.
Not spread triumphal o'er the plain,
The rainbow boasts so fair a train,
Nor e'en the morning sun so bright,
Who robes his face in heav'nly light.
To view that form of angel make,
Again Ixion would mistake,[2]
And justly deem so fair a prize,
The sovereign Mistress of the skies,"
He said, and drew a mazy line,
With crimson touch his pencils shine,
The mingling colours sweetly fade,
And justly temper light and shade.
He look'd; the swelling Cloud on high
With wider circuit spread the sky,
Stretch'd to the sun an ampler train,
And pour'd new glories on the main.
As quick, effacing every ground,
His pencil swept the canvas round,
And o'er its field, with magic art,
Call'd forth new forms in every part.
But now the sun, with rising ray,
Advanced with speed his early way;
Each colour takes a differing die,
The orange glows, the purples fly.
The artist views the alter'd sight,
And varies with the varying light;
In vain! a sudden gust arose,
New folds ascend, new shades disclose,
And sailing on with swifter pace,
The Cloud displays another face.
In vain the painter, vex'd at heart,
Tried all the wonders of his art;
In vain he begg'd, her form to grace,
One moment she would keep her place:
For, "changing thus with every gale,
Now gay with light, with gloom now pale,
Now high in air with gorgeous train,
Now settling on the darken'd main,
With looks more various than the moon;
A French coquette were drawn as soon."
He spoke; again the air was mild,
The Cloud with opening radiance smiled;
With canvas new his art he tries,
Anew he joins the glitt'ring dies;
Th' admiring Cloud with pride beheld
Her image deck the pictured field,
And colours half-complete adorn
The splendor of the painted morn.
When lo, the stormy winds arise,
Deep gloom invests the changing skies;
The sounding tempest shakes the plain,
And lifts in billowy surge the main.
The Cloud's gay dies in darkness fade,
Its folds condense in thicker shade,
And borne by rushing blasts, its form
With lowering vapour joins the storm.
poem by John Trumbull
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Blossom of Paradise
In God’s most sacred garden valley,
A flower of inviolable beauty and charm.
The blossom of exquisite sweetness
With the spirit to resist all harm,
Glowing like the icon of a cherub,
Boldly tempts and tries all the senses.
Posing itself front and center,
It washes away all sinful pretenses.
Soft and warm, with smoothness sublime,
Responsive to the gentlest touch,
Every feature of its divine form,
To my eyes, contributes much.
A manifestation of God’s fine craft
And His compassion half and half.
poem by Albert Price
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Juana
The night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace-room,
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved thro' the gorgeous gloom,
And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red,
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.
Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see,
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free;
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay,
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array.
But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the cold slumberer's side,
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride;
Only her full impassion'd eyes as o'er that clay she bent,
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent.
And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like shadows of a cloud,
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke aloud;
She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, 'Thou yet wilt wake,
And learn my watchings and my tears, belov'd one! for thy sake.
'They told me this was death, but well I knew it could not be;
Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for thee?
They would have wrapp'd the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,
But I forbade–and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crown'd!
'With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath,
And thy brow so proudly beautiful–who said that this was death?
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long,
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd and strong.
'I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like thee,
The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of glee!
A frail and drooping form is mine–a cold unsmiling cheek,–
Oh! I have but a woman's heart, wherewith thy heart to seek.
'But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord! and hear'st how I have kept
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and wept;
How in one long, deep dream of thee my nights and days have past,
Surely that humble, patient love must win back love at last!
'And thou wilt smile–my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile,
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine–
Oh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of thine!
'Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou com'st from the chase,
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face!
Thou'lt reck no more tho' beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless;
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give me loveliness.
'But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of thy voice:
Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone,
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone.'
In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth day by day,
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way,
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every grace,
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.
And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast,
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind,–
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Sonnet 11
is it any wonder i have no words to tell
how my heart yearns in absence of you?
the night revives this constant hell-
no vision replaces dark with bright view,
prefiguring the visitation of your form
in sacred majesty, transfiguring night
in darkened soul to that majesty. in turn,
unformed dark, unchanged by celestial Light
formless dark remains, unilluminated by art.
your timeless form, unsculpted by love's pencil,
lends no body to the unformed in my heart.
no form heart forms new, nor does it chisel.
thus your form, unchiselled in my inner eye,
and your heart, my inner sense can't spy.
poem by Doug Bentley
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I have had my say
I have had my say
About sex and men
I have said it in many ways
And now is the time
To put my pen
In the service of
Romanic love to win,
To speak of matters
Of the soul if such a thing there be
To compare him to the beauty of snow
That blows in from across the sea
To romance you as I would has you
To romance the likes of me
To speak of the beauty of the male form
To take up arm with my pen
And squeeze out the beauty
As poetry was meant to be.
O my love, O my dear
Let me whisper sweet thing in your ear
I love you dear as I love you dearly
Till the 19th of never comes around
Till the time that the divine
Shall come to conquer me.
You are to me as the mption is to the sea.
You are to me as light is to heat
And I burns to be found in your arms
And beside you as you sleep
For you are to me the beauties
That weeps to behold your form
Such tears of joy as joy was born
Narcissus was a beauty boy
And Ganymede the same
And Hercules loved many boys
So the Greeks did say.
poem by David E. Patton
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The Consolation
Though bleak these woods and damp the ground
With fallen leaves so thickly strewn,
And cold the wind that wanders round
With wild and melancholy moan,
There is a friendly roof I know
Might shield me from the wintry blast;
There is a fire whose ruddy glow
Will cheer me for my wanderings past.
And so, though still where'er I roam
Cold stranger glances meet my eye,
Though when my spirit sinks in woe
Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh,
Though solitude endured too long
Bids youthful joys too soon decay,
Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue
And overclouds my noon of day,
When kindly thoughts that would have way
Flow back discouraged to my breast
I know there is, though far away
A home where heart and soul may rest.
Warm hands are there that clasped in mine
The warmer heart will not belie,
While mirth and truth and friendship shine
In smiling lip and earnest eye.
The ice that gathers round my heart
May there be thawed; and sweetly then
The joys of youth that now depart
Will come to cheer my soul again.
Though far I roam, this thought shall be
My hope, my comfort everywhere;
While such a home remains to me
My heart shall never know despair.
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Speak O Withered Leaves, Speak.
Cover her eyes, her stony looks,
She is dead;
And ring the bell for she is dead
Where one age ends the other begins
-the long dark distracted night.
How could she die, a fairy and so young
O want what more misery can thou wring
Two crusts of bread and a form erased.
O withered leaves wert thou a rose?
Could beauty be more beautiful
I cans't say my fancy fails.
How could I describe thee
Which part were more beautiful
Speak o speak utter but few words
But no; thou woulds't not speak
And I hear no more thy sweet voice.
O breathless breast thou woulds't heave no more,
But once did heave more beautifully
Than stormy waves of a surging sea
On a moonlit night.
O wild affections whither art thou fled?
Aren't these the eyes that charged me once
Quiver o lips quiver a little,
That I may see that a life yet lives:
Utter but few words even though in dread
Of this society; but dread not thou
-no more- this society.
But where is life?
Thou blush not in the presence of thy love;
Thine eyes have no more arrows in their sheath;
Thou breathe not and there are springs no more;
Adieu love! Adieu o phantom of love
For I go crazy, I must go.
But tarry for I must see
Art thou really dead or stone deceiveth me
O senses work- Touch!
So cold and hard is bosom! Is it marble!
May be stone deceiveth me! But no
No art can create thy form, O love
And mine eyes are not deceived in thy form.
Ere I leave I give thou this pledge:
That I shall have revenge
I shall shake heavens and destroy this earth
Yes! this earth
Where beasts who live, value their lust
Above humane emotions.
Adieu love! look not so coldly
For I see my end. Adieu! Adieu! ...............[1960]
Sonnet to Hope
O, ever skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,--
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye,--
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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A Mood
AS some great cloud upon a mountain's breast,
Hanging for ever, shutteth out the sun,
Its chilly fingers twining in the trees
And blighting them, so ever one dark thought
Broods o'er my life and makes my spirit droop
5
Beneath its baleful shade. A demon form
Is ever at my side, whose icy touch
Freezes my warmest thoughts, and makes them hang
Like dull, cold icicles about my heart.
I feel his presence 'mid my fellow-men;
10
I see his image in the restless sea
That gnaws the land; and on the towering top,
Where everything is still, amid the rocks,
Worn bald by fleeting years, I hear his tread.
I see his footsteps in the lonely wild,
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Where forests ever spring and ever die;
But, most of all, I feel him near the night,
When all the world is shrouded in the gloom
Of dreamful Sleep,—so like his brother Death;
I see his eyeballs on the glittering sky;
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I hear his laughter ringing from the stars,
That look at me and say, "O helpless worm,
Upon the world of worms, dost thou not know
The dust thou treadest in was once like thee,
And laughed its laugh, and had its time to weep,
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And now lies helpless, trampled on, forgot,
Scattered upon thy tiny globe which hangs
Chained to its sun in black infinity?
That thou—thou, too—must soon be dust again,
Forgotten, helpless, trampled on by those
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That shall come after thee?"
I even hear
His voice amid the voices of my friends,
Harsh, taunting me with death, and dreams of death.
And, when I gaze in rapture on the face
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Of whom I love, he casts a hideous light,
That lets me see, behind the sweet, warm flesh,
The lightless skull, and o'er the rounded form
The shades of death, aye dark and darker growing,
Until the life-light melts into the night.
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Oh, would that I could break the cursèd chain
That binds this monster to me! for my life
Is like some gloomy valley that lies chill
Beneath a frowning precipice. And yet
The thread of gloom is woven in my being,
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And I am loth to rend it, for my thoughts
Have long been shaded by it. Ever since
I first could play, I used to watch the boys,
So joyous in their sports, and saw them men,
Grown chilly-hearted in a chilly world,
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Grown weary with the burden of their life,
All restless, seeking rest yet finding change;
And then I saw the gathering shadows lower
Upon the evening of their life, and then
They merged into the dark, and all was still—
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Dust under dust, forgotten by the world
In ugly loathsomeness.
The demon still
Was at my side in after-years, and threw
A shade on every friendship, as a cloud
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Floats past the sun and dims the flowering fields.
Oft have I wondered at the woodland stream
That dances on, through dappled-lighted woods,
O'er mossy pebbles glinting in the sun,
Like eyes of merry children round the fire,
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And never seems to think that it must thread
The misty fen, where every flower grows rank
Amid the lazy ooze, and sink at last
Beneath the boundless sea. Oh, happy they,
Who thus go laughing on from year to year,
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And never know the mystery of being,
And never start and shudder at the dream
That they and all mankind are dreaming—Life,
And strive to wake, but fall back helplessly;
Who fancy sunlight, when the sky is dark,
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And never know that time, like India's snake,
Enwraps us with his gaudy-coloured folds
Of changing seasons, till his dread embrace
Has crushed out life; who live, and laugh, and weep,
And tread the dust of myriads underfoot,
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And see men die around them, yet whose life,
The demon form that stalks beside my path,
The consciousness of never-ending change,
Has never darkened, as it darkens mine,
Beneath the shadow of the wings of Death.
poem by Frederick George Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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