En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Nero

This Rome, that was the toil of many men,
The consummation of laborious years—
Fulfilment's crown to visions of the dead
And image of the wide desire of kings—
Is made my darkling dream's effulgency,
Fuel of vision, brief embodiment
Of wandering will and wastage of the strong
Fierce ecstasy of one tremendous hour,
When ages piled on ages like a pyre
Flamed to the years behind and years to be.

Yet any sunset were as much as this,
Save for the music forced from tongueless things,
The rape of Matter's huge, unchorded harp
By the many-fingered fire—a music pierced
With the tense voice of Life, more quick to cry
Its agony—and save that I believed
The radiance redder for the blood of men.
Destruction hastens and intensifies
The process that is beauty, manifests
Ranges of form unknown before, and gives
Motion, and voice, and hue, where otherwise
Bleak inexpressiveness had levelled all.

If one create, there is the lengthy toil;
The labored years and days league toward an end
Less than the measure of desire, mayhap,
After the sure consuming of all strength
And strain of faculties that otherwhere
Were loosed upon enjoyment; and at last
Remains to one capacity nor power
For pleasure in the thing that he hath made.
But on destruction hangs but little use
Of time or faculty, but all is turned
To the one purpose, unobstructed, pure,
Of sensuous rapture and observant joy;
And from the intensities of death and ruin
One draws a heightened and completer life,
And both extends and vindicates himself.

I would I were a god, with all the scope
Of attributes that are the essential core
Of godhead, and its visibility.
I am but emperor, and hold awhile
The power to hasten death upon its way,
And cry a halt to worn and lagging Life
For others, but for mine own self may not
Delay the one nor bid the other speed.
There have been many kings, and they are dead,
And have no power in death save what the wind
Confers upon their blown and brainless dust
To vex the eyeballs of posterity.
But were I God, I would be overlord
Of many kings, and were as breath to guide
Their dust of destiny. And were I God,
Exempt from this mortality which clogs
Perception and clear exercise of will,
What rapture it would be, if but to watch
Destruction crouching at the back of Time,
The tongueless dooms which dog the travelling suns;
The vampire, Silence, at the breast of worlds,
Fire without light that gnaws the base of things,
And Lethe's mounting tide that rots the stone
Of fundamental spheres. This were enough
Till such time as the dazzled wings of will
Came up with power's accession, scarcely felt
For very suddenness. Then I would urge
The strong contention and conflicting might
Of Chaos and Creation—matching them,
Those immemorial powers inimical,
And all their stars and gulfs subservient,
Dynasts of time, and anarchs of the dark—
In closer war reverseless, and would set
New discord at the universal core—
A Samson-principle to bring it down
In one magnificence of ruin. Yea,
The monster, Chaos, were mine unleashed hound,
And all my power Destruction's own right arm!

I would exult to mark the smouldering stars
Renew beneath my breath their elder fire
And feed upon themselves to nothingness.
The might of suns—slow-paced with swinging weight
Of myriad worlds—were made at my desire
One orb of roaring and torrential light,
Through which the voice of Life were audible,
And singing of the immemorial dead,
Whose dust is loosened into vaporous wings
With soaring wrack of systems ruinous.
And were I weary of the glare of these,
I would tear out the eyes of light, and stand
Above a chaos of extinguished suns,
That crowd and grind and shiver thunderously,
Lending vast voice and motion but no ray
To the stretched silence of the blinded gulfs.
Thus would I give my godhead space and speech
For its assertion, and thus pleasure it,
Hastening the feet of Time with cast of worlds
Like careless pebbles, or, with shattered suns,
Brightening the aspect of Eternity.

poem by Clark Ashton Smith (1912)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

The Rock of Cader Idris

I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the oloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.

I lay there in silence-a spirit came o'er me;
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw:
Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
I view'd the dread beings around us that hover,
Though veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath;
And I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover,
For a strife was within me of madness and death.

I saw them-the powers of the wind and the ocean,
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion,
I felt their dim presence,-but knew not their forms !
I saw them-the mighty of ages departed-
The dead were around me that night on the hill:
From their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance they darted,-
There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill.

I saw what man looks on, and dies-but my spirit
Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour;
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit
A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power !
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;-
But O ! what new glory all nature invested,
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won !

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Rock Of Cader Idris

I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.

I lay there in silence–a spirit came o'er me;
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw:
Things glorious, unearthly, passed floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
I viewed the dread beings around us that hover,
Though veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath;
And I called upon darkness the vision to cover,
For a strife was within me of madness and death.

I saw them–the powers of the wind and the ocean,
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion,
I felt their dim presence,–but knew not their forms !
I saw them–the mighty of ages departed–
The dead were around me that night on the hill:
From their eyes, as they passed, a cold radiance they darted,–
There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill.

I saw what man looks on, and dies–but my spirit
Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour;
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit
A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power !
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;–
But O ! what new glory all nature invested,
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won !

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Failure

THE BOY went out from the ranges grim,
And the breath of the mountains went with him;
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place:
And the good green earth, and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies, they were his that day;
And, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire—
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
The boy went down to the city’s strife,
And his face was lost in the surge of life;
But a Power that he did not understand
Had nerved his brain and his fighting hand.
And he strove and failed, and he rose and won—
And he failed again ere the fight was done;
But he battled on when the days were dire
To win to the Land of His Heart’s Desire.

And there, in the heart of the stress and din,
’Mid want and labour and wealth and sin,
The strong man struggled with shining eyes,
And forced a passage, and grasped the prize.
And he cried to the Power who had lent the fire:
“Lo! Fame is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!
Give the cup to me with a beaded brim.”
And the Power that he knew not gave it him.

But the air is keen on the Cliffs of Fame,
And the shafts that fly have a deadly aim!
With a foothold scarce, and a sleepless dread
For the gulfs below and the heights o’erhead,
He cried to the Power who had steeled his hand:
“I am outcast yet from my Fairyland!
For Fame is a land where no strength may tire,
But Love is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”

Then there came to the man all his dream of Love,
With the brow of snow and the eyes of a dove,
With the glint of the sun on her wavy hair,
And her soul as pure as her face was fair.
Like a living lily to him she came,
Till his eyes were wet and his soul was flame,
And she called to him, with an outstretched hand,
And they entered into the Promised Land.

But there came a day when he asked his soul,
“Is this the land, and is this the goal?”
In his heart there lay what his lips denied—
The pang of a hunger unsatisfied.
“For Fame,” he said, “and for Love I wrought;
They are not the things that I should have sought:
’Tis to boundless power that my dreams aspire—
And Wealth is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”

Then the Power that he did not understand
Gave him ships and houses and gold and land,
And the man’s power grew with each passing year;
But his thoughts were vexed with a sleepless fear,
And his hair grew gray with the iron strain
Of the dread of loss and the lust of gain,
And he bowed his head on his hands and said.
“All things are mine, but my heart is dead!”

And he thought of the boy from the ranges grim
With the breath of the mountains over him,
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place,
And the good green earth and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies that were his that day,
When, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire,
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.

Then clear on his startled ear there fell
A voice like the sound of a silver bell:
“To each is the work that he best can do,
But you turned from the work when it called to you.
And you sought instead for the vulgar praise,
For the lips of love, and for prosperous days.
And with all that the world can give you here,
You have lost the thing that you hold most dear.
For who hears the word that the Gods inspire—
In his work finds the Land of His Heart’s Desire.”

poem by George Essex Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The System Remains

Secrets deception
Answers to give their own strength
As I look into your eyes questions need
Your silence and compromise
In my mind your voice towards me is wasted time
In your life there's frustration
And we fight for your say
It's your time for creation
As your time fades away
Is there a right and is there a reason
Do they lie and blind our own eyes
We strive for life a fight in the system
Only to find they supply our destiny
Twisted Ignorance
To those he lies for his own gain
Will you side away or be blinded to mine
Do we still fight trying to seek life in a better light
In our day
Here in our life is there a chance for this place in time
So we know
Threats trades negative power in rage
In a system that still remains
Knowing what could be
As we ask alone
Will we see as one
Do we still fight trying to seek life in a better light
Here in our life is there a chance for this place in time
Is there a reason for all the wrong
We need a change in vision
Needed for us to grow
Why I was chosen you are to blame
My mission here in power is my domain
You look for the answers seeking the chance
Are questions worth giving the system remains

song performed by by ZeroHour
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

The Dance Of Life

Gracious and lovable and sweet,
She made his jaded pulses beat,
And made the glare of streets grow dim
And life more soft and hushed for him….
Over her shoulder now she smiled
Trustfully to him, like a child,
The while her fingers gayly moved
Alonge these white keys dearly loved,
Making them laugh a jocund measure,
Making them show and sing her pleasure….
A smile that dwelt upon his eyes,
To see what mood might therein rise,-
What point of soft light seen afar
Which might dilate to moon or star….
A smile that for a second space
Brooded wistfully on her face,
Opening soft her spirit's door,
Disclosing depths undreamed before:
Passionate depths of half-seen flame,
Young loveliness despising shame,
Desire that trembled to meet desire,
And fire that yearned to fuse with fire….
And lightly then she turned away,
Ironic music rippled gay,-
Subtle sarcastic flippancies
Disguising speechless ecstasies…
'Play something else…' He rose to turn
The pages, while the deep nocturne
Struck slow rich chords of plangent pain,
Beautiful, into heart and brain;
A tortured, anguished, suffering thing
That seemed at once to cry and sing;
Despairing love that strove to find
The face beloved with fingers blind.
He saw her body's slender grace,
This drooping shoulder, shadowed face;
All of her body, hidden so
In saffron satin's flush and flow,-
Its white and simple loveliness,-
Came on his heart like giddiness,
Seductive as this music came;
Until her body seemed like flame,-
Intense white flame, so swiftly moving
That it gave scarcely time for loving;
But rapid as the sun she seemed,
A blinding light that flowed and streamed
And sang and shone through roaring space….
The sun itself! for now her face,
Wherein this music's whole soul dwelt,
Drew him like helpless star, he felt
A fierce compulsion, reckless, mad,
A sweet compulsion, troubled, glad,
His trembling hands went out to her,
Her cool flesh made his senses blur;
While, head thrown backward, sinking dim,
She opened wide her soul to him….
Past his life went whirls of lights,
Chaos of music, days and nights,
Her wild eyes yearned to lure him in
And close him up in dark of sin,
To lure him in and drink him down
And all his soul in love to drown….
Her nakedness he seemed to see.
And breast to breast, and knee to knee,
Tremulous, breathless, swaying, burning,
Body to beautiful body yearning,
In joy and terror, flesh to flesh,
They flamed in passion's fine red mesh,-
Living in one short breath again
The cosmic tide's whole bliss and pain,
Darkness and ether, nebulous fire,
Vast suns whirled forth by vast desire,
Huge moons flung out with monstrous mirth
And stars in glorious hells of birth,
All jubilating, blazing, reeling,
An orgiastic splendor wheeling,
Moon torn from earth and star from sun
In screaming pain, titanic fun,
And stars whirled back to sun again
To be consumed in flaming pain!…
In them at last all life was met:
They were God's self! This earth had set.
Mad fires of life sang through their veins,
Ruinous blisses, joyous pains,
Life the destroyer, life the breaker,
And death, the everlasting maker….

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Hermaphroditus

I.
LIFT UP thy lips, turn round, look back for love,
Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest;
Of all things tired thy lips look weariest,
Save the long smile that they are wearied of.
Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough,
Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best;
Two loves at either blossom of thy breast
Strive until one be under and one above.
Their breath is fire upon the amorous air,
Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire:
And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair,
Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;
A strong desire begot on great despair,
A great despair cast out by strong desire.

II.
Where between sleep and life some brief space is,
With love like gold bound round about the head,
Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed,
Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his
To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss;
Yet from them something like as fire is shed
That shall not be assuaged till death be dead,
Though neither life nor sleep can find out this.
Love made himself of flesh that perisheth
A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin;
But on the one side sat a man like death,
And on the other a woman sat like sin.
So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath
Love turned himself and would not enter in.

III.
Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light
That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes?
Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies,
Or like the night’s dew laid upon the night.
Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right,
Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise
Shall make thee man and ease a woman’s sighs,
Or make thee woman for a man’s delight.
To what strange end hath some strange god made fair
The double blossom of two fruitless flowers?
Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair,
Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers,
Given all the gold that all the seasons wear
To thee that art a thing of barren hours?

IV.
Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear.
Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know;
Or wherefore should thy body’s blossom blow
So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear
Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear—
Though for their love our tears like blood should flow,
Though love and life and death should come and go,
So dreadful, so desirable, so dear?
Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise
Beneath the woman’s and the water’s kiss
Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis,
And the large light turned tender in thine eyes,
And all thy boy’s breath softened into sighs;
But Love being blind, how should he know of this?

Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Tenebrae

At the chill high tide of the night,
At the turn of the fluctuant hours,
When the waters of time are at height,
In a vision arose on my sight
The kingdoms of earth and the powers.

In a dream without lightening of eyes
I saw them, children of earth,
Nations and races arise,
Each one after his wise,
Signed with the sign of his birth.

Sound was none of their feet,
Light was none of their faces;
In their lips breath was not, or heat,
But a subtle murmur and sweet
As of water in wan waste places.

Pale as from passionate years,
Years unassuaged of desire,
Sang they soft in mine ears,
Crowned with jewels of tears,
Girt with girdles of fire.

A slow song beaten and broken,
As it were from the dust and the dead,
As of spirits athirst unsloken,
As of things unspeakable spoken,
As of tears unendurable shed.

In the manifold sound remote,
In the molten murmur of song,
There was but a sharp sole note
Alive on the night and afloat,
The cry of the world's heart's wrong.

As the sea in the strait sea-caves,
The sound came straitened and strange;
A noise of the rending of graves,
A tidal thunder of waves,
The music of death and of change.

"We have waited so long," they say,
"For a sound of the God, for a breath,
For a ripple of the refluence of day,
For the fresh bright wind of the fray,
For the light of the sunrise of death.

"We have prayed not, we, to be strong,
To fulfil the desire of our eyes;
- Howbeit they have watched for it long,
Watched, and the night did them wrong,
Yet they say not of day, shall it rise?

"They are fearful and feeble with years,
Yet they doubt not of day if it be;
Yea, blinded and beaten with tears,
Yea, sick with foresight of fears,
Yet a little, and hardly, they see.

"We pray not, we, for the palm,
For the fruit ingraffed of the fight,
For the blossom of peace and the balm,
And the tender triumph and calm
Of crownless and weaponless right.

"We pray not, we, to behold
The latter august new birth,
The young day's purple and gold,
And divine, and rerisen as of old,
The sun-god Freedom on earth.

"Peace, and world's honour, and fame,
We have sought after none of these things;
The light of a life like flame
Passing, the storm of a name
Shaking the strongholds of kings:

"Nor, fashioned of fire and of air,
The splendour that burns on his head
Who was chiefest in ages that were,
Whose breath blew palaces bare,
Whose eye shone tyrannies dead:

"All these things in your day
Ye shall see, O our sons, and shall hold
Surely; but we, in the grey
Twilight, for one thing we pray,
In that day though our memories be cold:

"To feel on our brows as we wait
An air of the morning, a breath
From the springs of the east, from the gate
Whence freedom issues, and fate,
Sorrow, and triumph, and death

"From a land whereon time hath not trod,
Where the spirit is bondless and bare,
And the world's rein breaks, and the rod,
And the soul of a man, which is God,
He adores without altar or prayer:

For alone of herself and her right
She takes, and alone gives grace:
And the colours of things lose light,
And the forms, in the limitless white
Splendour of space without space:

"And the blossom of man from his tomb
Yearns open, the flower that survives;
And the shadows of changes consume
In the colourless passionate bloom
Of the live light made of our lives:

"Seeing each life given is a leaf
Of the manifold multiform flower,
And the least among these, and the chief,
As an ear in the red-ripe sheaf
Stored for the harvesting hour.

"O spirit of man, most holy,
The measure of things and the root,
In our summers and winters a lowly
Seed, putting forth of them slowly
Thy supreme blossom and fruit;

"In thy sacred and perfect year,
The souls that were parcel of thee
In the labour and life of us here
Shall be rays of thy sovereign sphere,
Springs of thy motion shall be.

"There is the fire that was man,
The light that was love, and the breath
That was hope ere deliverance began,
And the wind that was life for a span,
And the birth of new things, which is death

There, whosoever had light,
And, having, for men's sake gave;
All that warred against night;
All that were found in the fight
Swift to be slain and to save;

"Undisbranched of the storms that disroot us,
Of the lures that enthrall unenticed;
The names that exalt and transmute us;
The blood-bright splendour of Brutus,
The snow-bright splendour of Christ.

"There all chains are undone;
Day there seems but as night;
Spirit and sense are as one
In the light not of star nor of sun;
Liberty there is the light.

She, sole mother and maker,
Stronger than sorrow, than strife;
Deathless, though death overtake her;
Faithful, though faith should forsake her;
Spirit, and saviour, and life."

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Sword Of Pain

The Lights burn dim and make weird shadow-play,
The white walls of the ward are changed to grey,
Down the long aisle of beds, with tender grace,
Sleep smoothes the lines on many a weary face;
Yet there are those for whom no midnight brings
Solace and strength to face the day again,
And, over all, with wide majestic wings,
There broods the awful mystery of Pain.
Night wears apace, and now the silence breaks
As here and there some fitful slumberer wakes;
And Pain triumphant—Pain with burning grip—
Wrings grudging tribute from the tortured lip:
A strong man’s groan, a boy’s short sobbing cry,
Pierces the stillness with a sudden breath,
Or the low moan of long-drawn agony,
Asking not respite but the boon of Death.

Here, in the halls of suffering, eye to eye,
Men measure Death, and mark if he pass by;
Here, in the halls of suffering, swings the strife
Wherein man’s skill and Death contest for life;
Here woman moves in tenderest ministeries,
With gracious hands that calm the throbbing brain:
Skill and compassion facing fell disease,
And mercy watching by the bed of pain.

Ah! Night and day, in armour like the snow,
Patient and brave, the grey-robed nurses go,
With light swift steps, low voices, cheery smiles,
From bed to bed, adown those dolorous aisles—
Angels of Succour, girt with snowy mail,
As warriors donned of old their armour bright:
Serene, when danger bids the bravest quail,
Against the batteries of Death they fight.

Here, in the restless night, upon my bed,
Whilst bands of steel seem tight’ning round my head,
Strong tides are rushing through my heart and brain
The Goal of Life? The Mystery of Pain?
Now on the rising wind that roars without
Murmurs and discord mingle till it seems
The Voice of the World’s Wounded, and about
Me seem to be the dreams that are not dreams.

“Wherefore, Great Architect, whose power august
Buildeth the universe of very dust,
And that imperial Palace of the Mind
More stately than the stars; who dost not bind
Thought that can conquer Nature, and above
The power of Mind hast set the power of Love—
O Thou, who weavest through this web of strife
Strands of great agony and bloody rue—
Must we still search this labyrinth of Life
To perish groping blindly for the clue?”

Even as I cried the grey walls fell away,
The long ward vanished in the glare of day,
The broad world spread before me, and I saw
Thousands lie stretched in the red swathes of War,
In rigid wreck, like fields of storm-crushed corn—
Grey faces twisted to a horrid smile,
And limbs and piteous bodies wrenched and torn,
Mangled unspeakably, strewn pile on pile.

I turned to Peace amid her olive trees:
Great cities rose before me, villages,
The spacious mansion and the lonely cot—
There was no door that Pain had entered not.
I heard like sobbings of an unseen tide
Its keen fire run through all things, and I said:
“Peace masks a secret war on every side.
There is no rest from travail: God is dead.”

No more the solid earth my footsteps prest;
The wide sky caught me upward to its breast.
The living ether seemed a quick’ning sea,
Where thrilled unseen the germs of worlds to be.
At times I seemed to move upon the verge
Of some vast viewless current streaming far,
And my brain quivered, as, with mighty surge,
Strange thought-waves swept the gulfs from star to star.

In ordered majesty each System runs,
With mighty planets circling sovran suns,
And strange pale moons like ghosts that haunt the scene
Of their once living glory; and serene,
Slow dying stars, dreaming of days forgot,
Of silent worlds and ancient memories—
White mountain-crest, dense forest, secret grot,
Wide plains, wild shores, the crash of plunging seas.

Like a blown leaf, caught by the vagrant air
That still ascends, I mounted: Everywhere
Dead suns and satellites—a lightless train
In darkness rushing to be born again—
Hurled through the void, or, by fierce shock redeemed,
Blazed back to life, and flushed with splendour bright
Thronged spaces and dark rolling orbs that seemed
Millions of black motes in a sea of light.

There is a river whose imperial flow
Circles the mid-most heaven with broad’ning glow;
Its fiery waves are rays of suns supreme,
Crimson and gold its changing currents gleam,
And blue and purest white, and in its tide
Move worlds unnumbered and the starry dust
That builds new suns and powers that shall abide
To rule new regions with a sway august.

Within the airy isle its waters fold
Seven mighty suns circle in quiv’ring gold;
And, over all, uplift above the gire,
Shaped like a cross, a Sword of Living Fire!
Emerald and amber, opal, white and blue
Swift lights, keen tremors flash from point to hilt;
And now blood-red it throbs, as though it knew
The whole world’s agony, the whole world’s guilt.

It is The Cross, sublime, uplifted high;
Great flames break from it, floating down the sky;
As though the blood of Him who, undismayed,
Suffered our sins, dript from its burning blade—
As though the blood of all earth’s noblest ones,
Dreamers and heroes, fell in fiery rain
To temper worlds new-born, and mightier suns—
The Sword of Victory! The Sword of Pain!

Trembling, I spake before that awful sword:
“Where is the golden city of the Lord,
With gates of pearl, and on its crystal sea
Peace and the solace of Eternity?”
Then, like a flash, I knew the air around
Was living ether, and I felt the gaze
Of myriad eyes unseen, and heard the sound
As of vast music known in far-off days.

There fell a star across the ’brow of Night,
And a voice answered, echoing from the height:
“The gods ye fashion perish one by one,
The Living God endures when all are gone.
Fool, canst thou know Th’ Eternal in a day?
Can mortal judge The Immortal face to face,
Who of the star-dust buildeth as He may,
And takes for throne the regions of all Space?”

Eternal Spirit, immanent, apart,
Thou, in the living temple of the Heart,
Lightest thine altar-fires that souls may reign
O’er worlds not yet create, and makest pain
The discipline of Life, the seal of worth,
The test of courage, and the burning star
That leads through vales of darkness to re-birth,
To loftier life and victory afar!

Ah! Not in golden city nor crystal sea,
But in wide circles of Infinity,
Our work is set; and not from harps of gold,
But hearts of men, deep harmonies are rolled!
Vast powers stir around us, and our course may be
By other paths than those our fathers trod;
And Science, with her torch, unconsciously,
Through strange new realms may lead men back to God.

He knows not Life who hath not felt the breath
Nor gazed once in the mocking eyes of Death.
The purest springs, the waters without stain,
Well upward from the burning heart of Pain.
Behold I saw in purest air afar
A great light dawn and widen and increase,
With white flame crested like a perfect star,
Above the Sword of Pain—the Crown of Peace!

poem by George Essex Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Man's Desire In Life

each and everyone has some desire
these desires are endless.

the desire of love-power,
raised him high, very high.

the desire of indifference-power
ragged him down
beyond his imagination.

the desire of thought-power
killed his inner silence.

the desire of money-power
fooled him, his life, his all.

the desire of education-power
made him the best

that's why a man's desire in life
made him to see the world beyond.

poem by Anjana Menon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Power Of Love

I think that somewhere along the line
(and it's said, all things return to you in time)
I must have finally opened up to your love
Though i was building a wall at heaven's gate
(everything comes to those who wait)
You must have found a secret path into my soul
And now you're part of my life
I can't believe that this is mine
Every light has its time to shine
I want to understand this change in me
Is it the power of love
Is it the power of love
Is this the tao of love
I feel the power of love
Caught up in the famous paper chase
(in your eyes, i saw how i never fell from grace)
I must have finally opened up to your love
And i heard the battle's not always to the strong
(the race is not always to the fleet)
And the one who seeks to pluck the stars
Will miss the jewels at his feet
Blinded by momentary power
We almost had the final hour
I'll never know what caused the change in me
Was it the power of love
Is it the power of love
Is this the tao of love
I feel the power of love
Is it the power of love
Is it the power of love
Is this the tao of love
I feel the power of love
And i thought anything for the cause is worth the price
(losing you was the sharp edge of the knife)
Now no more fear, the way is clear
I know you are the power in my life
So better late than never
'cause this heart is yours forever
I'll never know what caused the change in me
Was it the power of love
Is it the power of love
Is this the tao of love
I feel the power of love
Is it the power of love
Is it the power of love
Is this the tao of love
I feel the power of love
I think that somewhere along the line
(and it's said all things return to you in time)
I must have finally opened up to your love

song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Mater Dolorosa

Who is this that sits by the way, by the wild wayside,
In a rent stained raiment, the robe of a cast-off bride,
In the dust, in the rainfall sitting, with soiled feet bare,
With the night for a garment upon her, with torn wet hair?
She is fairer of face than the daughters of men, and her eyes,
Worn through with her tears, are deep as the depth of skies.

This is she for whose sake being fallen, for whose abject sake,
Earth groans in the blackness of darkness, and men's hearts break.
This is she for whose love, having seen her, the men that were
Poured life out as water, and shed their souls upon air.
This is she for whose glory their years were counted as foam;
Whose face was a light upon Greece, was a fire upon Rome.

Is it now not surely a vain thing, a foolish and vain,
To sit down by her, mourn to her, serve her, partake in the pain?
She is grey with the dust of time on his manifold ways,
Where her faint feet stumble and falter through year-long days.
Shall she help us at all, O fools, give fruit or give fame,
Who herself is a name despised, a rejected name?

We have not served her for guerdon. If any do so,
That his mouth may be sweet with such honey, we care not to know.
We have drunk from a wine-unsweetened, a perilous cup,
A draught very bitter. The kings of the earth stood up,
And the rulers took counsel together, to smite her and slay;
And the blood of her wounds is given us to drink today.

Can these bones live? or the leaves that are dead leaves bud?
Or the dead blood drawn from her veins be in your veins blood?
Will ye gather up water again that was drawn and shed?
In the blood is the life of the veins, and her veins are dead.
For the lives that are over are over, and past things past;
She had her day, and it is not; was first, and is last.

Is it nothing unto you then, all ye that pass by,
If her breath be left in her lips, if she live now or die?
Behold now, O people, and say if she be not fair,
Whom your fathers followed to find her, with praise and prayer,
And rejoiced, having found her, though roof they had none nor bread;
But ye care not; what is it to you if her day be dead?

It was well with our fathers; their sound was in all men's lands;
There was fire in their hearts, and the hunger of fight in their
hands.
Naked and strong they went forth in her strength like flame,
For her love's and her name's sake of old, her republican name.
But their children, by kings made quiet, by priests made wise,
Love better the heat of their hearths than the light of her eyes.

Are they children of these thy children indeed, who have sold,
O golden goddess, the light of thy face for gold?
Are they sons indeed of the sons of thy dayspring of hope,
Whose lives are in fief of an emperor, whose souls of a Pope?
Hide then thine head, O beloved; thy time is done;
Thy kingdom is broken in heaven, and blind thy sun.

What sleep is upon you, to dream she indeed shall rise,
When the hopes are dead in her heart as the tears in her eyes?
If ye sing of her dead, will she stir? if ye weep for her, weep?
Come away now, leave her; what hath she to do but sleep?
But ye that mourn are alive, and have years to be;
And life is good, and the world is wiser than we.

Yea, wise is the world and mighty, with years to give,
And years to promise; but how long now shall it live?
And foolish and poor is faith, and her ways are bare,
Till she find the way of the sun, and the morning air.
In that hour shall this dead face shine as the face of the sun,
And the soul of man and her soul and the world's be one.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Ego

Day passeth day in sunshine or shadow,
Night unto night each cycle is told;
Sun, moon and stars in whirling and glamour,
All unto all the creation unfold.

What of the strivings, what of the gropings,
Out from the darkness into the light?
What of the weepings, what of the grievings
Now from the day to the passionate night?

Stars of the stars, heavens of the heavens,
Rising or falling or pausing a span,
Each to the great "I am" replying
E'en as the crystal, e'en as man.

Chant of the worlds from aeon to aeon,
Song of the soul from dust unto dust,
Dream of the clods that, upward and starward,
Rise to the call of the primal "Thou must."

Space beyond space, eternity's vision,
Chaos to chaos, calm unto calm,
World beneath world, heaven above heaven,
Life but the urge, death but the balm.

poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

What Am I

I am the one that light cannot escape
I rip organic things from atom to atom
I am the beginning and the end
I devour time and worlds

I am death to everything
I was there in the beginning
I will be there when it all ends
I give and then take it all away
I am black as the darkest night

My core is so dense that a teaspoon weights more than the planet earth
I am so strong that light cannot escape me
I am gravity gone wild
I am super and colossal

My hunger cannot be quenched
I am the fire that burns to aches
I feed on all things great and small
I am the harvinger of things to come
I build and then destroy

My vastness cannot be calculated
I spin everything around
I will make you and then break you
I am the darkness

I am all things and everything
You cannot resist my pull
I cannot be overcome
I am death to all stars
I am dynamic in motion

I am the force that makes worlds collide
I bring it all together just to tear it all apart
I have no emotions nor do I have any fears
I give just to take it away again

I am the reaper of matter dark and light
I am futility incarnate
I am fear with a dark heart
I know no compassion

I cannot be reasoned with
I cannot be summarized
My structure cannot be measured conventionally
I am the force that goes bump in the night
I am physics quantum and subatomic
I am the greatest force in nature
What Am I? I am your end

poem by Wilfred Mellers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Power

A wave of power rushes past you on a windy day
waving your hair into disarray and tingling your skin
A formless power makes you comfortable in the biting cold
the same power fills you in agony, pain and suffering
when you go straight to possess the heart of that comfortable power
and it is the same power which falls out of the clouds in little drops
and each of these are a single form of power
for the power is in the air
and the power is in the fire and the power is in the water.

A beam of power ricochets into your eyes from something
and you are illuminated with the beauty of the complete world
you see the ugly, you see the amazing, you see the violent,
and you see every solid and pattern
you see darkness behind an object in the form of it
lying in the ground or right beside your arm
and even in the darkness, there are objects and things
which has a power that enables you a touch of it.

All for the reason that the power is in the objects,
and the power is in the light and even the darkness and shadows.

A form of the same power enables you,
to know the presence of your woman near you
the same form of power gives you, the knowledge
of the proximity of your best food.
For the power is in the scent and smell
and the power is even in your nose that smells.

A vibe of power rings in your ear
and you know that something is somewhere near
and your tongue that knows the quality of the food
is all the power that's doing you good
the sound is itself the power
and so is the ear and the tongue
the tongue that so eagerly tastes your favorite food
the food which contains the power in itself too.

All this time you and me are here
and all this time everything else is there,
is for the power is everywhere;
the power pumps inside your body all the time
and even when you are dead and bloodless,
the power is still there in your veins and muscles.

The power is the life, the soul
the touch, the light, the darkness, the sound
the sentiments flowing inside you is the power
the strike you make in anger is the power,
and the power is existence, energy, substance, and motion.

The power was in the place where God was born
the God is Himself the power
and like God Himself,
the power is omnipotent, and it is there where existence is there.

poem by Rajiv Prajapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Strong desire

In one corner lies strong desire,
Struggle and efforts more to acquire,
Not necessary but still to require,
Much to the discomfort and ire,

Suppressed artificially but strongly emerging,
As if freed bird from forced caging,
Burning with emotions and anger raging,
Writing on wall but not on paging,

It’s inherent to have strong desire,
Not the capacity but still hire,
Adventure more in burning fire,
Never reneging so not called liar,

As a child desired to touch sky,
Never thought of consequences, why?
Birds with wings wonderfully fly
All unrealistic things in mind but felt very shy,

Raising position to that of tower,
Reaching peaks with lot of power,
Not enough capacity and means fewer,
Strong will power with positive answer,

No charm in life without desire,
Need not allow dreams on fire,
Double the effort with sharp vision,
Intent to succeed with strong liaison,

Dream and desire almost same,
Powerful drive required in game,
If succeed may earn you name,
Sitting idle may make you duck lame,

Striving hard to realize the dream,
Desire cools after receiving ice cream,
Desire to travel as powerful beam,
Desire, dream, ambition to work as team,

Nothing can stop from imposing will,
Followed it vigorously with intense kill,
Efforts pursued is also called zeal,
Achievement sure and may look real

When life time achievement comes true,
Success almost without any clue,
Made it possible with earnest drive,
Never allowed to die but made they live

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Twilight Music

Know you the low pervading breeze
That softly sings
In the trembling leaves of twilight trees,
As if the wind were dreaming on its wings?
And have you marked their still degrees
Of ebbing melody, like the strings
Of a silver harp swept by a spirit's hand
In some strange glimmering land,
'Mid gushing springs,
And glistenings
Of waters and of planets, wild and grand!
And have you marked in that still time
The chariots of those shining cars
Brighten upon the hushing dark,
And bent to hark
That Voice, amid the poplar and the lime,
Pause in the dilating lustre
Of the spheral cluster;
Pause but to renew its sweetness, deep
As dreams of heaven to souls that sleep!
And felt, despite earth's jarring wars,
When day is done
And dead the sun,
Still a voice divine can sing,
Still is there sympathy can bring
A whisper from the stars!
Ah, with this sentience quickly will you know
How like a tree I tremble to the tones
Of your sweet voice!
How keenly I rejoice
When in me with sweet motions slow
The spiritual music ebbs and moans -
Lives in the lustre of those heavenly eyes,
Dies in the light of its own paradise, -
Dies, and relives eternal from its death,
Immortal melodies in each deep breath;
Sweeps thro' my being, bearing up to thee
Myself, the weight of its eternity;
Till, nerved to life from its ordeal fire,
It marries music with the human lyre,
Blending divine delight with loveliest desire.

poem by George Meredith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Evolution

THOU stand'st complete in every part,
An individual of thy kind;
But whence thou cam'st and what thou art,
Didst ever ask thee of thy mind?
Thou claim'st a portion of God's earth;
5
Thou say'st to all men, "This is I;"
Thou hast a date to mark thy birth,
And other date when thou shalt die.
Thy years are in the planets' years;
A space in all that mighty span,
10
A little space of smiles and tears,
Is writ in shining letters—"Man."
Thou hear'st the mighty ocean roll,
Thou seest death on every hand;
There loom strange phantoms in thy soul,
15
And boundless heavens arch the land.
Thy feet are on the sand and clay,
Which once had other growths than these,
And in the great world's yesterday,
Heard murmurs of the tropic seas.
20

Life out of death, death out of life,
In endless cycles rolling on,
And fire-gleams flashing from the strife
Of what will come and what has gone.
A perfect whole, a perfect plan,
25
Ay, doubtless, in the perfect mind,
An onward march since time began,
With yet no laggart left behind.
All blended in a wondrous chain,
Each link the fittest for its place;
30
The stronger made to bear the strain,
The weaker formed to give it grace.
But what art thou and what am I?
What place is ours in all this scheme?
What is it to be born and die?
35
Are we but phases in a dream,
That earth or some prime mother dreams,
Folded away in crimson skies?
Or are we dazzled with the beams
Of light too strong for new-born eyes?
40

Certes, we are not very much;
We cannot cause ourselves to be;
Not even the limbs by which we touch
Are really owned by thee and me.
But they were fashioned years ago,
45
Ay, centuries; since earth's natal morn,
The wondering ages saw them grow,
Till our time came and we were born.
And we are present, future, past—
Shall live again, have lived before,
50
Like billows on the beaches cast
Of tides that flow for evermore.
And yet thou sayest, "This is I;
I am marked off from all my kind;
I look not to the by-and-by;
55
I care not for what lies behind."
That may be so; but to mine eyes
A being of wondrous make thou art—
The point at which infinities
Converge, touch, and for ever part.
60

Thou canst not unmake what has been,
Nor hold back that which is to come;
We dwell upon the waste between
In the small "now" which is our home.
"Though this be so," thou answerest, "still
65
I feel and know myself to be:
Thy creed would make the perfect will
In God's sight like a stone or tree."
Ah no! for stone and tree are one,
And perfect will bears different fruit;
70
The will is grander than the sun,
The body brother to the brute.
But in the ages thou shalt be
A link from unknown to unknown,
A bridge across a darkling sea,
75
A light on the world's pathway thrown
Ay, such is man—a moan in sleep;
A passing dream; he thinks and is,
And then falls back into the deep
Where other deeps call unto this.
80

But in that thinking, in that pause,
That dream which did so little yield,
There met a universe of laws,
And branched out into wider field.
We live not for ourselves—ah no!
85
We do not live; man lives in us.
The race dwells in us; even so
The race will live, though we pass thus.
The forces that have fashioned thee
Have rolled through space since time began—
90
Have ranged the heavens, the earth, the sea,
And in God's time have made thee man.
And so to further goal they move,
When thou hast passed from mortal sight;
To fashion beings that will prove
95
More wondrous still, more full of light.
We are the foam-crest on the wave,
Lit for a moment by the sun;
A moment thus we toss and rave,
Then fall back ere our day is done.
100

Thou then art twain—the force that builds
The broad foundations of the race,
And separate light from God that gilds
The soul with individual grace.
God looks at both: the one displays
105
The laws that work His purpose still;
The other thine own spirit sways,
And here God asks the perfect will.
I would not have thee think the less
Of this small part which is man's soul,
110
Nor miss the exceeding blessedness
Of knowing thyself a separate whole.
"What proof," thou sayest, "if this be true,
That thou and I survive the shock
Which summons all we are and do
115
To credit of the primal stock?
"If I and thou a moment are
Conscious of self, of touch, of sight,
Then vanish like a falling star,
And sink in everlasting night,
120

"What proof that in the overthrow
The thing that says, knows, ‘This is I,'
Will not pass with the rest, and go
Dissolved into the vast supply?"
Though formed of elemental dust,
125
And moulded through such countless years,
We perish not with these, but must
Survive the rolling of the spheres.
We must, I say; for what most high
In man? Is't not the subtle part,
130
The power which tells me, "This is I;
I am not everything thou art"?
Would God have laboured then and wrought
With fire and water, life and death,
And through the weary cycles brought
135
A creature with the vital breath,
And breathed such power within his soul,
And crowned him with such wondrous grace,
And said, "Go forth from pole to pole,
And meet thy brother face to face,"
140

If this strange power were meant to sink
Back into chaos or be lost,
Or cast off as a broken link,
Or die like wave along the coast?
Not that God's way. On—ever on,
145
To nobler, purer, higher things;
Form out the ages that are gone
Each newer, grander era springs.
So nought is lost, but all must pass,
And life through varied stages move;
150
From the pale fungus in the grass,
To deepest depths of light and love.
And we must pass—we shall not die;
Changed and transformed, but still the same,
To grander heights of mystery,
155
To fairer realms than whence we came.
God will not let His work be lost;
Too wondrous is the mind of man,
Too many ages it has cost
The huge fulfilment of His plan.
160

But on we pass, for ever on,
Through death to other deaths and life;
To brighter lights when these are gone;
To broader thought, more glorious strife;
To vistas opening out of these;
165
To wonders shining from afar,
Above the surging of the seas,
Above the course of moon and star;
To higher powers of will and deed,
All bounds and limits left behind;
170
To truths undreamt in any creed;
To deeper love, more God-like mind.
For this the sky and sea and earth
God moulded with His ice and fire;
For this the ages gave us birth,
175
And filled our hearts with mad desire.
Great God! we move into the vast;
All questions vain—the shadows come!
We hear no answer from the past;
The years before us all are dumb.
180

We trust Thy purpose and Thy will,
We see afar the shining goal;
Forgive us if there linger still
Some human fear within our soul!
Forgive us, if when crumbling in
185
The world that we have loved and known,
With forms so fair to us, we sin
By eyes averted from Thy throne!
Forgive us, if with thoughts too wild,
And eyes too dim to pierce the gloom,
190
We shudder like a frightened child
That enters at a darkened room!
Forgive us, if when dies away
All human sound upon our ears,
We hear not, in the swift decay,
195
Thy loving voice to calm our fears!
But lo! the dawn of fuller days;
Horizon-glories fringe the sky!
Our feet would climb the shining ways
To meet man's widest destiny.
200

Come, then, all sorrow's recompense!
The kindling sky is flaked with gold;
Above the shattered screen of sense,
A voice like thunder cries, "Behold!"

poem by Frederick George Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Mortua est

A torch watching closely the sad and wet tomb,
A bell chiming harshly in this holy gloom,
A dream which is dipping its wing in the gall
That's how you have traveled beyond the world's wall.

You've passed when the sky is a field of delight,
With rivers of sweet milk and flowers of light,
When castles of black clouds are hiding the sun
And moon, the fair queen, visits them one by one.

You are like the silver that catches the eye,
With wings elevated you soar to the sky,
The clouds airy scaffold you climb, pale white soul,
Through showers of sun rays, the stars are your goal.

A ray takes you higher, a song leads your quest,
Your arms, white and tender, are crossed on your chest,
When loud is the spinning of spells everywhere,
There's silver in waters and gold in the air.

Your pure, candid soul through heaven is rolled;
I watch your remains... just dust white and cold,
Attired in clothes in coffin they sleep
I look at your smile, still lively and deep –

And quickly I'm asking my poor injured soul,
How come you died angel and death took his toll?
Are you not the youngster who offered delight?
You've gone to extinguish a star shining bright?

But up there in heaven are castles it seems
With vaults made of fine gold and walls of star beams,
With bridges of silver and streams, which flames bring,
With banks full of myrrh trees and flowers that sing;

They're waiting for your steps, O, dear holy queen,
With hair made of sun rays and eyes bright and clean,
Dressed up in a blue dress – a gold spotted gown,
And wearing on your head a thin laurel crown.

O, death is a chaos, an ocean of stars
While life is a puddle of dreams and of scars;
O, death is an epoch embroidered with suns
While life is a story so ugly that stuns –

Or maybe my thinking is stormy and void
The good thoughts I cherish are quickly destroyed...
When all suns are dying and stars fall on earth
I'll come to believe that the world isn't worth.

The high vault of heaven may crash and lose might,
The nothingness maybe will bring its long night,
I may see the dark sky, its worlds out of breath,
Which are easy prey to perpetual death.

And if it were so... my thinking runs rife,
Your warm, feeble breathing won't come back to life,
Your voice sweet and sounding will hush in dismay,
So, this lovely angel was made out of clay.

And yet, my dead dust and beautiful queen,
Against your dark coffin my hoarse harp I lean;
I don't cry for your death, but happy I say
That you left the chaos and went far away.

I stand here and wonder, which one better goes,
To be or to not be... but anyone knows
That what's non-existent cannot feel the pain,
There are many hardships, few pleasures remain.

To be? It's sad madness and empty and wry
Your eyes are deceiving, your ears always lie;
An age teaches something, which others disdain,
So better have nothing than hoping in vain.

I see dreams embodied, which chase other dreams,
But each one in graveyard will give up its needs,
My thinking is hazy and all thoughts are frail,
Shall I laugh like crazy? Or curse them or wail?

But then, for what reason? There's madness throughout
How come, pretty angel, you had to die out?
Has this world a meaning? O, dear smiling face
You lived just for dying? An awful disgrace;
If this has a meaning, it's just a facade,
Because on your forehead it's not written God.

poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by Octavian Cocoş
Vote! | Copy!

What Is Said

How could I ever tell you how important what you say
can be
that the words of any man in a day
can affect a life, millions, or even me
our words have so much power
so do not cower
and do not shy away
do not hold back what you want to say
because your words affect a lifetime
speak your mind
all shall be fine
do not fear rejection for the reward is sublime
to save life or cause a turn
to help the world, or save one destined to burn
but forget not that words destroy and create
break down and perpetuate
the power of words and their force of love
the power of words and their capacity for sadistic destruction
forget not that you hold inside this death and life
the power to create argument and strife
or peace and tranquility
remember, remember dear child that each word can kill
each word can fill
with love and joy
or malice and contempt
so don't attempt
to downplay their importance
and play the fool
because its those words that are a part of you
its those words that yours my child
now use them wisely, say what must be said
for with all my years of experience i have learned that what's most important
sometimes...
is simply
What's said

poem by David Knox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Blessed Among Women --To The Signora Cairoli

Blessed was she that bare,
Hidden in flesh most fair,
For all men's sake the likeness of all love;
Holy that virgin's womb,
The old record saith, on whom
The glory of God alighted as a dove;
Blessed, who brought to gracious birth
The sweet-souled Saviour of a man-tormented earth.

But four times art thou blest,
At whose most holy breast
Four times a godlike soldier-saviour hung;
And thence a fourfold Christ
Given to be sacrificed
To the same cross as the same bosom clung;
Poured the same blood, to leave the same
Light on the many-folded mountain-skirts of fame.

Shall they and thou not live,
The children thou didst give
Forth of thine hands, a godlike gift, to death,
Through fire of death to pass
For her high sake that was
Thine and their mother, that gave all you breath?
Shall ye not live till time drop dead,
O mother, and each her children's consecrated head?

Many brought gifts to take
For her love's supreme sake,
Life and life's love, pleasure and praise and rest,
And went forth bare; but thou,
So much once richer, and now
Poorer than all these, more than these be blest;
Poorer so much, by so much given,
Than who gives earth for heaven's sake, not for earth's sake heaven.

Somewhat could each soul save,
What thing soever it gave,
But thine, mother, what has thy soul kept back?
None of thine all, not one,
To serve thee and be thy son,
Feed with love all thy days, lest one day lack;
All thy whole life's love, thine heart's whole,
Thou hast given as who gives gladly, O thou the supreme soul.

The heart's pure flesh and blood,
The heaven thy motherhood,
The live lips, the live eyes, that lived on thee;
The hands that clove with sweet
Blind clutch to thine, the feet
That felt on earth their first way to thy knee;
The little laughter of mouths milk-fed,
Now open again to feed on dust among the dead;

The fair, strong, young men's strength,
Light of life-days and length,
And glory of earth seen under and stars above,
And years that bring to tame
Now the wild falcon fame,
Now, to stroke smooth, the dove-white breast of love;
The life unlived, the unsown seeds,
Suns unbeholden, songs unsung, and undone deeds.

Therefore shall man's love be
As an own son to thee,
And the world's worship of thee for a child;
All thine own land as one
New-born, a nursing son,
All thine own people a new birth undefiled;
And all the unborn Italian time,
And all its glory, and all its works, thy seed sublime.

That henceforth no man's breath,
Saying "Italy," but saith
In that most sovereign word thine equal name;
Nor can one speak of thee
But he saith "Italy,"
Seeing in two suns one co-eternal flame;
One heat, one heaven, one heart, one fire,
One light, one love, one benediction, one desire.

Blest above praise and prayer
And incense of men's air,
Thy place is higher than where such voices rise
As in men's temples make
Music for some vain sake,
This God's or that God's, in one weary wise;
Thee the soul silent, the shut heart,
The locked lips of the spirit praise thee that thou art.

Yea, for man's whole life's length,
And with man's whole soul's strength,
We praise thee, O holy, and bless thee, O mother of lights;
And send forth as on wings
The world's heart's thanksgivings,
Song-birds to sing thy days through and thy nights;
And wrap thee around and arch thee above
With the air of benediction and the heaven of love.

And toward thee our unbreathed words
Fly speechless, winged as birds,
As the Indian flock, children of Paradise,
The winged things without feet,
Fed with God's dew for meat,
That live in the air and light of the utter skies;
So fleet, so flying a footless flight,
With wings for feet love seeks thee, to partake thy sight.

Love like a clear sky spread
Bends over thy loved head,
As a new heaven bends over a new-born earth,
When the old night's womb is great
With young stars passionate
And fair new planets fiery-fresh from birth;
And moon-white here, there hot like Mars,
Souls that are worlds shine on thee, spirits that are stars.

Till the whole sky burns through
With heaven's own heart-deep hue,
With passion-coloured glories of lit souls;
And thine above all names
Writ highest with lettering flames
Lightens, and all the old starriest aureoles
And all the old holiest memories wane,
And the old names of love's chosen, found in thy sight vain.

And crowned heads are discrowned,
And stars sink without sound,
And love's self for thy love's sake waxes pale
Seeing from his storied skies
In what new reverent wise
Thee Rome's most highest, her sovereign daughters, hail;
Thee Portia, thee Veturia grey,
Thee Arria, thee Cornelia, Roman more than they.

Even all these as all we
Subdue themselves to thee,
Bow their heads haloed, quench their fiery fame;
Seen through dim years divine,
Their faint lights feminine
Sink, then spring up rekindled from thy flame;
Fade, then reflower and reillume
From thy fresh spring their wintering age with new-blown bloom.

To thy much holier head
Even theirs, the holy and dead,
Bow themselves each one from her heavenward height;
Each in her shining turn,
All tremble toward thee and yearn
To melt in thine their consummated light;
Till from day's Capitolian dome
One glory of many glories lighten upon Rome.

Hush thyself, song, and cease,
Close, lips, and hold your peace;
What help hast thou, what part have ye herein?
But you, with sweet shut eyes,
Heart-hidden memories,
Dreams and dumb thoughts that keep what things have been
Silent, and pure of all words said,
Praise without song the living, without dirge the dead.

Thou, strengthless in these things,
Song, fold thy feebler wings,
And as a pilgrim go forth girt and shod,
And where the new graves are,
And where the sunset star,
To the pure spirit of man that men call God,
To the high soul of things, that is
Made of men's heavenlier hopes and mightier memories;

To the elements that make
For the soul's living sake
This raiment of dead things, of shadow and trance,
That give us chance and time
Wherein to aspire and climb
And set our life's work higher than time or chance
The old sacred elements, that give
The breath of life to days that die, to deeds that live;

To them, veiled gods and great,
There bow thee and dedicate
The speechless spirit in these thy weak words hidden;
And mix thy reverent breath
With holier air of death,
At the high feast of sorrow a guest unbidden,
Till with divine triumphal tears
Thou fill men's eyes who listen with a heart that hears.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!