A Wayside Queen
She was born in the season of fire,
When a mantle of murkiness lay
On the front of the crimson Destroyer:
And none knew the name of her sire
But the woman; and she, ashen grey,
In the fierce pangs of motherhood lay.
The skies were aflame at her coming
With a marvellous message of ill;
And fear-stricken pinions were drumming
The hot, heavy air, whence the humming
Of insects rose, sudden and shrill,
As they fled from that hell-begirt hill.
Then the smoke-serpent writhed in her tresses:
The flame kissed her hard on the lips:
She smiled at their ardent caresses
As the wanton who smiles, but represses
A lover's hot haste, and so slips
From the arm that would girdle her hips.
Such the time of her coming and fashion:
How long ere her day shall be sped,
And she goes to rekindle past passion
With languorous glances that flash on
The long-straightened limbs of the dead,
Where they lie in a winter-wet bed?
Where the wide waves of evergreen carry
The song sad and soft of the surge
To feathered battalions that harry
The wizen-armed bloodwoods that tarry
For ever, chained down on the verge
Of a river that mutters a dirge.
'Tis a dirge for the dead men it mutters—
Those weed-entwined strangers who lie
With the drift in the whirlpools and gutters—
Swoll'n hand or a garment that flutters
Wan shreds as the waters rush by,
And the flotsam, froth-freckled, rides high.
Is it there that she buries her lovers,
This woman in scarlet and black?
Those swart caballeros, the drovers—
What sovranty set they above hers?
Riding in by a drought-beset track
To a fate which is worse than the rack.
A queen, no insignia she weareth
Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair:
Her beauty the sceptre she beareth:
For men and their miseries careth
As little as tigresses care
For the quivering flesh that they tear.
She is sweet as white peppermint flowers,
And harsh as red gum when it drips
From the heart of a hardwood that towers
Straight up: she hath marvellous powers
To draw a man's soul through his lips
With a kiss like the stinging of whips.
Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter,
When sex is unsexed and uncouth:
In the chorus that climbs to the rafter
No thought of the days to come after:
She has little regret and less ruth
As she tempts men to murder their youth.
Is she marked down as yet by the flaming
Great eye of the Righter of Wrong?
How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming
His due, shall make end of our shaming?
‘How long, Mighty Father, how long?'
Is our wearisome burden of song.
A queen, no insignia she weareth
Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair:
Her beauty the sceptre she beareth:
For men and their miseries careth
As little as tigresses care
For the quivering flesh that they tear.
She is sweet as white peppermint flowers,
And harsh as red gum when it drips
From the heart of a hardwood that towers
Straight up: she hath marvellous powers
To draw a man's soul through his lips
With a kiss like the stinging of whips.
Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter,
When sex is unsexed and uncouth:
In the chorus that climbs to the rafter
No thought of the days to come after:
She has little regret and less ruth
As she tempts men to murder their youth.
Is she marked down as yet by the flaming
Great eye of the Righter of Wrong?
How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming
His due, shall make end of our shaming?
‘How long, Mighty Father, how long?'
Is our wearisome burden of song.
poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
It`s A Long Long Way
(chorus)
Its a long long way from here
Dont you worry yourself my dear
Its a long long way from here
Drought and famine in tv land
Read the sunday papers credit card ina your hand
Sing your song of freedom just to ease your troubled mind
And save your guilty pennies for the ones you leave behind
The burden that you carry from the cradle to the grave
Is like a badge of honour that you wear upon your sleeve
You make your contribution and you shed a little tear
And stage your celebration just to show how much you care
You obscure your stolen power with hypocrisy and lies
Your talk of understanding is a wafer thin disguise
You glorify my image but deny me flesh and blood
You radiate with goodness when you here me beg for food
Those rivers of blood will flow again
Someone changed the lyrics but the song remains the same
You can build a wall of protocol to keep the wolves at bay
But history dictates that someone has to pay
(chorus)
Its a long long way from here
Dont you worry yourself my dear
Its a long long way from here
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Lost Youth
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Summons
Straight to his death he went,
A smile on his lips,
All his life's joy unspent,
Into eclipse.
The song of the shell he heard
Cleaving the dark,
As though 'twere the song of a bird,
Linnet or lark.
Why would he go so fast
Out to the dead,
All in a heavenly haste
Not to be stayed?
What did he see afar
That drew him after?
Light from a merry star,
Singing and laughter?
Nay, but a face was his
Only in dreams,
Only in dreams of bliss
In the star-gleams.
Nay, but a face that watched
Long years to see
Who came by the door unlatched,
If it were he.
What was the voice before
That lured him on?
'Oh, thou long-hungered for,
My son, my son!'
Lo, he hath heard, hath seen,
He hath slipped over
Where the great days begin
For friend and lover.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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September in Australia
Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest,
And, behold, for repayment,
September comes in with the wind of the West
And the Spring in her raiment!
The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers,
While the forest discovers
Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours,
And the music of lovers.
September, the maid with the swift, silver feet!
She glides, and she graces
The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat,
With her blossomy traces;
Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose,
She lightens and lingers
In spots where the harp of the evening glows,
Attuned by her fingers.
The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips
In a darling old fashion;
And the day goeth down with a song on its lips
Whose key-note is passion;
Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea
I stand, and remember
Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee,
Resplendent September.
The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon
And beats on the beaches,
Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune
That touches and teaches;
The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time,
And the death of Devotion,
Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme
In the waves of the ocean.
We, having a secret to others unknown,
In the cool mountain-mosses,
May whisper together, September, alone
Of our loves and our losses.
One word for her beauty, and one for the grace
She gave to the hours;
And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face
To sleep with the flowers.
Oh, season of changes -- of shadow and shine --
September the splendid!
My song hath no music to mingle with thine,
And its burden is ended;
But thou, being born of the winds and the sun,
By mountain, by river,
Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run,
With thy voices for ever.
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feast Of The Assumption
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead:
Thy Feast has fled;
My eyes are wet with tears unshed;
I bow my head;
Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway
I bend my knee,
And, like a homesick child, I pray,
Mary, to thee.
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And, all the day -- since white-robed priest
In farthest East,
In dawn's first ray -- began the Feast,
I -- I the least --
Thy least, and last, and lowest child,
I called on thee!
Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild;
Didst think of me?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! The angels bright,
With wings as white
As a dream of snow in love and light,
Flashed on thy sight;
They shone like stars around thee, Queen!
I knelt afar --
A shadow only dims the scene
Where shines a star!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, beyond the sky,
Sweet, pure, and high,
The angel's song swept sounding by
Triumphantly;
And when such music filled thy ear,
Rose round thy throne,
How could I hope that thou wouldst hear
My far, faint moan?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, where altars stand,
Or poor or grand,
A countless throng from every land,
With lifted hand,
Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale
In glad acclaim;
How couldst thou hear my lone lips wail
Thy sweet, pure name?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! Thou didst not hear
Nor bend thy ear,
To prayer of woe as mine so drear;
For hearts more dear
Hid me from hearing and from sight
This bright Feast-day;
Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its night
I kneel and pray?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set, the day is dead;
Thy Feast hath fled;
My eyes are wet with the tears I shed;
I bow my head;
Angels and altars hailed thee, Queen,
All day; ah! be
To-night what thou hast ever been --
A mother to me!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Thy queenly crown in angels' sight
Is fair and bright;
Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night
Its jeweled light
Shines not as the tender love-light shines,
O Mary! mild,
In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines
For poor, lost child!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway
Fore'er and aye
In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray
Lay it away.
Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above
Where angels are;
But, Mother! fold in thine arms of love
Thy child afar!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayer
My poor lips dare?
Yea! be to all a Queen most fair,
Crown, sceptre, bear!
But look on me with a mother's eyes
From heaven's bliss;
And waft to me from the starry skies
A mother's kiss!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead;
Her Feast has fled;
Can she forget the sweet blood shed,
The last words said
That evening -- 'Woman! behold thy Son!
Oh! priceless right,
Of all His children! The last, least one,
Is heard to-night.
poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
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Astarte
ACROSS the dripping ridges,
O, look, luxurious night!
She comes, the bright-haired beauty,
My luminous delight!
My luminous delight!
So hush, ye shores, your roar,
That my soul may sleep, forgetting
Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!
Astarte, Syrian sister,
Your face is wet with tears;
I think you know the secret
One heart hath held for years!
One heart hath held for years!
But hide your hapless love,
And my sweet—my Syrian sister,
Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!
Ah, Helen Hope in heaven,
My queen of long ago,
I’ve swooned with adoration,
But could not tell you so,
Or dared not tell you so,
My radiant queen of yore!
And you’ve passed away and left me
Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!
Astarte knoweth, darling,
Of eyes that once did weep,
What time entranced Passion
Hath kissed your lips in sleep;
Hath kissed your lips in sleep;
But now those tears are o’er,
Gone, my saint, with many a moan to
Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!
If I am past all crying,
What thoughts are maddening me,
Of you, my darling, dying
Upon the lone, wide sea,
Upon the lone, wide sea,
Ah! hush, ye shores, your roar,
That my soul may sleep, forgetting
Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!
poem by Henry Kendall
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To Lady Jane
Romance was always young.
You come today
Just eight years old
With marvellous dark hair.
Younger than Dante found you
When you turned
His heart into the way
That found the heavenly stair.
Perhaps we must be strangers.
I confess
My soul this hour is Dante's,
And your care
Should be for dolls
Whose painted hands caress
Your marvellous dark hair.
Romance, with moonflower face
And morning eyes,
And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesies
The canticles of a coming king unknown,
Remember, when you join him
On his throne,
Even me, your far off troubadour,
And wear
For me some trifling rose
Beneath your veil,
Dying a royal death,
Happy and pale,
Choked by the passion,
The wonder and the snare,
The glory and despair
That still will haunt and own
Your marvellous dark hair.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Its Been A Long Long Time
Its been a long time...
Since I held you tight.
Its been a long time...
Everyday in this fight.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Since I've had a kiss.
Its been a long time...
You're pretty blue eyes I miss.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
This Iraqi tour.
Its been a long time...
I miss you so and more.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Hot days with freezing nights.
Its been a long time...
Sunburned face, mosquito bites.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Had a real bad day.
Its been a long time...
Lost some soldiers today.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
I suffer everyday.
Its been a long time...
For me to be away.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
For me to be alone.
Its been a long time...
No talking on the telephone.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Since you heard me say...
Baby, my sweet darling...
I'm leaving Iraq today!
poem by Philip Lore
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Straight From The Heart
(bryan adams/ eric kagna)
Producer for bonnie: jim steinman
I could start dreaming but it never ends
As long as youre gone we may as well pretend
Ive been dreaming
And thats straight from the heart
You said its easy but whos to say
That wed be able to keep it this way
But its easier
Coming straight from the heart
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
Ill see you on the street some other time
But all our words will just fall out of line
While were dreaming
Straight from the heart
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
Instrumental
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as lknow
Its coming straight from the heart
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alas, So Long!
AH! dear one, we were young so long,
It seemed that youth would never go,
For skies and trees were ever in song
And water in singing flow
In the days we never again shall know.
Alas, so long!
Ah! then was it all Spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together.
Ah! dear one, I've been old so long,
It seems that age is loth to part,
Though days and years have never a song,
And oh! have they still the art
That warmed the pulses of heart to heart?
Alas, so long!
Ah! then was it all Spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together.
Ah! dear one, you've been dead so long,—
How long until we meet again,
Where hours may never lose their song
Nor flowers forget the rain
In glad noonlight that never shall wane?
Alas, so long!
Ah! shall it be then Spring weather,
And ah! shall we be young together?
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Time Long Past
Like the ghost of a dear friend dead
Is Time long past.
A tone which is now forever fled,
A hope which is now forever past,
A love so sweet it could not last,
Was Time long past.
There were sweet dreams in the night
Of Time long past:
And, was it sadness or delight,
Each day a shadow onward cast
Which made us wish it yet might last--
That Time long past.
There is regret, almost remorse,
For Time long past.
'Tis like a child's belovèd corse
A father watches, till at last
Beauty is like remembrance, cast
From Time long past.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The March Of The Dead
The cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.
And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming -- it's the Army of the Dead."
They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!
"They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop
On this, our England's crowning festal day;
We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso -- we're the men who had to pay.
We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before."
The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands -- oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then -- it was a dream.
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.
poem by Robert William Service
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Let It All Burn
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
The broken hearted are departing.
Setting sail for a new found trust.
I don't blame you, I've just had enough.
Trying to cross the divide.
Trying to see eye to eye.
But the flames just carry to high.
Their might be clearing in the sky but I can't find it.
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
Being sucked down in the turmoil at the gates of hell.
I can still hear all those cross words.
As if I can make this work.
I've been down this road before.
I know where it leads.
I know what the seeds grow,
I know you will reap what I sew.
Oh no, no no no no.
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
I was once an open door.
But now that is closed.
Can you feel the coldness of the frigid ice.
That's my heart.
It no long bleeds.
Not for you.
Not ever again.
With all the discontent as you keep trying.
Still I'm not moved.
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
I made my sacrifices.
Wasted as the blame.
Are you going to do the same.
Follow suit, follow the leader.
I'm no leader of yours.
I never held your cure.
Deny it and they want so bad.
Till it is what they can have,
Then it becomes dull.
A lust upon the soul.
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
now I'm giving up on you.
now I'm giving up on you.
now I'm giving up on you.
I'm sorry but the choice is mine.
Not like last time.
You took me down to the ground.
Kicked and spat at me in my rigid face.
Oh how I wish it would have erased every thought of you.
But the heart drifts and the mind wonders.
That becomes our number one blunder.
A calamity marked by thunder.
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
A loss is a loss.
No matter how you word it.
Put it in a big captions on it if you want.
You have become so distant.
An after thought of things from the past and things that didn't last.
It wasn't that I took things to fast.
As embers burns slow after the flames die down.
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
Ashes float down like rain.
These are my memories of you.
These were my promises broken and stolen.
As if I could be that super man.
Super human abilities that melt you away.
So sorry but that just not me.
You say you loved me.
I say when I must of miss it.
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
And now I'm giving up on you
And now I'm giving up on you
And now I'm giving up on you
And I can no longer afford to waste time.
Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.
So just let it all burn.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Solvitur acris Hiems
Youth, that went, is come again,
Youth, for which we all were fain;
With soft pleasure and sweet pain
In each nerve and every vein,
Circling through the heart and brain,
Whence and wherefore come again?
Eva, tell me!
Dead and buried when we thought him,
Who the magic spell hath taught him?
Who the strong elixir brought him?
Dead and buried as we thought,
Lo! unasked for and unsought
Comes he, shall it be for nought?
Eva, tell me!
Youth that lifeless long had lain,
Youth that long we longed in vain for,
Used to grumble and complain for,
Thought at last to entertain
A decorous cool disdain for,
On a sudden see again
Comes, but will not long remain,
Comes, with whom too in his train,
Comes, and shall it be in vain?
Eva, tell me!
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Henry Halloran
YOU KNOW I left my forest home full loth,
And those weird ways I knew so well and long,
Dishevelled with their sloping sidelong growth
Of twisted thorn and kurrajong.
It seems to me, my friend (and this wild thought
Of all wild thoughts, doth chiefly make me bleed),
That in those hills and valleys wonder-fraught,
I loved and lost a noble creed.
A splendid creed! But let me even turn
And hide myself from what I’ve seen, and try
To fathom certain truths you know, and learn
The Beauty shining in your sky:
Remembering you in ardent autumn nights,
And Stenhouse near you, like a fine stray guest
Of other days, with all his lore of lights
So manifold and manifest!
Then hold me firm. I cannot choose but long
For that which lies and burns beyond my reach,
Suggested in your steadfast, subtle song
And his most marvellous speech!
For now my soul goes drifting back again,
Ay, drifting, drifting, like the silent snow
While scattered sheddings, in a fall of rain,
Revive the dear lost Long Ago!
The time I, loitering by untrodden fens,
Intent upon low-hanging lustrous skies,
Heard mellowed psalms from sounding southern glens—
Euroma, dear to dreaming eyes!
And caught seductive tokens of a voice
Half maddened with the dim, delirious themes
Of perfect Love, and the immortal choice
Of starry faces—Astral dreams!
That last was yours! And if you sometimes find
An alien darkness on the front of things,
Sing none the less for Life, nor fall behind,
Like me, with trailing, tired wings!
Yea, though the heavy Earth wears sackcloth now
Because she hath the great prophetic grief
Which makes me set my face one way, and bow
And falter for a far belief,
Be faithful yet for all, my brave bright peer,
In that rare light you hold so true and good;
And find me something clearer than the clear
White spaces of Infinitude.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Villanelle of the Poet's Road
Wine and woman and song,
Three things garnish our way:
Yet is day over long.
Lest we do our youth wrong,
Gather them while we may:
Wine and woman and song.
Three things render us strong,
Vine leaves, kisses and bay:
Yet is day over long.
Unto us they belong,
Us the bitter and gay,
Wine and women and song.
We, as we pass along,
Are sad that they will not stay;
Yet is day over long.
Fruits and flowers among,
What is better than they:
Wine and women and song?
Yet is day over long.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Princess And The Page
There is a legend—you have read it—
Of a fair page whom evil spells
Held in deep sleep; and men of credit
Tried all in vain, the story tells,
Week after week, by night and noon,
To wake him from his sombre swoon.
Till one, more knowing than the others,
Took counsel of the stars, and said:
'We may not rouse this youth, my brothers;
But if the queen will bow her head
And kiss him on the lips, his soul
Straight shall escape the fiend's control.'
'Then he must perish !' in loud chorus
The learned men lamenting cried;
'Better to let him die before us
Than see our queen abase her pride
And shame her fame from north to south,
Kissing a page upon the mouth.'
And so in sorrow they departed
And through the travelled highways passed.
But the strange news their story started
Filled all the land, and reached at last
The crowded hall where sate alone
The fair young monarch on her throne.
And she, being royal, rose in beauty
Like dawn over a leafy hill.
'Would you then teach your queen her duty?—
Now lead me forth to do God's will.
Know, were this youth my meanest slave,
He should not die whom I could save.'
So forth they led her through the palace,
Beyond the park and past the gate,
Silent as when a sacred chalice
Uplifts the rich wine consecrate.
In royal pomp of robe and crown
Through field and wood they led her down.
There in a mossy glade lay sleeping
A youth so beautiful, 'tis said,
That the still trees were softly keeping
A solemn vigil round his bed;
And the birds sang sweet lullabies,
Fearing lest he should wake and rise.
Then silken-vestured lords and ladies
Circled him like a garland there,
Thinking, 'Thrice blest our royal maid is
To kiss to life a thing so fair.'
And many a damsel envied her,
Feeling the aching pulses stir.
Simply, divinely, like one praying,
The crowned queen passed their shadowed eyes,
And knelt beside the youth, and saying,
'Now in God's name I bid thee rise,'
She bowed and kissed the parted lips,
Like a white cloud that moonward dips.
And as she rose the pale lids lifted
Over his dark eyes veiled and drowned,
That slowly back to being drifted
And in her gaze their refuge found.
Then slowly, bold with rapture sweet,
He turned and sank before her feet.
'Give me thy love—I love thee only!'—
The bold words fluttered like a song.
'Thy love!' and from her station lonely
The young queen heard and took no wrong,
But lifted one white hand to still
Murmurs that dared rebuke her will.
'Blest is thy love, so freely given,
As all things freely given are blest.
Yea, not in vain thy soul hath striven
Even though I grant not thy behest.
Over the hills, across the sea,
The prince comes who my lord shall be.'
'Over the hills, across the ocean—'
The bowed youth echoed, murmuring:
Then rose, reeling with dark emotion,
And striving to his dream to cling.
'Nay, if thou love me not, ah why
Didst thou not leave me here to die?'
'Now, by my crown, thou art not noble
But basely born,' the queen made moan.
'Do penance for thy words ignoble—
Life is not given for love alone.
Oh, purge thee in Christ's altar-flame,
And go to battle in His name.'
So saying, from the forest hoary
She passed, with all who marvelled there;
Nor once gazed back—so runs the story—
To see him on his knees in prayer.
But all this came to pass, they say,
Long, long ago, and far away.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Currency Lass
THEY marshalled her lovers four and four,
A drum at their heads, in the days of old:
O, none could have guessed their hearts were sore;
They marched with such gayness in scarlet and gold.
They came to the dance place on the hill
Where Death was the piper (he pipes full well);
They grounded their arms and stood stock-still;
And just why he sorrowed no one would tell.
O, some had been wed in distant lands,
And sweethearts had others — but let that pass;
She held them at ease in snow-white hands,
For Queen over all was the Currency Lass.
They ushered her forth in all her charms —
Her eyes were alight and as gold her hair;
She looked on the men and oped her arms —
What wonder if then they had wished them there?
She hearkened the Preacher, thin and pale;
His voice was as frost, yet his words were wise;
But sin on the soul is like wrought mail,
And only a scorn of him fired her eyes.
'O sorrow and pray, the hour draws nigh,
The Lord in His justice shall question thee!'
The Preacher made prayer 'twixt sob and sigh,
And down dropped his soul on bended knee.
'He fashioned thee fair' — a sideways look —
'Red-lipped and right royal to look upon,
A joy of the Earth' — his thin hands shook,
And passionate lights in his deep eyes shone.
In scarlet and gold her lovers stood,
A host under famine with heads out-thrust;
Keen-flamed in the sun ran reddest blood,
And lips that were thirsty grew dry as dust.
They loved her for years — their tangled souls
Like silvery fish in her beauty-mesh
All breathless reposed . . .A dull drum rolls,
And Death is at hand for the Flower of Flesh.
She lifted her head for one love-word
(Afar was a clamour of new-come ships);
Her hair in a cloud the low wind stirred,
And silent they marvelled at her red lips.
'A lover was I from youth,' she said;
'And Love is my lord till I fill the grave' —
Then coyly she drooped her gold-haired head —
'Now, last of my lovers, a kiss I crave!'
The Preacher was whirled in passion's rout,
And dark was the stain on his soul's white snow;
Her lips were as life — his soul leapt out,
And sure there was laughter in Hell below.
'A singer was I these years,' she said,
'And so I must sing till my soul doth pass.'
Then forth from her sin-sweet lips there sped
The long-dead song of the Currency Lass.
The hands of the spoiler touch her throat;
The noon grows near and the last sands run:
(Still over the scene her wild words float)
The noose is ready, the song is done.
'A dancer I was from birth,' she said;
'A baby, I danced on my mother's knee;
Now whistle a jig, with swaying head,
And, lovers of mine, I will dance for ye!'
Stood each with a droop, a cheated man,
While Sorrow went weaving an ice-cold spell . . .
Good-bye to the world! The dance began
With Death for the piper — he piped full well!
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Enticement in marble
I'm standing here watching;
watching you, watching me,
noticing your silky, auburn hair.
You stroked my bottom once,
I saw you smile twice
and you thought it very sensual,
you confessed.
My body's made of marble,
my eyes are marble too.
My father, he who sculpted me
was human just like you.
He was of the flesh
and knew its potent pleasures
I'll never know warm skin
with all its sacred treasures.
Come a little closer
place a kiss upon my brow
let's pretend we're lovers
and can smooch upon a couch.
I would hold your hand,
so warm and soft and kind.
Come, come a little closer
let's pretend, just for a while.
This museum soon is closing,
the weather's cold outside,
kiss me quick my darling,
we have such little time.
She placed her lips upon him
and kissed his stony mouth
and as she did it warmed him
and a tear fell to the ground.
Now they stand together
within the great hall there,
entwined in love forever
all beautiful and fair.
No one seems to notice,
they gaze but they don't see,
there are two marble statues
where only one should be.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The Day of Hope
THE days of absence and the bitter nights
Of separation, all are at an end!
Where is the influence of the star that blights
My hope? The omen answers: At an end!
Autumn's abundance, creeping Autumn's mirth,
Are ended and forgot when o'er the earth
The wind of Spring with soft warm feet doth wend.
The Day of Hope, hid beneath Sorrow's veil,
Has shown its face--ah, cry that all may hear:
Come forth! the powers of night no more prevail!
Praise be to God, now that the rose is near
With long-desired and flaming coronet,
The cruel stinging thorns all men forget,
The wind of Winter ends its proud career.
The long confusion of the nights that were,
Anguish that dwelt within my heart, is o'er;
'Neath the protection of my lady's hair
Grief nor disquiet come to me no more.
What though her curls wrought all my misery,
My lady's gracious face can comfort me,
And at the end give what I sorrow for.
Light-hearted to the tavern let me go,
Where laughs the pipe, the merry cymbals kiss;
Under the history of all my woe,
My mistress sets her hand and writes: Finis.
Oh, linger not, nor trust the inconstant days
That promised: Where thou art thy lady stays--
The tale of separation ends with this!
Joy's certain path, oh Saki, thou hast shown--
Long may thy cup be full, thy days be fair!
Trouble and sickness from my breast have flown,
Order and health thy wisdom marshals there.
Not one that numbered Hafiz' name among
The great-unnumbered were his tears, unsung;
Praise him that sets an end to endless care!
poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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