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A Genius caged in niceties of art;
A full-souled Bard that should have thought apart,
Creatively peculiar—not as taught
By models which (though rare and richly wrought,
As polished jewels set in chastened gold)
Have lost at length their birth-fire, and are cold.
Yet how shot through with beauty are the Lays
His nice hand fashioned for the after days!
Painting and Sculpture in his verse combine
With Poesy; and breathing through each line
In harmonised transfusion, they dispense
The spirit of a triune excellence.
poem by Charles Harpur
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The Genius of Painting
ADDRESSED TO D——M——
The Genius of Painting one summer eve stray'd,
In a moment of leisure, to Flora's bright bower,
Where, scatter'd around, by the hand of the maid,
In the richest profusion, bloom'd many a flower.
“Oh, see,” Flora cried, as the Genius drew nigh,
“What an Eden of beauty is blossoming here!
But yet”—and a tear-drop stood bright in her eye,—
“How soon will its loveliness all disappear!
“Oh Genius! bid them still live in your art,
And my gratitude well shall your kindness repay;
To some favour'd mortal your spirit impart,
And teach him to rescue my flowers from decay.”
Behold I have rear'd, in my favourite bower,
A shrine, and an altar, dear Painting, for you;
And there will I offer each loveliest flower,
As often as morning their sweets shall renew.”
“Many thanks, dearest Flora!” the Genius cried,
“Though many an altar and temple is mine,
That with richer and costlier gifts are supplied,
Yet none of them all shall be dearer than thine.
“I will gift with my spirit whoever you will,
Yet choose not, dear Flora, the renegade man;
For the ingrate from you will be wandering still,
O'er fields more extended and varied to scan.”
At this instant, a maiden drew near to the bower,
And Flora's own fondness beam'd soft from her eye,
As with rapture she hung o'er each beautiful flower,
Or heaved o'er the dying a tremulous sigh.
Flora turn'd on the Genius a smile of delight—
“There, Painting,” she cried, “is my favourite maid!
Infuse in her bosom your genius bright,
And soon shall your altar be richly array'd.”
“On that maid, then,” said he, “shall my spirit descend,
A bright, and unfading, and beautiful gem;
The young favourite of Flora my shrine shall attend,
And the priestess of painting shall still be D. M.”
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wordsworth
LOFTY and strenuous of sentiment
But narrow and partial in its scope and bent,
And thence the bigot of a local set
Of habitudes, meshed round him like a net.
Hence too his intellect, though large it be
By nature, hath one prime deficiency,—
Of moral difference that broad view which leads
The steps of thought beyond the snares of creeds
And circles of opinion, whether they
Be of the Old Time or of yesterday.
Hence too his narrow bias, I suspect,
Even in poesy to attempt a sect.
Still as a Poet he is great and rare,
A King of Thought upon the peak of bare
And rigid majesty, for power immense
Enthroned for ever! And in spirit thence,—
Thence let him waft us on a white-wing’d dream
Within the murmur of some profluent stream,
And there, just whither a dim line of brakes
In the remotest haze of distance shakes,
On his lone rounds let Peter Bell be seen,—
Seen o’er the White Doe on the herbage green
Heard breathing where she lies, and near her there
“The oldest seeming man that ever wore grey hair.”
Then shall we find him verily a Seer
Of Nature’s myst’ries, simple and severe.
With what a plenitude of pure delight
He triumphs on the mountain’s cloudy height,
With what a gleeful harmony of joy
He wanders down the vale “as happy as a boy!”
How in his verse, each picture-pregnant phrase
Full to the eye some given shape conveys,
And thus though in the jarring city pent
Through him we reach the country and content.
Fond Memory apprehends with gladdened eyes
All that is richest in each wilding’s dyes
As blending with the beauty and the grace
Of some bright advent of our happier days—
Hears through the sway of greenest boughs, as heard
Even then, the far voice of some favourite bird,
The murmurous industry of bees, the low
Responsive throbs of Echo throbbing slow
Out of some lonely dell, as to the tread
Of our own feet in days for ever fled!
Then of some brook that gushes in his lines
Glad Fancy drinks or on the bank reclines,
While of far cloud, grey rock and ancient tree
The dusky shadows on the page we see:
Yea, the air sweetens as the spells prevail
And our locks seem to wave as in a mountain gale!
Still there remains to tell the charm serene
Wherewith this Bard most sanctifies the scene:
’Tis that with eyes of love he’s quick to find
In all its forms meet ministers of Mind
And that with the rare wealth of his own heart
As with a golden chain he interlinks each part.
But vainly the fond spirit of youth may look
For its peculiar food in Wordsworth’s book,
Where Passion is but introduced to wear
A vestal’s tenderness, demure as fair:
Not as to see it the new soul desires,
In all the splendour of its tragic fires,
Or, at the least, in all the bright distress
And rosy beauty of its wilfulness!
poem by Charles Harpur
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Records of Romantic Passion
THERE’S a rare Soul of Poesy which may be
But concentrated by the chastened dreams
Of constant hearts. Where’er the ministry
Of beautiful Nature hath enhanced the themes
Of some Petrarchian mind whose story gleams
Within the Past like a moon-silvered sea,
Or where grey Interest the spirit free
Of faithful Love hath caged in iron schemes,
Or round it stirr’d such dangers as o’erdrove
Long Ruin’s storm at last—there evermore
The very airs that whisper to the grove,
The echo’s mystery and the streamlet’s lore
Savour of Passion and transfusive pour
Abroad suggestions to heroic Love.
poem by Charles Harpur
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The Nevers of Poetry
Never say aught in verse, or grave or gay,
That you in prose would hesitate to say.
Never in rhyme pretend to tears, unless
True feeling sheds them in unfeigned distress;
Or some dream-grief, with such a mournful strain
As night winds make in pine tops, stirs your brain,
To shake them, dew-like, o’er the flowers that bloom
In the wild dark, round Joy’s imagined tomb;
Or save when doubts that over Love may lower,
Like summer clouds, break in a sunny shower
Out of your gladdened eyes, to freshen all
The bowers of memory with their grateful fall.
Never too much affect that polished thing—
Once belauded—known as point, or sting.
The highest and the noblest growths of wit
Are never, or but seldom, touched with it.
For of the muse it is not truly born
Unless the apex of some burst of scorn,
Or irony, or hate all torture-torn!
Not to increase the passion, but to make
The wave, full surging, on its object break.
Never, if you’d be readable at all,
Aim overmuch at being ethical.
Though she should be a teacher, still the Muse
To be a mere schoolmistress should refuse.
She should instruct us, but her methods never
Be academic ones, however clever.
Her morals, like great nature’s morals, aye
Should work themselves out in an unforced way,
And not so patly as to hint the while
At cryptic ingenuities of style.
Whate’er the theme, her ethic lights should shine
Full forth, as from a central heat divine,
Or heat inherent to the passion, wrought
Into the chastened harmony of thought;
And not be mere extraneous coals of fire
Blown for the nonce into factitious ire.
Though sone has oft some beauty most divine,
Which well we feel, yet cannot well define—
Some yearning excellence, intense and far,
Coming and going like a clouded star—
Some awful glory we but half descry,
Like a strong sunset in a stormy sky—
Yet ne’er be murky of set purpose, since
You only thereby shall the more evince
That even the Sublime’s but then made sure
When, like a morning alp, it breaks from the obscure.
Never heed whether a line strictly goes
By learned rule, if, brook-like, it warble as it flows,
Or if, in concord with the thought, it fills
Fast forward, like a torrent fast flooding from the hills.
Never say aught is “fading like a star”
Because receding in the past afar,
Since stars do not fade, but shine on no less,
Thought lost in light to our weaksightedness;
And no true trope should ever rest on fancy,
But claim a universal relevancy;
Nor think a line is racy to the core,
And bold, and bravely eloquent, the more
It striving seems to tear itself asunder,
Like this—“Down there i’ the deep heart o’ the thunder,”
But for which, surely (out of chaos), none
Might feign to find a sanction, save in fun.
Never think harshness the best foil to raise
And relish sweetness; for love craggy lays.
Yet never be you glib, when passion’s force
Should ridge your style, as by a tempest hoarse
The deep is roughened into waves that roar
At heaven—upheaping, huddling, more and more,
To burst at last in booming thunder on the shore.
Never be such a pagan as to deem
That truth or beauty must diviner seem
For some abnormal set-off, hunched and rude,
Prowling for evil in the neighbourhood,
If such strange opposite breathe not the air
Of nature—being found, not conjured there;
And never to be graceless be you fain,
Till to be graceful you have tried in vain.
Never be cheated—never may you be!—
Into the cramp belief that poesy
Must of necessity in soul be one
With the mere form of verse if it but deftly run;
Or pour, as with a mill-wheel’s vigorous cheer,
A rhyming clatter hard upon the ear.
Never believe that verse a license knows
For aught that would be balderdash in prose,
Or that all reason may at any time
Find a sufficient substitute in rhyme;
Or that because with many words you re fraught,
There must be under them some flood of thought.
Never compel a simile that wont
Take service without forcing; if it don t,
As of itself, into your verses flow,
But true to liberty—and let it go.
Never reject a homely-sounding phrase,
That your whole meaning easily conveys,
For one made current by some courtly wit
Which barely indicates a shade of it,
Or which—for probably it so may fall—
Does not express what you would mean at all.
Never suppose that you in song are free
To strain all praise, and make it flattery.
To sing of the heroic is to raise
One value by another—but to praise
Mere clowns, in verse, or natures lean and cold,
Is like to setting gravel stones in gold.
Never exalt vagaries to a station
But due to flights of the imagination—
Gas-charged balloons, put vainly all a-bloat,
For clouds of God that in the orient float;
Theatric thunders, all set brattling for
The dread all-shaking tempest-trumps of Thor;
For in the end all charlatanry must,
The more it startle, but the more disgust.
And lastly, never take for gospel all
Your friends say of your genius, when they call
Its merits o’er; but at the same time see
That you do never take yourself to be
So great an ass as your known foes declare
They do most solemnly believe you are.
[Each embryo poet, profit by my strain!
Then shall men say, “He has not lived in vain! ”]
poem by Charles Harpur
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Beauty Lies On The Shore Of Disgust.
Beauty,
Thunder is beauty
The lightning is beauty,
More than I can imagine
Beauty has rest
It resides along the shores of disgust
Love is beauty
Enough, it will one day bring back
What is lost at shore.
Curse thy beauty
For it is more grand than thou
I crave for a sound of the beauty I can hear
I will never understand
I still wish
To contemplate what beauty would once contemplate
To see it alive, breathing
Breeding, spreading
This of it was once rare as it exceeds
Living amongst this life
A world full of un-needingness
Please as I pleade for a life
I wish to breathe
Amongst the feeling of beauty
The rare of it’s occasion
Hanging on a wall
Jumping from a floor
Dancing in the light
I wish that beauty would live
Beauty can not be one in the deceased
Mearly waiting and suspended along
Shores of that which is disgust.
poem by Liam McColl
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Gratitude
I thank thee, friend, for the beautiful thought
That in words well chosen thou gavest to me,
Deep in the life of my soul it has wrought
With its own rare essence to ever imbue me,
To gleam like a star over devious ways,
To bloom like a flower on the drearest days
Better such gift from thee to me
Than gold of the hills or pearls of the sea.
For the luster of jewels and gold may depart,
And they have in them no life of the giver,
But this gracious gift from thy heart to my heart
Shall witness to me of thy love forever;
Yea, it shall always abide with me
As a part of my immortality;
For a beautiful thought is a thing divine,
So I thank thee, oh, friend, for this gift of thine.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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A Fireside Vision
ONCE I walked the world enchanted
Through the scented woods of spring,
Hand in hand with Love, in rapture
Just to hear a bluebird sing.
Now the lonely winds of autumn
Moan about my gusty eaves,
As I sit beside the fire
Listening to the flying leaves.
As the dying embers settle
And the twilight falls apace,
Through the gloom I see a vision
Full of ardor, full of grace.
When the Architect of Beauty
Breathed the lyric soul in man,
Lo, the being that he fashioned
Was of such a mould and plan!
Bravely through the deepening shadows
Moves that figure half divine,
With its tenderness of bearing,
With its dignity of line.
Eyes more wonderful than evening.
With the new moon on the hill,
Mouth with traces of God's humor
In its corners lurking still.
Ah, she smiles, in recollection;
Lays a hand upon my brow;
Rests this head upon Love's bosom!
Surely it is April now!
poem by Bliss William Carman
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Fire and Gold
Fire is gold aflame
Gold is fire solidified
Fire and gold gold and fire
Bring about the sunset of the Indian summer
I presume it caught the eyes of the blind bard
Who created his Helen from its effulgence
No wonder Euripedes hid her in fire
Because privacy of glorious light was her
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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True Structure of the Sonnet Should Be Observ'd by Authors of Genius Who Thus Entitle Their Poem
Ye, whose aspirings court the Muse of lays
'Severest of those orders which belong
Distinct and separate to Delphic song'
Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze?
Or why its name, boast of Petrarcan days,
Assume, its rules disown'd?-whom from the throng
The Muse selects, their ear the charm obeys
Of its full harmony:-they fear to wrong
The sonnet by adorning with a name
Of that distinguisht import, lays, though sweet,
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet
Of that so varied and peculiar frame.
O think, to vindicate its genuine praise
Those it becomes whose lyre a favoring impulse sways.
poem by Capel Lofft
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Put Out The Fire
Words and music by brian may
They called him a hero
In the land of the free
But he wouldnt shake my hand boy
He disappointed me
So I got my hand gun
And I blew him away
That critter was a bad guy
And I had to make him pay
You might fear for my reason
I dont care what they say
Look out baby its the season
For the mad masquerade
Put out the fire put out the fire put out the fire
Oh you need a bullet like a hole in the head
Put out the fire put out the fire put out the fire
Dont believe what your grand-daddy said
She was my lover
It was a shame that she died
But the constitutions right on my side
cause I caught my lover in the neighbours bed
I got retribution
Filled em all full of lead
Ive been told its the fashion
To let me on the streets again
Its nothing but a crime of passion
And Im not to blame
Put out the fire put out the fire put out the fire
You need a weapon like a hole in the head
Put out the fire put out the fire baby put out the fire
And let your sons and daughters sleep sound in their beds
You know a gun never killed nobody
You can ask anyone
People get shot by people
People with guns
Put out the fire put out the fire put out the fire
You need a gun like a hole in the head
Put out the fire put out the fire put out the fire
Just tell me that old fashioned gun law is dead
Shoot shoot..
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bryant
Like the ancient Grecian marbles,
Is his soul with beauty fraught,
And as polished and enduring
Is the sculpture of his thought.
In the Pantheon of our country,
The Valhalla of her fame,
On the record of her poets,
First of all is traced his name.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fiery Love
I stare into the fire
it signifies my desire
leaping creeping and all red flames,
fire,
and its beauty hypnotizing,
fire
and its flames uprising.
sparks showering in the night,
feeding fires of lesser might,
fire feeding on life and air,
fire that lays landscapes bare,
fire that warms the heart and soul,
fire that drives away the cold,
fire thats as hot as the heat within,
fire that seeks to erase my sin,
fire promises of days to come,
fire that will unite us as one,
and then I pray for the same desire
will sometimes too ignite your fire,
two lovers burning
consumed with flames,
the ashes of their love
ignite again and again
poem by Arti Chopra
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A Sun So Fair
The rocks stored up sun
For so long, and so long;
In their rocky hearts
Since time’s begun.
Tumbled and polished;
So rare, so rare-
They could tell a tale
From when we weren't there.
I'm saving these rocks
Born before earth,
Pieces of mantle
That gave me birth.
There's sun in my bones,
And sun in my hair-
Rock crystals- and beauty-
From a sun, so fair
poem by Patti Masterman
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Books
Oh! Bury me in books when I am dead,
Fair quarto leaves of ivory and gold,
And silk octavos, bound in brown and red,
That tales of love and chivalry unfold.
Heap me in volumes of fine vellum wrought,
Creamed with the close content of silent speech;
Wrap me in sapphire tapestries of thought
From some old epic out of common reach.
I would my shroud were verse-embroidered too---
Your verse for preference—in starry stitch,
And powdered o’er with rhymes that poets woo,
Breathing dream-lyrics in moon-measures rich.
Night holds me with a horror of the grave
That knows not poetry, nor song, nor you;
Nor leaves of love that down the ages weave
Romance and fire in burnished cloths of blue.
Oh, bury me in books, and I’ll not mind
The cold, slow worms that coil around my head;
Since my lone soul may turn the page and find
The lines you wrote to me, when I am dead.
poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
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Hesperides
If thy soul, Herrick, dwelt with me,
This is what my songs would be:
Hints of our sea-breezes, blent
With odors from the Orient;
Indian vessels deep with spice;
Star-showers from the Norland ice;
Wine-red jewels that seem to hold
Fire, but only burn with cold;
Antique goblets, strangely wrought,
Filled with the wine of happy thought,
Bridal measure, vain regrets,
Laburnum buds and violets;
Hopeful as the break of day;
Clear as crystal; new as May;
Musical as brooks that run
O'er yellow shallows in the sun;
Soft as the satin fringe that shades
The eyelids of thy Devon maids;
Brief as thy lyrics, Herrick, are,
And polished as the bosom of a star.
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Fire & Rain
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just cant remember who to send it to
Ive seen fire and Ive seen rain
Ive seen sunny days that I thought would never end
Ive seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that Id see you again
Wont you look down upon me, jesus
Youve got to help me make a stand
Youve just got to see me through another day
My bodys aching and my time is at hand
And I wont make it any other way
Oh, Ive seen fire and Ive seen rain
Ive seen sunny days that I thought would never end
Ive seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that Id see you again
Been walking my mind to an easy time my back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows itll turn your head around
Well, theres hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things
To come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground
Oh, Ive seen fire and Ive seen rain
Ive seen sunny days that I thought would never end
Ive seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that Id see you, baby, one more time again, now
Thought Id see you one more time again
Theres just a few things coming my way this time around, now
Thought Id see you, thought Id see you fire and rain, now
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fire And Rain
(Taylor)
Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone.
Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you.
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song, I just can't remember who to send it to.
I've seen fire and I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end.
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,
but I always thought that I'd see you again.
Won't you look down upon me, Jesus? You gotta help me make a stand,
you just got to see me through another day.
My body's aching and my time is at hand, and I won't make it any other way.
I've seen fire and I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end.
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,
but I always thought that I'd see you again.
I've been walking my mind to an easy time, my back turned towards the sun.
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around.
But there's hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things to come,
sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.
I've seen fire and I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end.
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,
but I always thought that I'd see you again.
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fire And Rain
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Suzanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this mornin' and I wrote down this song
I just can't remember who to send it to
[chorus]
I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
Won't you like down upon me Jesus
You gotta help me make a stand
You just got to see me through another day
My body's achin'and my time is at hand
I won't make it any other way
[chorus]
I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
Been walkin' my mind to an easy time
My back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around
Well there's hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things to come
Sweet dreams and fine machines in pieces on the ground
[chorus]
Oh I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you baby, one more time again
Thought I'd see you one more time again
There's just a few things comin' my way this time around
Thought I'd see, thought I'd see you...
song performed by by Isley Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Introit : V. Litany Of Beauty
Joy, if the Soul or aught immortal be,
How may this Beauty know mortality?
O Beauty, perfect child of Light,
Sempiternal spirit of delight!
White and set with gold like the gold of the night,
The gold of the stars in quiet weather,--
White and shapely and pure!--
O lily-flower from stain secure,
With life and virginity dying together!
One lily liveth so,
Liveth for ever unstained, immortal, a mystic flower:
Perfectly wrought its frame,
Gold inwrought and eternal white,
White more white than cold of the snow,
For never, never, near it came,
Never shall come till the end of all,
Hurtful thing in wind or shower,
Worm or stain or blight;
But ever, ever, gently fall
The dews elysian of years that flow
Where it doth live secure
In flawless comeliness mature,
Golden and white and pure.
In the fair far-shining glow
Of eternal and holy Light.
Beauty of earthly things
Wrought by God and with hands of men!
Beauty of Nature and Art,
Fashioned anew for each Time brings,
For each new soul and living heart!
Beauty of Beauty that fills the ken
Till the soul is swooning, faint with delight!
Beauty of human form and voice,
Of eyes and ears and lips!--
O golden hair and brow of white!--
Wine of Beauty that whoso sips
Doth die to a spirit free, and rejoice,
Living with God and living with men,
Rapt rejoice in eternal bliss,
Raising his face to meet the kiss
Of the Beauty seraphic he sees above
In figure of his love.
O Beauty of Wisdom unsought
That in trance to poet is taught,
Uttered in secret lay,
Singing the heart from earth away,
Cunning the soul from care to lure,--
O mystic lily, from stain and death secure,
Till the end of all to stay!
O shapely flower that must for ever endure!
O voice of God that every heart must hear!
O hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere
The ravished soul that hears! O white, white gem!
O rose that dost the senses drown in bliss!
No thought shall stay the wing, or stem
The song or win the heart to miss
Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine!
O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine
The soul, the heart, the brain,
To own three in a loud perpetual strain,
Shriller and sweeter than song of wine,
Than song of sorrow or love or war!
Beauty of heaven and sun and day,
Beauty of water and frost and star,
Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey!
Beauty of silver light,
Beauty of purple night,
Beauty of solemn breath,
Beauty of closèd eye, and sleep, and death!
Beauty of dawn and dew,
Beauty of morning peace,
Ever ancient and ever new,
Ever renewed till waking cease
Or sleep for ever, when loud the angel's word
Through all the world is heard!
Beauty of brute and bird,
Beauty of earthly creatures
Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred!
Beauty of the soul,
Beauty informing forms and features,
Fairest to God's eye,--
Beauty that cannot fade or die
Though atoms to ruin roll!
Beauty of blinded Trust,
Led by the hand of God
To a heaven where Cherub hath never trod!
Austere Beauty of Truth
Lighting the way of the just!
Splendid Beauty of Youth
Staying when Youth is sped,
Living when Life is dead,
Burning in funeral dust!
The glory of form doth pale and pall,
Beauty endures to the end of all.
poem by Thomas MacDonagh
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Brooke
I dream of beauty, an image of such wonderful beauty.
No garden of roses could match the beauty I see.
No sculpture, no painting could capture such beauty.
Only the angels in heaven above could have greater.
But the beauty I dream of is not a dream. You are the beauty I see.
An earthy angel do I see, made from heaven above,
Wishing she was just for me.
poem by Anon Y. Mous
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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