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Ode--'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune

Now the 'rosy morn appearing'
Floods with light the dazzled heaven;
And the schoolboy groans on hearing
That eternal clock strike seven:-
Now the waggoner is driving
Towards the fields his clattering wain;
Now the bluebottle, reviving,
Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful:
Wearily I stretch my legs,
Dress, and settle to my plateful
Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.
Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,
Mentioned 'rent,' which 'p'raps I'd pay;'
And I have a dismal presage
That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,
Smoked through silver-mounted pipes -
Then how my patrician nose would
Turn up at the thought of 'swipes!'
Ale,--occasionally claret, -
Graced my luncheon then:- and now
I drink porter in a garret,
To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened,
And I doff my hat and gloves,
No sweet bird is there to 'cheep and
Twitter twenty million loves:'
No dark-ringleted canaries
Sing to me of 'hungry foam;'
No imaginary 'Marys'
Call fictitious 'cattle home.'

Araminta, sweetest, fairest!
Solace once of every ill!
How I wonder if thou bearest
Mivins in remembrance still!
If that Friday night is banished
Yet from that retentive mind,
When the others somehow vanished,
And we two were left behind:-

When in accents low, yet thrilling,
I did all my love declare;
Mentioned that I'd not a shilling -
Hinted that we need not care:
And complacently you listened
To my somewhat long address -
(Listening, at the same time, isn't
Quite the same as saying Yes).

Once, a happy child, I carolled
O'er green lawns the whole day through,
Not unpleasingly apparelled
In a tightish suit of blue:-
What a change has now passed o'er me!
Now with what dismay I see
Every rising morn before me!
Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara,
Through the world, as prowls the bat,
And habitually wear a
Cypress wreath around my hat:
And when Death snuffs out the taper
Of my Life, (as soon he must),
I'll send up to every paper,
'Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.'

poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet and the Dun

'These are messengers
That feelingly persuade me what I am.' -Shakspeare.

Comes a dun in the morning and raps at my door-
'I made bold to call-'tis a twelvemonth and more-
I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, sir-
But Job would be paid, sir, had Job been a mercer.'
My friend, have but patience-'Ay, these are your ways.'
I have got but one shilling to serve me two days-
But, sir-prithee take it, and tell your attorney,
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion,
And calmly consider-consider? vexation!
What whore that must paint, and must put on false locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox?
What beggar's wife's nephew, now starved, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten?
What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard?
Or what Dun boast of patience that thinks of a Bard?
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poorer,
Turn shoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and respect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun some poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of course will grow better.
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter:
'Dear Sir! I received your obliging epistle;
Your fame is secure-bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you sent me,
And I must speak your praises, no soul shall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cried out, every line
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide such a genius was-far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir Richard, for much a less genius, was knighted:
Adieu, my good friend! and for high life prepare ye;
I could say much more, but you're modest, I spare ye.'
Quite fired with the flattery, I call for my paper,
And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper;
I scribble till morn, when, with wrath no small store,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
'Ah, Friend! 'tis but idle to make such a pother;
Fate, Fate has ordain'd us to plague one another.'

poem by William Shenstone
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Heaven Sent

Your eyes are like deep wells of desire
Once in your arms Im on fire
You were sent girl so perfectly true
Changing my life
Now Im a survivor
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
Late at night when the evening fire has died
Theres a look in your eye
Seductive images fly
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
One day youll see what angels can see
Dressed in black if she comes back
I think Ill lose my mind
Tuesday she works
In the library uptown
Some useful knowledge
Can always be found
Dont burn the library
Till youve read all the books
Sometimes in life
You get a second look
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
Heaven sent
Thats what I call you
Heaven sent
Heaven sent
Heaven sent
Heaven sent
Heaven sent

song performed by by INXS
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Year In Heaven

One year in heaven,
One year you've been there,
So far away,
Someday I'll see you in the air,
One year in heaven,
I miss you so much,
Smile down upon me,
And show me your love.

One year in heaven,
It seems like so long,
Since the last time I saw you,
And then you were gone,
One year in heaven,
You left earth to soon,
But I know they need you,
More then I do,

One year in heaven,
I'm alone on the earth,
I miss your sweet kisses,
And all that you're worth,
One year in heaven,
Is God really there?
Why did he take you,
As I cried in despair.

One year in heaven,
I still see your face,
The day that you took,
The last breath you would take,
One year in heaven,
Why did you die,
I know God needed you,
But still I cry.

One year in heaven,
Soon I'll be there,
So wait by the gate,
Please, this do swear,
One year in heaven,
To me it is long,
But you have no pain,
From this earth you have gone.

One year in heaven,
It's so hard to move on,
I'll send you a prayer,
And sing you a song,
One year in heaven,
Life's not the same,
Since you left this world,
I'm living in a daze.

One year in heaven,
You watch from above,
Sit there and smile,
And send me your love,
One year in heaven,
You may think it's just a day,
But this world is so different,
Since God took you away

poem by Michele Weston
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Complaint On The Miseries Of Life

I loathe, O Lord, this life below,
And all its fading fleeting joys;
'Tis a short space that's fill'd with woe,
Which all our bliss by far outweighs.
When will the everlasting morn
With dawning light the skies adorn?
Fitly this life's compared to night,
When gloomy darkness shades the sky;
Just like the morn's our glimmering light
Reflected from the Deity.
When will celestial morn dispel
These dark surrounding shades of hell?
I'm sick of this vexatious state,
Where cares invade my peaceful hours;
Strike the last blow, O courteous fate,
I'll smiling fall like mowed flowers;
I'll gladly spurn this clogging clay,
And, sweetly singing, soar away.
What's money but refined dust?
What's honours but an empty name?
And what is soft enticing lust,
But a consuming idle flame?
Yea, what is all beneath the sky
But emptiness and vanity?
With thousand ills our life's oppress'd,
There's nothing here worth living for
In the lone grave I long to rest,
And be harass'd here no more:
Where joy's fantastic, grief's sincere,
And where there's nought for which I care.
Thy word, O Lord, shall be my guide,
Heaven, where thou dwellest is my goal;
Through corrupt life grant I may glide
With an untainted upward soul.
Then may this life, this dreary night,
Dispelled be by morning light.

poem by James Thomson
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The Fairy Clock

Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day!
Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play?
Tell me when the sun will set--tiny globe of silver-grey.

It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn,
Oft I wondered when I met any souls who seemed forlorn--
And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn.

Mayhap I have loved too well the merry fleeting things;
Run too lightly with the wind--chased too many shining wings;
Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings.

Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun--
All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun--
In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone.

And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that, alas!
Fain would halt the dancing feet of those careless ones who pass
Down a sweet and primrose path, through the ribbons of the grass.

Silver-clock! O Silver-clock! It was only yesterday
Dandelions flecked the field, starry bright, and gold and gay;
You are but the ghost of one--little globe of silver-grey!

Tell me--tell me of the hour--for there is so much to do!
Is it early? Is it late? Fairy clock! 0 tell me true,
As I blow you down the wind, out upon a road of blue.

poem by Virna Sheard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Turn To Me

If you gave up major vices
Youre between a hard place and a wall
And your car breaks down in traffic
On the street
Remember, Im the one who loves you
You can always give me a call
Turn to me, turn to me
Baby, turn to me
If your father is free basing
And your mother turning tricks
Thats still no reason
You should have a rip
Remember, Im the one who loves you
You can always give me a call
Turn to me, turn to me
Turn to me
When your teeth are ground down to the bone
And theres nothing between your legs
And some friend died of something
That you cant pronounce, ah
Remember, Im the one who loves you
Hey baby, you can always give me a call
Turn to me, turn to me
Turn to me
You cant pay your rent, your boss is an idiot
And your apartment has no heat
And your wife says, maybe
Its time to have a child
Remember, Im the one who loves you
And you can always give me a call
Turn to me, turn to me
Turn to me
When its all too much you turn the tv set on
And light a cigarette
And then a public service announcement
Comes creeping on
And you see a lung corroding
Or a fatal heart attack
Turn to me, turn to me
Baby, turn to me, Im just a phone call away
Turn to me, turn to me
Hey, turn to me, one .... a dollar
Turn to me, baby
Turn to me
(turn to me, turn to me
Turn to me)
(turn to me, turn to me
Turn to me)

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas Hymn

Sing, Christmas bells!
Say to the earth this is the morn
Whereon our Saviour-King is born;
Sing to all men,-the bond, the free,
The rich, the poor, the high, the low,
The little child that sports in glee,
The aged folk that tottering go,-
Proclaim the morn
That Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!

Sing, angel host!
Sing of the star that God has placed
Above the manger in the east;
Sing of the glories of the night,
The virgin's sweet humility,
The Babe with kingly robes bedight,
Sing to all men where'er they be
This Christmas morn;
For Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!

Sing, sons of earth!
O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!
God liveth, and we have a king!
The curse is gone, the bond are free,-
By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed,
By all the heavenly signs that be,
We know that Israel is redeemed;
That on this morn
The Christ is born
That saveth you and saveth me!

Sing, O my heart!
Sing thou in rapture this dear morn
Whereon the blessed Prince is born!
And as thy songs shall be of love,
So let my deeds be charity,-
By the dear Lord that reigns above,
By Him that died upon the tree,
By this fair morn
Whereon is born
The Christ that saveth all and me!

poem by Eugene Field
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Mariana In The South

With one black shadow at its feet,
The house thro' all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
And silent in its dusty vines:
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.
But "Aye Mary," made she moan,
And "Aye Mary," night and morn,
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

She, as her carol sadder grew,
From brow and bosom slowly down
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew
Her streaming curls of deepest brown
To left and right, and made appear,
Still-lighted in a secret shrine,
Her melancholy eyes divine,
The home of woe without a tear.
And "Aye Mary," was her moan,
"Madonna, sad is night and morn;"
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

Till all the crimson changed, and past
Into deep orange o'er the sea,
Low on her knees herself she cast,
Before Our Lady murmur'd she:
Complaining, "Mother, give me grace
To help me of my weary load."
And on the liquid mirror glow'd
The clear perfection of her face.
"Is this the form," she made her moan,
"That won his praises night and morn?"
And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone,
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn."

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,
Nor any cloud would cross the vault,
But day increased from heat to heat,
On stony drought and steaming salt;
Till now at noon she slept again,
And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass,
And heard her native breezes pass,
And runlets babbling down the glen.
She breathed in sleep a lower moan,
And murmuring, as at night and morn
She thought, "My spirit is here alone,
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:
She felt he was and was not there.
She woke: the babble of the stream
Fell, and, without, the steady glare
Shrank one sick willow sere and small.
The river-bed was dusty-white;
And all the furnace of the light
Struck up against the blinding wall.
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan
More inward than at night or morn,
"Sweet Mother, let me not here alone
Live forgotten and die forlorn."

And, rising, from her bosom drew
Old letters, breathing of her worth,
For "Love", they said, "must needs be true,
To what is loveliest upon earth."
An image seem'd to pass the door,
To look at her with slight, and say,
"But now thy beauty flows away,
So be alone for evermore."
"O cruel heart," she changed her tone,
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn,
Is this the end to be left alone,
To live forgotten, and die forlorn?"

But sometimes in the falling day
An image seem'd to pass the door,
To look into her eyes and say,
"But thou shalt be alone no more."
And flaming downward over all
From heat to heat the day decreased,
And slowly rounded to the east
The one black shadow from the wall.
"The day to night," she made her moan,
"The day to night, the night to morn,
And day and night I am left alone
To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

At eve a dry cicala sung,
There came a sound as of the sea;
Backward the lattice-blind she flung,
And lean'd upon the balcony.
There all in spaces rosy-bright
Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears,
And deepening thro' the silent spheres
Heaven over Heaven rose the night.
And weeping then she made her moan,
"The night comes on that knows not morn,
When I shall cease to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heaven Help Us

Heaven help the child who never had a home,
Heaven help the girl who walks the street alone
Heaven help the roses if the bombs begin to fall,
Heaven help us all.
Heaven help the black man if he struggles one more day,
Heaven help the white man if he turns his back away,
Heaven help the man who kicks the man who has to crawl,
Heaven help us all.
Heaven help us all, heaven help us all, help us all.
Heaven help us, Lord, hear our call when we call
Oh, yeah!
Heaven help the boy who won't reach twenty-one,
Heaven help the man who gave that boy a gun.
Heaven help the people with their backs against the wall,
Lord, Heaven help us all.
Heaven help us all, heaven help us all, heaven help us all, help us all.
Heaven help us, Lord, hear our call when we call.
Now I lay me down before I go to sleep.
In a troubled world, I pray the Lord to keep, keep hatred from the mighty,
And the mighty from the small,
Heaven help us all.
Oh, oh, oh, yeah!
Heaven help us all.

song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heaven Help Us All

Heaven help the child who never had a home,
Heaven help the girl who walks the street alone
Heaven help the roses if the bombs begin to fall,
Heaven help us all.
Heaven help the black man if he struggles one more day,
Heaven help the white man if he turns his back away,
Heaven help the man who kicks the man who has to crawl,
Heaven help us all.
Heaven help us all, heaven help us all, help us all.
Heaven help us, lord, hear our call when we call
Oh, yeah!
Heaven help the boy who wont reach twenty-one,
Heaven help the man who gave that boy a gun.
Heaven help the people with their backs against the wall,
Lord, heaven help us all.
Heaven help us all, heaven help us all, heaven help us all, help us all.
Heaven help us, lord, hear our call when we call.
Now I lay me down before I go to sleep.
In a troubled world, I pray the lord to keep, keep hatred from the mighty,
And the mighty from the small,
Heaven help us all.
Oh, oh, oh, yeah!
Heaven help us all.

song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What's Wrong?

Love has left me but I must go on.
I rise. I wash and take my time.
I eat without tasting and drink without thirst
And finally find clothes into which I climb.

Don't look in the mirror. Don't want to see.
Don't look at the clock to see the hour.
My interests have waned and slowly died,
Nothing to digest, nothing to devour.

Love has left me and what can I do?
I search for answers. Where can they be?
They must be hidden in this mind of mine.
Better they stay there, best not to see.

For life goes on and I hear it happening.
The morn becomes night and I'm wide-awake.
I wish for the hours to move like seconds.
But they move slowly, too long they take.

Love has left me and nothing's the same.
Life all around me cannot be aware.
It's too busy just doing its thing
and I'm sure if it could it would declare
"What's wrong? "

poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Child's Last Sleep

Thou sleepest but when wilt thou wake, fair child?
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn?
When the first rich breath of the rose is born?
Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes,
Mournful, tho' sweet, is thy rest to see
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd
Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one! that thou shouldst die,
And life be left to the butterfly!
Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough
Oh! for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here;
How should e'en joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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To The Man-of-War-Bird

THOU who hast slept all night upon the storm,
Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions,
(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st,
And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)
Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating,
As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee,
(Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast.)

Far, far at sea,
After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shores with wrecks,
With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene, 10
The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun,
The limpid spread of air cerulean,
Thou also re-appearest.

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)
To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,
Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,
Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,
At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,
That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,
In them, in thy experience, had'st thou my soul, 20
What joys! what joys were thine!

poem by Walt Whitman
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The Dove

If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn,
Shouldst call along the curving sphere, "Remain,
Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!"
With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain; --

Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark,
'Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea,
And move the mighty woods through mailed bark
Till mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree; --

Or (grievous `if' that may be `yea' o'er-soon!),
If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet,
Shouldst knock Death's door with mellow shocks of tune,
Sad inquiry to make -- `When may we meet?'

Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart!
Should chant grave unisons of grief and love;
Ye could not mourn with more melodious art
Than daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.

poem by Sidney Lanier
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Sonnet V

Death! Thy cold hand the brightest flower has chill'd,
That e'er suffused love's cheek with rosy dies;
Quench'd the soft radiance of the loveliest eyes,
And accents tuned to sweetest music still'd;
The springing buds of hope and pleasure kill'd;
Joy's cheerful measures changed to doleful sighs;
Of fairest form, and fairest mind the ties
For ever rent in twain--So Heaven has will'd!
Though in the bloom of health, thy arrow fled,
Sudden as sure; long had prophetic dread
Hung o'er my heart, and all my thoughts depress'd.
Oft when in flowery wreaths I saw her dress'd,
A beauteous victim seemed to meet my eyes,
To early fate a destined sacrifice.

poem by Brooke Boothby
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Rosey Won't You Please Come Home

Rosy won't you please come home?
Mama don't know where you've been.
Rosy won't you please come home?
Your room's clean and no one's in it.
Oh my Rosy, how I miss you,
You are all the world to me.
Take a look and see if you like it,
If you like it please come back.
Rosy won't you please come home?
Since you've joined the upper classes,
You don't know us anymore.
Live and let your troubles pass.
Rosy, Rosy, will you write and tell me,
If you don't want to come back?
I would sacrifice all I have
To have a happy home once more.
Rosy won't you please come home?
Two long years have passed away.
Since you tried to change your life,
Christmas wasn't quite the same.
Rosy, Rosy, got any answers?
You are miles across the sea,
And I'll bake a cake if you tell me
You are on the first plane home.
Rosy won't you please come home?
Mama don't know where you've been.
Rosy won't you please come home?
Your room's clean and no one's in it.
Oh my Rosy, how I miss you,
You are all the world to me.
Take a look and see if you like it,
If you like it please come back.
Oh Rosy, will you please come back?

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fantasia

THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM

KISS mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born!
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear,
And thy ring of rosiest hue
Set in drops of diamond dew!

Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray,
From my Love so far away
Let thy splendor streaming down
Turn its pallid lilies brown,
Till its darkening shades reveal
Where his passion pressed its seal!

Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light,
Kiss my lips a soft good-night!
Westward sinks thy golden car;
Leave me but the evening star,
And my solace that shall be,
Borrowing all its light from thee!

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Invocation

PHOEBUS, arise!
   And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;
Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she thy career may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing;
Make an eternal spring!
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,
That day, long wished day
Of all my life so dark
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
And fates not hope betray),
Which, only white, deserves
A diamond for ever should it mark:
This is the morn should bring into this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,
But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise:
Nay, suns, which shine as clear
As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
If that ye, winds, would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your stormy chiding stay;
Let zephyr only breathe
And with her tresses play,
Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.

The winds all silent are;
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels
Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue:
Here is the pleasant place--
And everything, save Her, who all should grace.

poem by William Henry Drummond
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dreamer

“Why do you seek the sun,
In your Bubble-Crown ascending?
Your chariot will melt to mist,
Your crown will have an ending.”
“Nay, sun is but a Bubble,
Earth is a whiff of Foam—
To my caves on the coast of Thule
Each night I call them home.
Thence Faiths blow forth to angels
And Loves blow forth to men—
They break and turn to nothing
And I make them whole again:
On the crested waves of chaos
I ride them back reborn:
New stars I bring at evening
For those that burst at morn:
My soul is the wind of Thule
And evening is the sign,
The sun is but a Bubble,
A fragile child of mine.”

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Isabel

In the most early morn
I rise from a damp pillow, tempest-tost,
To seek the sun with silent gaze forlorn,
And mourn for thee, my lost
Isabel.

That early hour I meet
The daily vigil of my life to keep,
Because there are no other lights so sweet,
Or shades so long and deep,
Isabel.

And best I think of thee
Beside the duskest shade and brightest sun,
Whose mystic lot in life it was to be
Outshone, outwept by none,
Isabel.

Men said that thou wert fair:
There is no brightness in the heaven above,
There is no balm upon the summer air
Like thy warm love,
Isabel.

Men saw that thou wert bright:
There is no wildness in the winds that blow,
There is no darkness in the winter's night
Like thy dark woe,
Isabel.

And yet thy path did miss
Men's footsteps: in their haunts thou hadst no joy;
The thoughts of other worlds were thine in this;
In thy sweet piety, and in thy bliss
And grief, for life too coy,
Isabel.

And so my heart's despair
Looks for thee ere the firstling smoke hath curled;
While the rapt earth is at her morning pray'r,
Ere yet she putteth on her workday air
And robes her for the world,
Isabel.

When the sun-burst is o'er,
My lonely way about the world I take,
Doing and saying much, and feeling more,
And all things for thy sake,
Isabel.

But never once I dare
To see thine image till the day be new,
And lip hath sullied not the unbreathed air,
And waking eyes are few,
Isabel.

Then that lost form appears
Which was a joy to few on earth but me:
In the young light I see thy guileless glee,
In the deep dews thy tears,
Isabel.

So with Promethean moan
In widowhood renewed I learn to grieve;
Blest with one only thought-that I alone
Can fade: that thou thro' years shalt still shine on
In beauty, as in beauty art thou gone,
Thou morn that knew no eve,
Isabel.

In beauty art thou gone;
As some bright meteor gleams across the night,
Gazed on by all, but understood by none,
And dying by its own excess of light,
Isabel.

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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