The Philosopher
Who shall be our prophet then,
Chosen from all the sons of men
To lead his fellows on the way
Of hidden knowledge, delving deep
To nameless mysteries that keep
Their secret from the solar day!
Or who shall pierce with surer eye!
This shifting veil of bittersweet
And find the real things that lie
Beyond this turmoil, which we greet
With such a wasted wealth of tears?
Who shall cross over for us the bridge of fears
And pass in to the country where the ancient Mothers dwell?
Is it an elder, bent and hoar
Who, where the waste Atlantic swell
On lonely beaches makes its roar,
In his solitary tower
Through the long night hour by hour
Pores on old books with watery eye
When all his youth has passed him by,
And folly is schooled and love is dead
And frozen fancy laid abed,
While in his veins the gradual blood
Slackens to a marish flood?
For he rejoiceth not in the ocean's might,
Neither the sun giveth delight,
Nor the moon by night
Shall call his feet to wander in the haunted forest lawn.
He shall no more rise suddenly in the dawn
When mists are white and the dew lies pearly
Cold and cold on every meadow,
To take his joy of the season early,
The opening flower and the westward shadow,
And scarcely can he dream of laughter and love,
They lie so many leaden years behind.
Such eyes are dim and blind,
And the sad, aching head that nods above
His monstrous books can never know
The secret we would find.
But let our seer be young and kind
And fresh and beautiful of show,
And taken ere the lustyhead
And rapture of his youth be dead;
Ere the gnawing, peasant reason
School him over-deep in treason
To the ancient high estate
Of his fancy's principate,
That he may live a perfect whole,
A mask of the eternal soul,
And cross at last the shadowy bar
To where the ever-living are.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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Related quotes
All Souls
I
A THIN moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
II
Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope -
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.
III
And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
IV
And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: 'Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!'
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.
V
Till they say, as they hear us - poor dead, poor dead! -
'Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed -
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart -
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.'
VI
And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
'One more, one more, ere we go their way'?
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.
VII
And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away. . . .
poem by Edith Wharton
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What if it were true?
Hector, Ajax and Hercules
and other heroes such as these.
All suffered from the same disease.
They thought they were invincible.
Now every one of them is dead.
I know this from the books I’ve read.
Unlike my ancient Uncle Fred.
Who thought it might be possible.
To find a way to stay alive
a certain method to survive
Towards this end then he would strive
Although it seemed improbable.
A coward too afraid to die.
Although he was clever guy
well versed in ancient history.
He thought he could be comfortable.
If he could find a vampire who
he thought could be persuaded to
make him into a vampire too
and grant him immortality.
I half believed when I was small
My uncle often came to call
but always late after night fall.
Which made me feel uncomfortable.
But now I take a different view.
I don’t believe his tales were true
Nor do I think my siblings do.
I think it is impossible.
By bright sunlight I am certain
but after dark I think again.
What if my uncle Fred did gain
his wish for immortality.
I hoped that he was telling lies
and so it came as no surprise.
To find one single rule applies.
Vampires do not seek publicity.
Real vampires do not advertise
They consider it’s not wise.
Although my uncle really tries
his stories cannot convince me.
I know my uncle’s very old.
And that he cannot stand the cold.
From stories that my parents told
concerning his longevity.
My father says he will not die
My mother says that’s all my eye.
But still I wonder sometimes why.
He’s lived so long. It seems to me.
Just possible he’s told the truth.
The secret of eternal youth
springs from some ancient vampires tooth.
The bite of immortality.
I know that in reality
vampires are just a fantasy.
That people can live naturally.
Far longer than seems possible.
No body knows the reason why.
Examined scientifically.
It seems that everyone must die.
No one can live eternally.
But Uncle Fred refuses to.
I can’t believe his tales are true.
He sleeps all day as vampires do.
at his age it’s permissible.
I tell myself it makes no sense
for Fred to keep up this pretense.
I have to do in self defence.
I find it much preferable.
To believing Uncle Fred
Is exactly as he said
A member of the living dead.
That would be truly terrible.
18/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Red-Tressed Maiden
RED she is in a robe of sable,
Rosy with pictures and tales to tell:
She is a fairy, and yet no fable,
Weaving the dreams that we love so well.
Out in the dark where the night-winds hurry
And dead leaves carpet the silent bush,
She has a charm for minds that worry,
For the worn white face a fresh young blush.
Tell her a story of some love laid in
The grave long since with a maiden white —
She will not taunt you, the Red-Tressed Maiden
Dressed in her mantle of starless night.
With fingers potent as rich wine chosen
From dusty cellars where years lie dead,
She melts the ice in the veins long frozen,
The blood runs chainless, and young and red.
Her ears have hearkened the joyous laughter,
Man-made, maid-lifted through years and years
To frescoed dome and to smoky rafter,
And tears and tears and ceaseless tears.
Old as the world, and some say older,
Is she, and yet she is young and sweet:
She heard the story the Cave-man told her,
When hearts were bolder and ruder their beat.
No tale so trifling but she will listen,
The long day ended, the day's toil done;
Then wheresoever her great eyes glisten
An ancient battle is fought and won.
She is ready to hearken to some chance roamer,
A lyre on his shoulder, a lilt on his tongue,
As she was of old to the blind-eyed Homer
Who sang high strains when the world was young.
On winter nights, when the roads are cheerless
And west winds under a frosty moon,
She paints us Summer in colours peerless
And the broad gold charm of a tropic noon.
On summer evenings, in sylvan places
(The picnic over and stars in the skies),
She heightens the blush on sun-kissed faces
And deepens the dream in dear young eyes.
And who is the Maiden? When Night is about you,
Pile high dry leaves and dead wood, and so
Make a light for the darkness within and without you . . .
And now do you see her — and now do you know?
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Maud: A Monodrama (Part II, excerpt)
.
O that 'twere possible
.
After long grief and pain
.
To find the arms of my true love
.
Round me once again!2.
When I was wont to meet her
.
In the silent woody places
.
By the home that gave me birth,
.
We stood tranced in long embraces
.
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter
.
Than anything on earth.2.
A shadow flits before me,
.
Not thou, but like to thee:
.
Ah Christ, that it were possible
.
For one short hour to see
.
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
.
What and where they be.2.
It leads me forth at evening,
.
It lightly winds and steals
.
In a cold white robe before me,
.
When all my spirit reels
.
At the shouts, the leagues of lights,
.
And the roaring of the wheels.2.
Half the night I waste in sighs,
.
Half in dreams I sorrow after
.
The delight of early skies;
.
In a wakeful doze I sorrow
.
For the hand, the lips, the eyes,
.
For the meeting of the morrow,
.
The delight of happy laughter,
.
The delight of low replies.2.
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
.
And a dewy splendour falls
.
On the little flower that clings
.
To the turrets and the walls;
.
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
.
And the light and shadow fleet;
.
She is walking in the meadow,
.
And the woodland echo rings;
.
In a moment we shall meet;
.
She is singing in the meadow,
.
And the rivulet at her feet
.
Ripples on in light and shadow
.
To the ballad that she sings.2.
So I hear her sing as of old,
.
My bird with the shining head,
.
My own dove with the tender eye?
.
But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,
.
There is some one dying or dead,
.
And a sullen thunder is roll'd;
.
For a tumult shakes the city,
.
And I wake, my dream is fled;
.
In the shuddering dawn, behold,
.
Without knowledge, without pity,
.
By the curtains of my bed
.
That abiding phantom cold.2.
Get thee hence, nor come again,
.
Mix not memory with doubt,
.
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,
.
Pass and cease to move about!
.
'Tis the blot upon the brain
.
That will show itself without.2.
Then I rise, the eave-drops fall,
.
And the yellow vapours choke
.
The great city sounding wide;
.
The day comes, a dull red ball
.
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke
.
On the misty river-tide.2.
Thro' the hubbub of the market
.
I steal, a wasted frame;
.
It crosses here, it crosses there,
.
Thro' all that crowd confused and loud,
.
The shadow still the same;
.
And on my heavy eyelids
.
My anguish hangs like shame.2.
Alas for her that met me,
.
That heard me softly call,
.
Came glimmering thro' the laurels
.
At the quiet evenfall,
.
In the garden by the turrets
.
Of the old manorial hall.2.
Would the happy spirit descend
.
From the realms of light and song,
.
In the chamber or the street,
.
As she looks among the blest,
.
Should I fear to greet my friend
.
Or to say "Forgive the wrong,"
.
Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet,
.
To the regions of thy rest"?2.
But the broad light glares and beats,
.
And the shadow flits and fleets
.
And will not let me be;
.
And I loathe the squares and streets,
.
And the faces that one meets,
.
Hearts with no love for me:
.
Always I long to creep
.
Into some still cavern deep,
.
There to weep, and weep, and weep
.
My whole soul out to thee....
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Gunpowder Treason
Beneath the burning eastern sky
The Cross was raised at morn:
The widowed Church to weep stood by,
The world, to hate and scorn.
Now, journeying westward, evermore
We know the lonely Spouse
By the dear mark her Saviour bore
Traced on her patient brows.
At Rome she wears it, as of old
Upon th' accursed hill:
By monarchs clad in gems and gold,
She goes a mourner still.
She mourns that tender hearts should bend
Before a meaner shrine,
And upon Saint or Angel spend
The love that should be thine.
By day and night her sorrows fall
Where miscreant hands and rude
Have stained her pure ethereal pall
With many a martyr's blood.
And yearns not her parental heart,
To hear THEIR secret sighs,
Upon whose doubting way apart
Bewildering shadows rise?
Who to her side in peace would cling,
But fear to wake, and find
What they had deemed her genial wing
Was Error's soothing blind.
She treasures up each throbbing prayer:
Come, trembler, come and pour
Into her bosom all thy care,
For she has balm in store.
Her gentle teaching sweetly blends
With this clear light of Truth
The aerial gleam that Fancy lends
To solemn thoughts in youth. -
If thou hast loved, in hours of gloom,
To dream the dead are near,
And people all the lonely room
With guardian spirits dear,
Dream on the soothing dream at will:
The lurid mist is o'er,
That showed the righteous suffering still
Upon th' eternal shore.
If with thy heart the strains accord,
That on His altar-throne
Highest exalt thy glorious Lord,
Yet leave Him most thine own;
Oh, come to our Communion Feast:
There present, in the heart
As in the hands, th' eternal Priest
Will His true self impart. -
Thus, should thy soul misgiving turn
Back to the enchanted air,
Solace and warning thou mayst learn
From all that tempts thee there.
And, oh! by all the pangs and fears
Fraternal spirits know,
When for an elder's shame the tears
Of wakeful anguish flow,
Speak gently of our sister's fall:
Who knows but gentle love
May win her at our patient call
The surer way to prove?
poem by John Keble
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Relief
Now is the hour when night takes flight
and dawn breaks into pearly light.
Before the sun has risen high
Now is the hour of mystery.
When nothing seems to be quite real
concealed in trailing morning mists.
Now is the hour when I feel
nothing and nobody exists.
The air of unreality
persists until the sun is high.
Which then dispels the fantasy
I conjure up. I will deny
the subtle fears which haunted me
left over from prehistory.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Catholic School Girls Rule
Catholic school girls rule...
In the class she's taking notes
Just how deep deep is my throat
Mother Mary don't you know
She's got eyes like Marylin Monroe
Catholic school girls rule...
From the cross she's raised her head
This is what the sister said
Give no love until you're wed
Live no life until you're dead
The good books says we must suppress
The good books says we must confess
But who cares what the good books says
Cause now she's taking off her dress
Catholic school girls rule...
Lead us into temptation
We are pure divine creation
Talkin' about my generation
Injected with the seed of emaculation
Catholic !
song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers from Freaky Styley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Conduct
In this world's find
Conduct of people
Is high or low
In accordance with one's mind.
In case you hold
Your fingers to fire
You can behold
Getting it scathed in the pyre
Even if you are unespied
And in a secret place abide.
When you are in fancy
Even though in privacy
When your conduct is blotched
Your soul gets scorched.
As inside a deep forest
The exquisite flower spills elegance
Though it is bereft
Of people to admire it best
Or to smell its fragrance
It blooms at Nature's behest.
Oh! You mind! Conduct yourself-well
Like the hidden sweet flower-swell
Beautiful and aromatic-a treat
Fit to be seated at God's feet!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Villanelle
We said farewell, my youth and I,
When all fair dreams were gone or going,
And Love’s red lips were cold and dry.
When white blooms fell from tree-tops high—
Our Austral winter’s way of snowing—
We said farewell, my youth and I.
We did not sigh—what use to sigh
When Death passed as a mower mowing,
And Love’s red lips were cold and dry?
But hearing Life’s stream thunder by,
That sang of old through flowers flowing,
We said farewell, my youth and I.
There was no hope in the blue sky,
No music in the low winds blowing,
And Love’s red lips were cold and dry.
My hair is black as yet, then why
So sad! I know not, only knowing
We said farewell, my youth and I.
All are not buried when they die;
Dead souls there are through live eyes showing
When Love’s red lips are cold and dry.
So, seeing where the dead men lie,
Out of their hearts the grave-flowers growing,
We said farewell, my youth and I,
When Love’s red lips were cold and dry.
poem by Victor James Daley
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Subdued Emotion
Never once forgot your eyes
The colour so vivid and alive
Shattered by their evil lies
Now hiding is how you survive
There’s something lost
In those lonely tears
There’s a high cost
Placed by your peers
But it’s your childish smile
That lights the way
Finding it took a while
Now you show it every day
Even in that smile there is pain
Something hidden deep inside
Like tears in the frozen rain
Tears hidden in a heart so kind
Once saw a cage clear as day
Now she sees nothing, so blind
The words she just can’t say
Words her soul can’t find
The doors open but fears there
No courage to make the first move
No friend to help her prepare
She has no emotions to prove
As cold as the iron that bound
Burned by the warmth of the sun
Screaming without a sound
No instinct telling her to run
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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Frozen
Frozen
By: Adam M. Snow
Memories frozen and gone,
like sands in broken time,
'gainst the blackest of dawn,
yet cold with no love sublime.
To be alone in ice of despair,
with hearts cold and frozen.
There's nothing left to bear,
for all who are chosen.
Like frost in the wind,
chilling a lonely being,
leaving nothing to mend,
like a ghost without seeing.
Dreams now cold like ice,
falling to pieces,
not once but twice,
as the days decreases.
What else is there to know,
with everything oh so cool?
Like being ghost in the snow,
and you being the fool.
All's now cold like a winter's night,
like little breezes dusk and shiver,
and with unpleasant delight,
with fear all is quiver.
Staring now out a hoar frost window,
alone, cold and wilted,
with your sufferings and woe,
waiting to strike you dead.
All's now cold hearted,
like frozen in ice,
as all's departed,
and you're the sacrifice.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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The Vain Spell
THE house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white,
The fields are alight with dew;
'Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night?
I have waited the whole night through,
For I knew,
O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart,
That the night of all nights is this,
When elm shall crack and lead shall part,
When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts start
To let you through to my kiss.'
So spake she alone in the lonely house.
She had wrapped her round with the spell,
She called the call, she vowed the vow,
And the heart she had pledged knew well
That this was the night, the only night,
When the moulds might be wrenched apart,
When the living and dead, in the dead of the night,
Might clasp once more, in the grave's despite,
For the price of a living heart.
But out in the grave the corpse lay white
And the grave clothes were wet with dew;
'Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night,
I have waited the whole night through,
For I knew
That I dared not leave my grave for an hour
Since the hour of all hours is near,
When you shall come to the hollow bower,
In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power,
To the heart that to-night beats here!'
The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still
Ah, God! do the dead forget?
The grave is white and the bed is chill,
But a guest may be coming yet.
But the hour has come and the hour has gone
That never will come again;
Love's only chance is over and done,
And the quick and the dead are twain, not one,
And the price has been paid in vain.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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What Am I Doing Here
(Justin Hayward)
Pale the young squire who goes to fight
To die at his master's side
Living is just a dream inside
You ask me why he cried
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Beautiful princess, fair and pale
Stares out across the sea
Alone in her castle dark and grey
Her love she'll never see
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
What can be done, you won't believe
Listen and you may see
Everyone's dream is deep within
Find it and you'll be free
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
*************************************************************
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thru The Eyes Of A Ruby
Wrap me up in always, and drag me in with maybes
Your innocence is treasure, your innocence is death
Your innocence is all I have
Breathing underwater, and living under glass
And if you spin your love around
The secrets of your dreams
You may find your love is gone
And is not quite what it seemed
To appear to disappear
Beneath all your darkest fears
I believe in never, I believe in all the way
But belief is not to notice, believe is just some faith
And faith cant help you to escape
And with this ring I wed thee true
And with this ring I wed thee now
And with this ring I play so dead
But no ones asking for the truth, so let me tell you
If you spin your love around
The secrets of your dreams
You may find your love is gone
And is not quite what it seemed
To appear to disappear
Beneath all your darkest fears
To the revelations of fresh faced youth
No one will come to save you
So speak your peace in the murmurs drawn
But youth is wasted on the young
Your strength is my weakness, your weakness my hate
My love for you just cant explain
Why were forever frozen, forever beautiful,
Forever lost inside ourselves
The night has come to hold us young
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ocean Deep
Ocean deep
Love cant you see Im alone
Cant you give this fool a chance
A little love is all I ask - a little kindness
In the night
Please dont leave me behind
No - dont tell me love is blind
A little love is all I ask and that is all
Oh love Ive been searching so long
Ive been searching highnlow
A little love is all I ask - a little sadness
When youre gone
Maybe you need a friend
Only please dont lets pretend
A little love is all I ask and that is all
I wanna spread my wings - but I just cant fly
As a string of pearls and pretty girls go sailing by
Ocean deep - Im so afraid to show my feelings
I have sailed a million ceilings - in my -
Solitary room
Ocean deep - will I ever find a lover
Maybe she has found another
And as I cry myself to sleep
I know this love of mine Ill keep - ocean deep
Love cant you hear when I call
Cant you hear a word I say
A little love is all I ask
A little feeling when we touch
Why am I still alone?
Ive got a heart without a home
A little love is all I ask - and that is all
I wanna spread my wings - but I just cant fly
As a string of pearls and pretty girls go sailing by
Ocean deep - Im so afraid to show my feelings
I have sailed a million ceilings - in my -
Solitary room
Ocean deep - will I ever find a lover
Maybe she has found another
And as I cry myself to sleep
I know this love of mine Ill keep - ocean deep
Im so lonely lonely lonely...
Maybe..
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Clearer Self
Before me grew the human soul,
And after I am dead and gone,
Through grades of effort and control
The marvellous work shall still go on.
Each mortal in his little span
Hath only lived, if he have shown
What greatness there can be in man
Above the measured and the known;
How through the ancient layers of night,
In gradual victory secure,
Grows ever with increasing light
The Energy serene and pure:
The Soul, that from a monstrous past,
From age to age, from hour to hour,
Feels upward to some height at last
Of unimagined grace and power.
Though yet the sacred fire be dull,
In folds of thwarting matter furled,
Ere death be nigh, while life is full,
O Master Spirit of the world,
Grant me to know, to seek, to find,
In some small measure though it be,
Emerging from the waste and blind,
The clearer self, the grander me!
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Catholic School Girls Rule
Catholic school girls rule...
In the class she's taking notes
Just how deep is my throat
Mother Mary don't you know
She's got eyes like Marylin Monroe
Catholic school girls rule...
From the cross she's raised her head
This is what the sister said
Give no love until you're wed
Live no life until you're dead
The good books says we must suppress
The good books says we must confess
But who cares what the good books says
Cause now she's taking off her dress
Catholic school girls rule...
Lead us into temptation
We are pure divine creation
Talkin' about my generation
Injected with the seed of emaculation
Catholic!
song performed by by Backstreet Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Before Her Portrait In Youth
As lovers, banished from their lady's face
And hopeless of her grace,
Fashion a ghostly sweetness in its place,
Fondly adore
Some stealth-won cast attire she wore,
A kerchief or a glove:
And at the lover's beck
Into the glove there fleets the hand,
Or at impetuous command
Up from the kerchief floats the virgin neck:
So I, in very lowlihead of love, -
Too shyly reverencing
To let one thought's light footfall smooth
Tread near the living, consecrated thing, -
Treasure me thy cast youth.
This outworn vesture, tenantless of thee,
Hath yet my knee,
For that, with show and semblance fair
Of the past Her
Who once the beautiful, discarded raiment bare,
It cheateth me.
As gale to gale drifts breath
Of blossoms' death,
So dropping down the years from hour to hour
This dead youth's scent is wafted me to-day:
I sit, and from the fragrance dream the flower.
So, then, she looked (I say);
And so her front sunk down
Heavy beneath the poet's iron crown:
On her mouth museful sweet -
(Even as the twin lips meet)
Did thought and sadness greet:
Sighs
In those mournful eyes
So put on visibilities;
As viewless ether turns, in deep on deep, to dyes.
Thus, long ago,
She kept her meditative paces slow
Through maiden meads, with waved shadow and gleam
Of locks half-lifted on the winds of dream,
Till love up-caught her to his chariot's glow.
Yet, voluntary, happier Proserpine!
This drooping flower of youth thou lettest fall
I, faring in the cockshut-light, astray,
Find on my 'lated way,
And stoop, and gather for memorial,
And lay it on my bosom, and make it mine.
To this, the all of love the stars allow me,
I dedicate and vow me.
I reach back through the days
A trothed hand to the dead the last trump shall not raise.
The water-wraith that cries
From those eternal sorrows of thy pictured eyes
Entwines and draws me down their soundless intricacies!
poem by Francis Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Until The Night
Over the ocean of life’s commotion
We sail till the night comes on.
Sail and sail in a tiny boat,
Drifting wherever the billows go.
Out on the treacherous sea afloat,
Beat by the cruel winds that blow,
Hither and thither our boat is drawn,
Till the day dies out and the night comes on.
Over a meadow of light and shadow
We wander with weary feet,
Seeking a bauble men call “Fame, ”
Grasping the dead-sea fruit named “wealth, ”
Finding each but an empty name,
And the night – the night steals on by stealth,
And we count the season of slumber sweet,
When hope lies dead in the arms of defeat.
Over the river a great Forever
Stretches beyond our sight.
But I know by the glistening pearly gates
Afar from the region of strife and sin,
A beautiful angel always waits
To welcome the sheep of the shepherd in.
And out of the shadows of gloom and night,
They enter the mansion of peace and light.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mater Dolorosa
Who is this that sits by the way, by the wild wayside,
In a rent stained raiment, the robe of a cast-off bride,
In the dust, in the rainfall sitting, with soiled feet bare,
With the night for a garment upon her, with torn wet hair?
She is fairer of face than the daughters of men, and her eyes,
Worn through with her tears, are deep as the depth of skies.
This is she for whose sake being fallen, for whose abject sake,
Earth groans in the blackness of darkness, and men's hearts break.
This is she for whose love, having seen her, the men that were
Poured life out as water, and shed their souls upon air.
This is she for whose glory their years were counted as foam;
Whose face was a light upon Greece, was a fire upon Rome.
Is it now not surely a vain thing, a foolish and vain,
To sit down by her, mourn to her, serve her, partake in the pain?
She is grey with the dust of time on his manifold ways,
Where her faint feet stumble and falter through year-long days.
Shall she help us at all, O fools, give fruit or give fame,
Who herself is a name despised, a rejected name?
We have not served her for guerdon. If any do so,
That his mouth may be sweet with such honey, we care not to know.
We have drunk from a wine-unsweetened, a perilous cup,
A draught very bitter. The kings of the earth stood up,
And the rulers took counsel together, to smite her and slay;
And the blood of her wounds is given us to drink today.
Can these bones live? or the leaves that are dead leaves bud?
Or the dead blood drawn from her veins be in your veins blood?
Will ye gather up water again that was drawn and shed?
In the blood is the life of the veins, and her veins are dead.
For the lives that are over are over, and past things past;
She had her day, and it is not; was first, and is last.
Is it nothing unto you then, all ye that pass by,
If her breath be left in her lips, if she live now or die?
Behold now, O people, and say if she be not fair,
Whom your fathers followed to find her, with praise and prayer,
And rejoiced, having found her, though roof they had none nor bread;
But ye care not; what is it to you if her day be dead?
It was well with our fathers; their sound was in all men's lands;
There was fire in their hearts, and the hunger of fight in their
hands.
Naked and strong they went forth in her strength like flame,
For her love's and her name's sake of old, her republican name.
But their children, by kings made quiet, by priests made wise,
Love better the heat of their hearths than the light of her eyes.
Are they children of these thy children indeed, who have sold,
O golden goddess, the light of thy face for gold?
Are they sons indeed of the sons of thy dayspring of hope,
Whose lives are in fief of an emperor, whose souls of a Pope?
Hide then thine head, O beloved; thy time is done;
Thy kingdom is broken in heaven, and blind thy sun.
What sleep is upon you, to dream she indeed shall rise,
When the hopes are dead in her heart as the tears in her eyes?
If ye sing of her dead, will she stir? if ye weep for her, weep?
Come away now, leave her; what hath she to do but sleep?
But ye that mourn are alive, and have years to be;
And life is good, and the world is wiser than we.
Yea, wise is the world and mighty, with years to give,
And years to promise; but how long now shall it live?
And foolish and poor is faith, and her ways are bare,
Till she find the way of the sun, and the morning air.
In that hour shall this dead face shine as the face of the sun,
And the soul of man and her soul and the world's be one.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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