The Two Soldiers
Just at the corner of the wall
We met - yes, he and I -
Who had not faced in camp or hall
Since we bade home good-bye,
And what once happened came back - all -
Out of those years gone by.
And that strange woman whom we knew
And loved - long dead and gone,
Whose poor half-perished residue,
Tombless and trod, lay yon!
But at this moment to our view
Rose like a phantom wan.
And in his fixed face I could see,
Lit by a lurid shine,
The drama re-enact which she
Had dyed incarnadine
For us, and more. And doubtless he
Beheld it too in mine.
A start, as at one slightly known,
And with an indifferent air
We passed, without a sign being shown
That, as it real were,
A memory-acted scene had thrown
Its tragic shadow there.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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In The Desert
A cloudless sky o’erhead, and all around
The level country stretching like a sea—
A dull grey sea, that had no seeming bound,
The very semblance of eternity.
All common things that this poor life contained
Had passed from me, leaving no sign nor token;
My footfall first broke stillness that had reigned
For centuries unbroken.
Almost it was as if my steps had strayed
Into some strange old land or unknown isle,
Where Time himself, with drowsy hand had stayed
The shadow on the dial.
The sun at even sank down angry red
In the dim haze that bounded the far plain;
And then the stars usurped the heavens instead,
With silence in their train—
A deep, dread silence, save when fitful sighs
Of wailing wind were wafted from the south.
Nature seemed dying: light had left her eyes,
The smile of her mouth.
Only in dreams unquietly she talked,
In broken murmurs restlessly did ’plain;
Then came strange sounds, as if a spirit walked,
Wringing its hands in pain,
Crying, ‘No rest! no rest! Who dares intrude,
And waken silence that for countless years
Has been unbroken? Must our solitude
At last know human tears?
Leave but a little space, O restless race!
Free from your carking vanity and care.
Keep back! keep back!’ And then, a phantom face
Shone lurid in the air,
Gazing in mine, with a strange, earnest look
Of solemn sadness, more than mortal pain,
Then vanished with a bitter cry that shook
The dim, dead plain.
poem by Ernest Favenc
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Another Way
I lay in silence, dead. A woman came
And laid a rose upon my breast, and said,
'May God be merciful.' She spoke my name,
And added, 'It is strange to think him dead.
'He loved me well enough, but 't was his way
To speak it lightly.' Then, beneath her breath:
'Besides' -I knew what further she would say,
But then a footfall broke my dream of death.
To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose
Upon her breast, and speak her name, and deem
It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows
I had more pleasure in the other dream.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Rose Lorraine
Sweet water-moons, blown into lights
Of flying gold on pool and creek,
And many sounds and many sights
Of younger days are back this week.
I cannot say I sought to face
Or greatly cared to cross again
The subtle spirit of the place
Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine.
What though her voice rings clearly through
A nightly dream I gladly keep,
No wish have I to start anew
Heart fountains that have ceased to leap.
Here, face to face with different days,
And later things that plead for love,
It would be worse than wrong to raise
A phantom far too vain to move.
But, Rose Lorraine -- ah! Rose Lorraine,
I'll whisper now, where no one hears --
If you should chance to meet again
The man you kissed in soft, dead years,
Just say for once "He suffered much,"
And add to this "His fate was worst
Because of me, my voice, my touch" --
There is no passion like the first!
If I that breathe your slow sweet name,
As one breathes low notes on a flute,
Have vext your peace with word of blame,
The phrase is dead -- the lips are mute.
Yet when I turn towards the wall,
In stormy nights, in times of rain,
I often wish you could recall
Your tender speeches, Rose Lorraine.
Because, you see, I thought them true,
And did not count you self-deceived,
And gave myself in all to you,
And looked on Love as Life achieved.
Then came the bitter, sudden change,
The fastened lips, the dumb despair:
The first few weeks were very strange,
And long, and sad, and hard to bear.
No woman lives with power to burst
My passion's bonds, and set me free;
For Rose is last where Rose was first,
And only Rose is fair to me.
The faintest memory of her face,
The wilful face that hurt me so,
Is followed by a fiery trace
That Rose Lorraine must never know.
I keep a faded ribbon string
You used to wear about your throat;
And of this pale, this perished thing,
I think I know the threads by rote.
God help such love! To touch your hand,
To loiter where your feet might fall,
You marvellous girl, my soul would stand
The worst of hell -- its fires and all!
poem by Henry Kendall
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The inseparable part
Rise and fall being the inseparable part
Life to witness and sustain it till we depart
Some good moments, if we are lucky, at the start
Else shed under the tree available at the last
It is nice struggle to be interwoven in memory
Each moment to be memorized without feeling sorry
Nothing has happened that can be counted as unusual
Life is shaped in same manner and termed it as casual
Anything that is live will have peak rise and steep fall
We can see the imagery things as it had not faced any wall
No hurdles or obstacles of any kind to race to the object
It was nicest of all when there was appreciation of fine act
This was not all that was expected in life to emerge
There is something more than that and has to do a lot to merge
I swear by words and feel so much pride
I believe love is strength and there is nothing to hide
My life was never threatened with tidal waves
Every time I faced the danger and had a close shave
I had feeling for my life and longed for beautiful company
It was like dead wish emerging all of sudden to accompany
As a successful man in life, I had sweet encounter
I was not a love bird or expert to be called hunter
Yet I loved to be in game without any challenge
This was for me a new thing like little scene of change
I knew it little till it came as powerful tidal wave on the way
It rose to a level and dashed me to be washed away
She entered the life and left lasting impression
I was down in her impression and offered submission
I was for sure and knew it was not meant to swallow
It was momentary rise then with calm down lie very low
It was not volcanic eruption to leave everything devastated
It was her arrival on scene and suitably indicated
I had swift encounter there after to follow suit
She was all for us and agreed to stay with
It was not less than any other achievement
The annexation of golden empire with happy moments
Life is not that all we intend or plan for
It is uncertain in all the respects and not very sure
If at all there is anything to sustain or endure
It will be pleasure all the time with no limit to measure
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I Have Dreamed of You so Much
I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?
I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body.
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many
days and years, I would surely become a shadow.
O scales of feeling.
I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up.
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and
face of some passerby.
I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.
poem by Robert Desnos
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No rose that in a garden ever grew
No rose that in a garden ever grew,
In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine,
Though buried under centuries of fine
Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew
Forever, and forever lost from view,
But must again in fragrance rich as wine
The grey aisles of the air incarnadine
When the old summers surge into a new.
Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart,"
'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear,
'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece;
And thus as well my love must lose some part
Of what it is, had Helen been less fair,
Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Sonnets 06: No Rose That In A Garden Ever Grew
No rose that in a garden ever grew,
In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine,
Though buried under centuries of fine
Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew
Forever, and forever lost from view,
But must again in fragrance rich as wine
The grey aisles of the air incarnadine
When the old summers surge into a new.
Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart,"
'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear,
'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece;
And thus as well my love must lose some part
Of what it is, had Helen been less fair,
Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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What Is A Mother (mothers day)
What is a mother you ask?
She is the one who loved you long before your birth
She is the one who knew your worth.
It mattered not if you was a boy or girl
For you would be the one to rock her world.
She was wiping away your pains and massaging you
Long before you knew.
Whenever she rubbed her stomach
That’s what she would do.
Then when you came, the excitement from the start
And she knew forever you would be in her heart.
And as you would grow throughout the years
She would wash away your fears.
She was there when you scraped your knee
Or cut your hand.
She is the one who could understand.
She fed you, she clothed you, she washed your back
Even there when you had a panic attack.
She was there at every game and every play
And at home she would not stay.
Now that I’ve explained- “what is a mother”
I think it’s only fair, that on this “MOTHERS DAY”
She should be treated with respect and care.
Tell her you love her, and hug her with all your might
For this is a woman who’s “ really out of sight”.
What is a mother?
It’s really not hard to explain
That she should be put into the “hall of fame.”
poem by Louis Rams
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The Portrait
I watch you, gazing at me from the wall,
And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine,
If, mastering time's illusion, I could call
You back to share this quiet candle-shine.
For you were young, three hundred years ago;
And by your looks I guess that you were wise…
Come, whisper soft, and Death will never know
You've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes.
Strange is your voice… Poor ninny, dead so long,
And all your pride forgotten like your name.
'One April morn I heard a blackbird's song.
And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame.'
And so you died before your songs took wing;
While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake.
'Love thrilled me into music. I could sing
But for a moment, — but for beauty's sake.'
Who passes? There's a star-lit breeze that stirs
The glimmer of white lilies in the gloom.
Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers.
And there was more than silence in this room
While you were gazing at me from the wall
And wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine,
If, mastering time's illusion, you could call
Me back to share your vanished candle-shine.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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A Laugh -- And A Moan
The brook that down the valley
So musically drips,
Flowed never half so brightly
As the light laugh from her lips.
Her face was like the lily,
Her heart was like the rose,
Her eyes were like a heaven
Where the sunlight always glows.
She trod the earth so lightly
Her feet touched not a thorn;
Her words wore all the brightness
Of a young life's happy morn.
Along her laughter rippled
The melody of joy;
She drank from every chalice,
And tasted no alloy.
Her life was all a laughter,
Her days were all a smile,
Her heart was pure and happy,
She knew not gloom nor guile.
She rested on the bosom
Of her mother, like a flower
That blooms far in a valley
Where no storm-clouds ever lower.
And -- 'Merry, merry, merry!'
Rang the bells of every hour,
And -- 'Happy, happy, happy!'
In her valley laughed the flower.
There was not a sign of shadow,
There was not a tear nor thorn,
And the sweet voice of her laughter
Filled with melody the morn.
* * * * *
Years passed -- 'twas long, long after,
And I saw a face at prayer;
There was not a sign of laughter,
There was every sign of care.
For the sunshine all had faded
From the valley and the flower,
And the once fair face was shaded
In life's lonely evening hour.
And the lips that smiled with laughter
In the valley of the morn,
In the valley of the evening
They were pale and sorrow-worn.
And I read the old, old lesson
In her face and in her tears,
While she sighed amid the shadows
Of the sunset of her years.
All the rippling streams of laughter
From our hearts and lips that flow,
Shall be frozen, cold years after,
Into icicles of woe.
poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
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Moment In Time
there was a time i loved your face,
i loved your smile,
i loved your everything
and suddenly my world crashed in million peaces,
i hated your face, i hated your smile,
i hated your everything,
as the time passed i learned to live with it,
learned to see your face,
learned to see you smile,
yet your smile was never the same,
i know there is something missing,
that shadow over your face is something new,
but where is the shine in your eyes i used to see,
i used to love, it is not in your eyes,
that shadow stole it,
that shadow which is all over your face, what is it?
i'd like to know will i ever see a smile i loved,
or was it just a dream, a moment in time i got lost in
, and i never found way out, i tried to find it
but i know now that i'm lost forever in that short moment
, now i beg you to show me the way out
or i'll never love anyones face or any other smile
, please let me out of that prison of your eyes,
let me be free from your smile,
i need to get out i need to see the light again,
this shadows are killing me,
let me go or move the shadows away
and keep me forever locked in your smile,
in your eyes and in your heart
The Faceless Man
I'm dead.
Officially I'm dead. Their hope is past.
How long I stood as missing! Now, at last
; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; I'm dead.
Look in my face -- no likeness can you see,
No tiny trace of him they knew as "me".
How terrible the change!
Even my eyes are strange.
So keyed are they to pain,
That if I chanced to meet
My mother in the street
She'd look at me in vain.
When she got home I think she'd say:
"I saw the saddest sight to-day --
A poilu with no face at all.
Far better in the fight to fall
Than go through life like that, I think.
Poor fellow! how he made me shrink.
No face. Just eyes that seemed to stare
At me with anguish and despair.
This ghastly war! I'm almost cheered
To think my son who disappeared,
My boy so handsome and so gay,
Might have come home like him to-day."
I'm dead. I think it's better to be dead
When little children look at you with dread;
And when you know your coming home again
Will only give the ones who love you pain.
Ah! who can help but shrink? One cannot blame.
They see the hideous husk, not, not the flame
Of sacrifice and love that burns within;
While souls of satyrs, riddled through with sin,
Have bodies fair and excellent to see.
Mon Dieu! how different we all would be
If this our flesh was ordained to express
Our spirit's beauty or its ugliness.
(Oh, you who look at me with fear to-day,
And shrink despite yourselves, and turn away --
It was for you I suffered woe accurst;
For you I braved red battle at its worst;
For you I fought and bled and maimed and slew;
&nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; For you, for you!
For you I faced hell-fury and despair;
The reeking horror of it all I knew:
I flung myself into the furnace there;
I faced the flame that scorched me with its glare;
I drank unto the dregs the devil's brew --
Look at me now -- for you and you and you. . . .)
&nb sp; &nbs p; . . . . .
I'm thinking of the time we said good-by:
We took our dinner in Duval's that night,
Just little Jacqueline, Lucette and I;
We tried our very utmost to be bright.
We laughed. And yet our eyes, they weren't gay.
I sought all kinds of cheering things to say.
"Don't grieve," I told them. "Soon the time will pass;
My next permission will come quickly round;
We'll all meet at the Gare du Montparnasse;
Three times I've come already, safe and sound."
(But oh, I thought, it's harder every time,
After a home that seems like Paradise,
To go back to the vermin and the slime,
The weariness, the want, the sacrifice.
"Pray God," I said, "the war may soon be done,
But no, oh never, never till we've won!")
Then to the station quietly we walked;
I had my rifle and my haversack,
My heavy boots, my blankets on my back;
And though it hurt us, cheerfully we talked.
We chatted bravely at the platform gate.
I watched the clock. My train must go at eight.
One minute to the hour . . . we kissed good-by,
Then, oh, they both broke down, with piteous cry.
I went. . . . Their way was barred; they could not pass.
I looked back as the train began to start;
Once more I ran with anguish at my heart
And through the bars I kissed my little lass. . . .
Three years have gone; they've waited day by day.
I never came. I did not even write.
For when I saw my face was such a sight
I thought that I had better . . . stay away.
And so I took the name of one who died,
A friendless friend who perished by my side.
In Prussian prison camps three years of hell
I kept my secret; oh, I kept it well!
And now I'm free, but none shall ever know;
They think I died out there . . . it's better so.
To-day I passed my wife in widow's weeds.
I brushed her arm. She did not even look.
So white, so pinched her face, my heart still bleeds,
And at the touch of her, oh, how I shook!
And then last night I passed the window where
They sat together; I could see them clear,
The lamplight softly gleaming on their hair,
And all the room so full of cozy cheer.
My wife was sewing, while my daughter read;
I even saw my portrait on the wall.
I wanted to rush in, to tell them all;
And then I cursed myself: "You're dead, you're dead!"
God! how I watched them from the darkness there,
Clutching the dripping branches of a tree,
Peering as close as ever I might dare,
And sobbing, sobbing, oh, so bitterly!
But no, it's folly; and I mustn't stay.
To-morrow I am going far away.
I'll find a ship and sail before the mast;
In some wild land I'll bury all the past.
I'll live on lonely shores and there forget,
Or tell myself that there has never been
The gay and tender courage of Lucette,
The little loving arms of Jacqueline.
A man lonely upon a lonely isle,
Sometimes I'll look towards the North and smile
To think they're happy, and they both believe
I died for France, and that I lie at rest;
And for my glory's sake they've ceased to grieve,
And hold my memory sacred. Ah! that's best.
And in that thought I'll find my joy and peace
As there alone I wait the Last Release.
poem by Robert William Service
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My flamingo in June
A love poem.
My flamingo in June:
My aching heart skips a beat,
And an endless moment blends with time,
Peculiar in itself does this seem to me
But thus this moment becomes mine.
This warm tingling sensation in the back of my mind
Something I've always searched for
But could never seem to find.
The way I see the world forever changed.
You may even find this funny, find this crazy, find this silly, find this strange.
But trust me none of you would say this if you've ever felt this way.
It's something that I crave now, every second, of every day.
And it's something I wouldn't trade for the world,
However new it feels to me.
It's something that used to be cliche,
Slightly astute, and cabaret.
It's just something that feels right you see.
No matter how much the irony.
The light seems to shine brighter upon this face,
Like a warm and gentle, light embrace.
It tears my soul to not be here,
I close my eyes and draw her near.
But try as I may it's not the same,
No matter how long I play the game.
So instead I wait and pine,
Over the one it took so long to find.
So instead I ponder the time,
And await patiently for a sign.
I sit back and reminisce,
And smile at my inner bliss.
poem by Parker Griffith
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Every Day
Every day I see him coming
Every day he walks on by
Life used to be so plain and simple
Before he came into my life
Every night I keep on dreaming
Every night I take him home
We always go to bed together
I always wake up all alone
Chorus:
Oh its strange, so strange
What hes doing to me
Oh its strange so strange
Did this ever happen to you
The way it has happened to me
The way it just happened to me
Every day outside my window
Always minutes close to eight
I wish he stayed a little longer
But his bus is never late
Every night were dancing slowly
I play the music he adores
Like Sinatra then were talking
All important things for sure
Chorus:
Oh its strange so strange
What hes doing to me
Oh its strange so strange
Did this ever happen to you
The way it has happened to me
The way it just happened to me
Oh its strange so strange
What hes doing to me
Oh so strange real strange
Did this ever happen to you
The way it has happened to me
The way it just happened to me
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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D e a t h
Well we don’t know do we?
You asked me to write something
about it and I said,
I have nothing to say…
maybe that’s a better place to start.
So should we keep a curtained silence
about it? Stuff cottonwool in that wound
that never quite heals, once made?
Or run down the street, knocking bang bang at all the doors,
shouting tell me about death… and
before that stranger knocks at your own door
and the face is strangely familiar, as if
you’ve been expecting someone, but
weren’t sure what they’d look like…
One thing is certain, in its breezy way:
you’ll be the one who knows least about it
when it happens; but hopefully
the one who knows most about it
after it’s happened…
We could be rather Irish about it,
say, it’s a crying pity you’ll be missing
the wake… but look at it this way,
the funeral won’t cost you a penny…
I’m told that the other day,
a friend of a friend said
whoopee I’m going on holiday…
I guess that would have made for
a rather merrier funeral
as we say now, no dear not a funeral,
a celebration of her life…
but there’s still that moment
of awful mediocrity, when
the coffin begins to move, and it’s half,
this is it, and half, we’re doing this
with discreet good taste, so
you don’t have to notice it… ha…
Then, some like to know beforehand what
they hope just might be known,
visit comfy mediums to ask about
those loved ones who’ve just passed over, is it, dear? …
they make it sound like a well-run care home:
it’s really very nice here, you’ll like it…
they sound as if they’re still wearing
the woollie that you knitted, and it’s tea cups chinking
and a chat about old times.
For the truly religious, of course,
it’s glory day, and so it should:
they’ve made the will, cleaned the house,
given away all that they’ve collected over the years,
said goodbyes; mopped all the tears;
the bags are packed and waiting in the hall,
their conscience clear. This is the moment
when what it’s all about, is what it’s all about..
envy them – their soul is clean, shriven was the old word for it,
their lifetime has been but a preparation,
a walk from one pure spring of grace
to a glorious river full of grace..
so here’s a suggestion: in your mind,
bring together all you’ve loved in all your life –
teddy bear, dolls, kittens, puppies, horses,
maybe even parents… best friends, lovers,
strangers who were unexpectedly kind to you,
friends you hope you’ll never lose,
places that you were forever happy in,
times of happiness that you’ll never forget,
and those strange moments when
you knew you knew something just so great,
but didn’t know exactly what it was you knew…
those moments when time stood still, and
didn't seem to matter any more, because
the where and when that you were in, was forever..
then add to this, all you’ve been, should be
grateful for; all the things you would have praised
more loudly; everyone, but everyone, you love; see
the world as full of wonders unexplained;
see glory everywhere, and yourself
the centre of all that…
stay there.. then what is Death – apart
from what will surely be – compared
to all that glory which is your true self…
go on, admit it… me, I see it shine in you…
what shines in your eternally young eyes
is something that can never die…
Maybe we’ll talk of this some more,
now that we’ve tried to talk about it…
you asked me; this is the best that I can do;
you asked me; this, with all my love, for you..
[A poem written by request]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Real Good Looking Boy
When I think back to the
first time in my childhood
When I saw that face
I thought right then,
'That's a real good looking boy.'
I saw myself in the mirror
in profile
for the first time
I thought,
'Hey! That's a real good looking boy'
And I felt then
that I moved
With all those lucky bucks and angels
High in the theatre
In the sky
So I went to my mother
I said,
'Hey mom - take look at me'
Have you ever seen a teen
Fly so high?
That's a real good looking boy
That's a real good looking boy
She said,
'Son, well, you know,
you're ugly boy.
You don't really look like him.
In this long line
There's been some
real strange genes
You've got 'em all
You've got 'em all
With some extras thrown in
That's a real good looking boy
That's a real good looking boy
That's a real good looking boy
That's a real good looking boy
Wise men say
Only fools, only fools rush in
But I - I give in
Falling in love, in love with you
Now I'm here with you little darling
And you say, 'You're beautiful as you are'
And I've managed somehow to survive
You arrived in my life like a fragrance
And helped me find a way to laugh
And I know now so-called beauty lies
God gave him a face
Then he gave me something above
God gave me grace
Then he gave me your sweet, sweet, sweet love
You make me feel like a real good looking boy
I feel like a real good looking boy
That's a real good looking boy
That's a real good looking boy
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Im Going Slightly Mad
Words and music by queen
When the outside temperature rises
And the meaning is oh so clear
One thousand and one yellow daffodils
Begin to dance in front of you - oh dear
Are they trying to tell you something
Youre missing that one final screw
Youre simply not in the pink my dear
To be honest you havent got a clue
Im going slightly mad
Im going slightly mad
It finally happened - happened
It finally happened - ooh oh
It finally happened
Im slightly mad
Oh dear
Im one card short of a full deck
Im not quite the shilling
One wave short of a shipwreck
Im not my usual top billing
Im coming down with a fever
Im really out to sea
This kettle is boiling over
I think Im a banana tree
Oh dear
Im going slightly mad
Im going slightly mad
It finally happened - happened
It finally happened - uh huh
It finally happened
Im slightly mad
Oh dear
Ooh ooh ah ah
Ooh ooh ah ah
Im knitting with only one needle
Unravelling fast its true
Im driving only three wheels these days
But my dear how about you
Im going slightly mad
Im going slightly mad
It finally happened
It finally happened - oh yes
It finally happened
Im slightly mad
Just very slightly mad
And there you have it
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As a World Would Have It
ALCESTIS
Shall I never make him look at me again?
I look at him, I look my life at him,
I tell him all I know the way to tell,
But there he stays the same.
Shall I never make him speak one word to me?
Shall I never make him say enough to show
My heart if he be glad? Be glad? … ah! God,
Why did they bring me back?
I wonder, if I go to him again,
If I take him by those two cold hands again,
Shall I get one look of him at last, or feel
One sign—or anything?
Or will he still sit there in the same way,
Without an answer for me from his lips,
Or from his eyes,—or even with a touch
Of his hand on my hand?…
“Will you look down this once—look down at me?
Speak once—and if you never speak again,
Tell me enough—tell me enough to make
Me know that you are glad!
“You are my King, and once my King would speak:
You were Admetus once, you loved me once:
Life was a dream of heaven for us once—
And has the dream gone by?
“Do I cling to shadows when I call you Life?
Do you love me still, or are the shadows all?
Or is it I that love you in the grave,
And you that mourn for me?
“If it be that, then do not mourn for me;
Be glad that I have loved you, and be King.
But if it be not that—if it be true …
Tell me if it be true!”
Then with a choking answer the King spoke;
But never touched his hand on hers, or fixed
His eyes on hers, or on the face of her:
“Yes, it is true,” he said.
“You are alive, and you are with me now;
And you are reaching up to me that I—
That I may take you—I that am a King—
I that was once a man."
So then she knew. She might have known before;
Truly, she thought, she must have known it long
Before: she must have known it when she came
From that great sleep of hers.
She knew the truth, but not yet all of it:
He loved her, but he would not let his eyes
Prove that he loved her; and he would not hold
His wife there in his arms.
So, like a slave, she waited at his knees,
And waited. She was not unhappy now.
She quivered, but she knew that he would speak
Again—and he did speak.
And while she felt the tremor of his words,
He told her all there was for him to tell;
And then he turned his face to meet her face,
That she might look at him.
She looked; and all her trust was in that look,
And all her faith was in it, and her love;
And when his answer to that look came back,
It flashed back through his tears.
So then she put her arms around his neck,
And kissed him on his forehead and his lips;
And there she clung, fast in his arms again,
Triumphant, with closed eyes.
At last, half whispering, she spoke once more:
“Why was it that you suffered for so long?
Why could you not believe me—trust in me?
Was I so strange as that?
“We suffer when we do not understand;
And you have suffered—you that love me now—
Because you are a man.… There is one thing
No man can understand.
“I would have given everything?—gone down
To Tartarus—to silence? Was it that?
I would have died? I would have let you live?—
And was it very strange?”
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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With Eternity Standing By
How shall I bid you good--bye,
Dear, without tears?
Only once in the years,
The idle vanishing years,
We met, with Eternity standing by,
And loved, a little forgotten space,
I for the sake of your beautiful face,
You I hardly know how or why,
Or whether you loved me indeed, alas,
With Eternity standing by.
We played our comedy parts,
Scene after scene.
You were to be my queen,
My dear sweet comedy queen,
I your lover and knave of hearts
Who kissed your hand in the make--believe
And looked for the bee in your royal sleeve,
And stopped, because of the pain that smarts,
The pangs that soften, the sighs that grieve,
And the rest of the tragic parts.
We did not know that we loved,
Not at the first of it.
That, ah that was the worst of it,
The aching sorrowful worst of it,
Not till I saw that your soul was moved
At the sound of my voice, as in tears I read
Of Guinevere and the days long dead,
And the knights and ladies who lived and loved
And went to their graves and were harvested.
Then, ah then, it was proved.
So I dare not bid you good--bye,
Dear, without tears.
Things there are in the years,
The coming ominous years,
All too sad for us not to cry.
Other joys shall forgotten be,
But not the pilgrimage made with me,
The Severn's flood and the angry sky,
And the love we talked of, which could not be
With Eternity standing by.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And Where Is She Now
How often do you wonder
what happened to your first love.
Sometimes I do it all the time.
I wonder what she is doing,
what kind of life she’s lead,
has she had any children and how many.
Did she ever marry the man of her dream,
or is she still waiting
for him to come along?
The questions are without answers,
as I really don’t know.
My first love was Gillian Reid.
I met her at a dance hall
where she worked.
I caught a glimpse of her
the first night I went there
from the corner of my eye.
It was enough for me
to fall madly in love with her.
I slowly got to know as time passed by.
We never went out together though I did try.
However, I had fallen madly in love with her.
Sadly, that love was never returned.
She did however become
a source of inspiration
for many years to come.
I wrote songs by the score,
even my first novel
was written for her.
As the years passed,
she still did inspire me
with short stories and a radio play
and of course
a poem or two.
The last I heard about her
was way back in the late sixties
when someone had told me
she went all hippie.
Still I never saw her again
and I often wonder
would I recognise her
if by chance we passed on the street.
One thing I do remember well.
I wrote her a letter,
the longest letter that I’ve ever written.
It took five envelops to sent it,
so I must have been smitten.
And where is she now
your guess is as good as mine.
All I can tell you is this,
somewhere in this heart of mine
a small fire for her still burns
for the first love of mine.
Time has never dampened
all the embers in there.
However, my wife
has nothing to worry about.
The past is the past
and that is just where it is staying.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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