On A Very Old Woman
And thou wert once a maiden fair,
A blushing virgin warm and young:
With myrtles wreathed in golden hair,
And glossy brow that knew no care—
Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung.
The golden locks are silvered now,
The blushing cheek is pale and wan;
The spring may bloom, the autumn glow,
All's one—in chimney corner thou
Sitt'st shivering on.—
A moment—and thou sink'st to rest!
To wake perhaps an angel blest,
In the bright presence of thy Lord.
Oh, weary is life's path to all!
Hard is the strife, and light the fall,
But wondrous the reward!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Dying Child
Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.
Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.
Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!
Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?
Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!
Do not sigh thus - it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired - my weary eyes are closing -
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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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
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Villanelle:
WOULDST thou not be content to die
When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging,
And golden Autumn passes by?
Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky,
While sunset bells are faintly ringing,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
For wintry webs of mist on high
Out of the muffled earth are springing,
And golden Autumn passes by.
O now when pleasures fade and fly,
And Hope her southward flight is winging,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
Lest Winter come, with wailing cry
His cruel icy bondage bringing,
When golden Autumn hath passed by.
And thou, with many a tear and sigh,
While life her wasted hands is wringing,
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die
When golden Autumn hath passed by.
poem by Edmund William Gosse
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To Atthis The Inconstant
Fragments 33, 57A, 44, 41, 70, 58 combined.
I loved thee, Atthis, — even thee! —
Ah, long ago!
As Aphrodite's handmaid bright
As gold wert thou then in my sight.
A very queen of love to me
Then didst thou show.
Fair gifts I sent thee — 'broidery
Of golden thread whose shimmering light
Flashed mid the purple on thy knee,
A gleam and glow.
Then I knew not thine heart aright:
But now I know!
Thou incarnate false inconstancy —
To whom I grow
A thing to hate! — thou takest flight
On wings of love to — who is she?
A rustic wench whose garments flow
About her heels ungracefully!
O yea, let thy false love requite
Andromeda's worship! Take delight
In her — thou who from my love's height
Hast sunk so low!
Knight Aagen And The Maiden Else
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH.
It was the fair knight Aagen
To an isle he went his way,
And plighted troth to Else,
Who was so fair a may.
He plighted troth to Else
All with the ruddy gold,
But or ere that day’s moon came again
Low he lay in the black, black mould.
It was the maiden Else,
She was fulfilled of woe
When she heard how the fair knight Aagen
In the black mould lay alow.
Uprose the fair knight Aagen,
Coffin on back took he,
And he’s away to her bower,
Sore hard as the work might be.
With that same chest on door he smote,
For the lack of flesh and skin;
“O hearken, maiden Else,
And let thy true-love in!”
Then answered maiden Else,
“Never open I my door,
But and if thou namest Jesu’s name
As thou hadst might before.”
“O hearken, maiden Else,
And open thou thy door,
For Jesu’s name I well may name
As I had might before!”
Then uprose maiden Else,
O’er her cheek the salt tears ran,
Nor spared she into her very bower
To welcome that dead man.
O, she’s taken up her comb of gold
And combed adown her hair,
And for every hair she combed adown
There fell a weary tear.
“Hearken thou, knight Aagen,
Hearken, true-love, and tell,
If down-adown in the black, black earth
Thou farest ever well?”
“O whenso thou art joyous,
And the heart is glad in thee,
Then fares it with my coffin
That red roses are with me.
“But whenso thou art sorrowful
And weary is thy mood,
Then all within my coffin
Is it dreadful with dark blood.
“Now is the red cock a-crowing,
To the earth adown must I;
Down to the earth wend all dead folk,
And I wend in company.
“Now is the black cock a-crowing,
To the earth must I adown,
For the gates of Heaven are opening now,
Thereto must I begone.”
Uprose the fair knight Aagen,
Coffin on back took he,
And he’s away to the churchyard now,
Sore hard as the work might be.
But so wrought maiden Else,
Because of her weary mood,
That she followed after own true love
All through the mirk wild wood.
But when the wood was well passed through,
And in the churchyard they were,
Then was the fair knight Aagen
Waxen wan of his golden hair.
And when therefrom they wended
And were the church within,
Then was the fair knight Aagen
Waxen wan of cheek and chin.
“Hearken thou, maiden Else,
Hearken, true-love, to me,
Weep no more for thine own troth-plight,
However it shall be!
“Look thou up to the heavens aloft,
To the little stars and bright,
And thou shalt see how sweetly
It fareth with the night!”
She looked up to the heavens aloft,
To the little stars bright above
The dead man sank into his grave,
Ne’er again she saw her love.
Home then went maiden Else,
Mid sorrow manifold,
And ere that night’s moon came again
She lay alow in the mould.
poem by William Morris
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To
I will not mourn thee, lovely one,
Though thou art torn away.
'Tis said that if the morning sun
Arise with dazzling ray
And shed a bright and burning beam
Athwart the glittering main,
'Ere noon shall fade that laughing gleam
Engulfed in clouds and rain.
And if thy life as transient proved,
It hath been full as bright,
For thou wert hopeful and beloved;
Thy spirit knew no blight.
If few and short the joys of life
That thou on earth couldst know,
Little thou knew'st of sin and strife
Nor much of pain and woe.
If vain thy earthly hopes did prove,
Thou canst not mourn their flight;
Thy brightest hopes were fixed above
And they shall know no blight.
And yet I cannot check my sighs,
Thou wert so young and fair,
More bright than summer morning skies,
But stern death would not spare;
He would not pass our darling by
Nor grant one hour's delay,
But rudely closed his shining eye
And frowned his smile away,
That angel smile that late so much
Could my fond heart rejoice;
And he has silenced by his touch
The music of thy voice.
I'll weep no more thine early doom,
But O! I still must mourn
The pleasures buried in thy tomb,
For they will not return.
poem by Anne Brontë
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To ------
I will not mourn thee, lovely one,
Though thou art torn away.
'Tis said that if the morning sun
Arise with dazzling ray
And shed a bright and burning beam
Athwart the glittering main,
'Ere noon shall fade that laughing gleam
Engulfed in clouds and rain.
And if thy life as transient proved,
It hath been full as bright,
For thou wert hopeful and beloved;
Thy spirit knew no blight.
If few and short the joys of life
That thou on earth couldst know,
Little thou knew'st of sin and strife
Nor much of pain and woe.
If vain thy earthly hopes did prove,
Thou canst not mourn their flight;
Thy brightest hopes were fixed above
And they shall know no blight.
And yet I cannot check my sighs,
Thou wert so young and fair,
More bright than summer morning skies,
But stern death would not spare;
He would not pass our darling by
Nor grant one hour's delay,
But rudely closed his shining eye
And frowned his smile away,
That angel smile that late so much
Could my fond heart rejoice;
And he has silenced by his touch
The music of thy voice.
I'll weep no more thine early doom,
But O! I still must mourn
The pleasures buried in thy tomb,
For they will not return.
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Harvests
Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe ’neath an autumn sky,
Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o’er hillside, valley or plain,
Than fruits ’mid their leafy screen.
Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition’s race,
The last in talent, power or place,
Will all find work in that field.
Man toiling, lab’ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou’lt shudder in death’s cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
At that harvest work instead!
Lady, with queenly form and brow,
Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow,
Who need only smile to win;
’Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave,
Is one whom a warning word might save
From folly, sorrow or sin.
Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright
Will glow with holier, softer light
For the good that thou hast done;
And a time will come when thou wilt reap
From that simple act more pleasure deep
Than from flatt’ring conquests won.
Young girl in thy bright youth’s blushing dawn,
Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn,
There is work for thee to do,
And higher aims than to flirt and smile,
And practise each gay, coquettish wile,
Admiring glances to woo.
Ah! the world is full of grief and care,
Sad, breaking hearts are every where,
And thou can’st give relief;
Alms to the needy—soft word of hope
That a brighter view may chance to ope
To mourners bowed by grief.
That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower
That tempt thee at the present hour,
To be worn, then cast aside,
Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring,
Fuel or food to the famishing
And help to the sorely tried.
Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare,
Worthy all toil and patient care,
Think of the promised reward!
Not earthly gains that will pass away
Like morning mist or bright sunset ray,
But Christ Himself, our Lord!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Three Enemies
THE FLESH
"Sweet, thou art pale."
"More pale to see,
Christ hung upon the cruel tree
And bore His Father's wrath for me."
"Sweet, thou art sad."
"Beneath a rod
More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
The winepress of the wrath of God."
"Sweet, thou art weary."
"Not so Christ:
Whose mighty love of me suffic'd
For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist."
"Sweet, thou art footsore."
"If I bleed,
His feet have bled; yea in my need
His Heart once bled for mine indeed."
THE WORLD
"Sweet, thou art young."
"So He was young
Who for my sake in silence hung
Upon the Cross with Passion wrung."
"Look, thou art fair."
"He was more fair
Than men, Who deign'd for me to wear
A visage marr'd beyond compare."
"And thou hast riches."
"Daily bread:
All else is His: Who, living, dead,
For me lack'd where to lay His Head."
"And life is sweet."
"It was not so
To Him, Whose Cup did overflow
With mine unutterable woe."
THE DEVIL
"Thou drinkest deep."
"When Christ would sup
He drain'd the dregs from out my cup:
So how should I be lifted up?"
"Thou shalt win Glory."
"In the skies,
Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes
Lest they should look on vanities."
"Thou shalt have Knowledge."
"Helpless dust!
In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust:
Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just."
"And Might."--
"Get thee behind me. Lord,
Who hast redeem'd and not abhorr'd
My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word."
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Whispers Of Time
What does time whisper, youth gay and light,
While thinning thy locks, silken and bright,
While paling thy soft cheek’s roseate dye,
Dimming the light of thy flashing eye,
Stealing thy bloom and freshness away—
Is he not hinting at death—decay?
Man, in the wane of thy stately prime,
Hear’st thou the silent warnings of Time?
Look at thy brow ploughed by anxious care,
The silver hue of thy once dark hair;—
What boot thine honors, thy treasures bright,
When Time tells of coming gloom and night?
Sad age, dost thou note thy strength nigh, spent,
How slow thy footstep—thy form how bent?
Yet on looking back how short doth seem
The checkered coarse of thy life’s brief dream.
Time, daily weakening each link and tie,
Doth whisper how soon thou art to die.
O! what a weary world were ours
With that thought to cloud our brightest hours,
Did we not know that beyond the skies
A land of beauty and promise ties,
Where peaceful and blessed we will love—adore—
When Time itself shall be no more!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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May Song
How fair doth Nature
Appear again!
How bright the sunbeams!
How smiles the plain!
The flow'rs are bursting
From ev'ry bough,
And thousand voices
Each bush yields now.
And joy and gladness
Fill ev'ry breast!
Oh earth!--oh sunlight!
Oh rapture blest!
Oh love! oh loved one!
As golden bright,
As clouds of morning
On yonder height!
Thou blessest gladly
The smiling field,--
The world in fragrant
Vapour conceal'd.
Oh maiden, maiden,
How love I thee!
Thine eye, how gleams it!
How lov'st thou me!
The blithe lark loveth
Sweet song and air,
The morning flow'ret
Heav'n's incense fair,
As I now love thee
With fond desire,
For thou dost give me
Youth, joy, and fire,
For new-born dances
And minstrelsy.
Be ever happy,
As thou lov'st me!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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All This Is That
I am that, thou art that, and all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
This is that
Oooo
Daybreak and I take a glide
Into the pool of peace inside
(two waves travel by)
To waves and I both travel by
(and that makes all the difference to me)
Life supporting waves of bliss
Mother divines precious kiss
Brings with love the light of wisdom
And the gift of eternal freedom
To waves and I both travel by
(... and the nature of man...)
And that makes all the difference to me
(krishna...)
All this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
This is that
This is that
Dusk time the shadows fall
Into the timeless time of all
To waves and I both travel by
Golden auras glow around you
Omnipresent love surrounds you
Wisdom warming as the sun
You and I are truly one
To waves and I both travel by
And that makes all the difference to me
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
Jai guru dev
(I am that, thou art that, all this is that)
Jai
(I am that, thou art that, all this is that)
Jai guru dev
(I am that, thou art that, all this is that)
Jai
(I am that, thou art that, all this is that)
(jai guru dev)
(jai guru dev)
(jai guru dev)
Jai guru dev
(jai guru dev)
(jai guru dev)
(jai guru dev)
Jai
(I am that, thou art that, all this is that)
Jai guru dev
Jai
Jai guru dev
Jai
Jai guru dev
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Nettie
Now has the spring her treasures all unbound,
The earth has put her wedding-garment on,
And, robed in light, with flowers and verdure crowned,
Comes forth in joy to meet the bridegroom sun.
Thou, too, in thy young life's first bloom and pride,
Joyous as spring, fresh as the morning air,
Fair as the flowers of May, comest forth a bride,
And bowest thy head, Love's golden chain to wear.
Were mine the power, thy course of life should be
Serene and tranquil as the summer sky.
No wintry blast should rudely visit thee,
No tear of sorrow ever dim thine eye.
And when that hour should come, as come it must,
And thy long summer day draw to its close,
Filled with immortal hope and heavenly trust
Thou like the sun shouldst sink to thy repose.
Vain wish, for cloudless skies, life without tears!
A wiser, higher power controls thy fate.
Sorrow and joy are each his ministers;
And each alike on human footsteps wait.
Seek then his aid who was a man of grief,
Who bore the cross and won a crown for thee,
And thou shalt walk the troubled sea of life,
As once he walked the Sea of Galilee.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Was Not False To Thee
I WAS not false to thee, and yet
My cheek alone looked pale;
My weary eye was dim and wet,
My strength began to fail.
Thou wert the same; thy looks were gay,
Thy step was light and free;
And yet, with truth, my heart can say,
I was not false to thee!
I was not false to thee, yet now
Thou hast a cheerful eye,
With flushing cheek and drooping brow
I wander mournfully.
I hate to meet the gaze of men,
I weep where none can see;
Why do I only suffer, when
I was not false to thee?
I was not false to thee; yet oh!
How scornfully they smile,
Who see me droop, who guess my woe,
Yet court thee all the while.
'Tis strange! but when long years are past,
Thou wilt remember me;
Whilst I can feel until the last,
I was not false to thee!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Grave Of A Poetess
I stood beside thy lowly grave;
Spring-odours breath'd around,
And music, in the river-wave,
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun,
In the bright air glanc'd by,
And a glad murmur seem'd to run
Thro' the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough
That fring'd the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad–but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee,
Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world's vernal dawn.
Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have lov'd so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring,–
And thou wert pass'd away!
But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look'd ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What see'st thou then where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st–but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud, but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep!
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?–
Now peace the woman's heart hath found,
And joy the poet's eye.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Nightingale
WHEN the moon a golden-pale
Lustre on my casement flings,
An enchanted nightingale
In the haunted silence sings.
Strange the song—its wondrous words
Taken from the primal tongue,
Known to men, and beasts, and birds,
When the care-worn world was young
Listening low, I hear the stars
Through her strains move solemnly,
And on lonesome banks and bars
Hear the sobbing of the sea.
And my memory dimly gropes
Hints to gather from her song
Of forgotten fears and hopes,
Joys and griefs forgotten long.
And I feel once more the strife
Of a passion, fierce and grand,
That, in some long-vanished life,
Held my soul at its command.
Ah, my Love, in robes of white
Standing by a moonlit sea,
Like a lily of the night,
Hast thou quite forgotten me?
Dost thou never dream at whiles
Of that silent, templed vale,
And the dim wood in whose aisles
Sang a secret nightingale?
Whither hast thou gone? What star
Holds thy spirit pure and fine?
In this world below there are
None like thee: and thou wert mine!
For a season all things last,
Love and Joy, and Life and Death;
Thou art portion of my past,
I of thine, whilst Time draws breath.
Fades the moonlight golden-pale,
And the bird has ceased to sing—
Ah, it was no nightingale,
But my heart—remembering.
poem by Victor James Daley
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My Light Thou Art
My light thou art, without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darkened with eternal night;
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way, I wander if thou fly;
Thou art my light, if hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my life, if thou withdraw'st I die.
Thou art my life; if thou but turn away,
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way;
Without thee, Love, I travel not, but stray.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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Be Thou My Vision
Be thou my vision, oh lord of my heart
Nought be all else to me, save that thy art
Thou my best thought in the day and the night
Waking or sleeping, thou presence my light
Be thou my wisdom, be thou my true word
I ever with thee and thou with me lord
Thou my great father and I thy true son
Thou in me dwelling and I with thee one
Be thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight
Be thou my armour and be thou my might
Thou my soul shelter, and thy my high tower
Raise thou me heavenwards, oh power of my power
Riches I need not, nor mans empty praise
Thou mine inheritance through all of my days
Thou and thou only though first in my heart
High king of heaven my treasure thou art
Oh high king of heaven, when battle is done
Grant heavens joy to me, bright heaven sun
Christ of my own heart, whatever befall
Still be my vision, though ruler of all
Da, da, da, da, da, etc.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Death Of The Pauper Child
Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!
No sobs—no grieving now:
No burning tears must thou let fall
Upon that cold still brow;
No look of anguish cast above,
Nor smite thine aching breast,
But clasp thy hands and thank thy God—
Thy darling is at rest.
Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids
Over the violet eyes,
Whose liquid light was once as clear
As that of summer skies.
Is it not bliss to know what e’er
Thy future griefs and fears,
They will be never dimmed like thine
By sorrow’s scalding tears?
Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
From which life’s warmth has fled,
For ever freed from wearing toil—
The toil for daily bread:
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
The little waxen feet,
Spared wayside journeys long and rough,
Spared many a weary beat.
Draw close around the lifeless form
The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birthright—just such rags
As thou for years hast worn;
Her earthly dower the bitter crust
She might from pity crave,
Moistened by tears—then, final gift,
A pauper’s lowly grave.
Now, raise thy spirit’s gaze above!
See’st thou yon angel fair,
With flowing robes and starry crown
Gemming her golden hair?
Changed, glorified in every trait,
Still with that beauty mild;
Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know
Thine own, thy late-lost child.
An heir to heaven’s entrancing bliss,
Veiled in its golden glow,
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
Left on this earth below.
Courage!—not long thy weary steps
O’er barren wastes shall roam,
Thy daring prays the Father now
To quickly call thee home!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Written At Sea
What is my quarrel with thee, beautiful sea,
That thus I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or hear thy voice but it tormenteth me?
Why do I hate thee, who art beautiful
Beyond all beauty, when the nights are cool,
And the stars fade because the moon is full?
Why do I hate thee? Thou art new and young,
And life is thine for loving, and thy tongue
Hath tones that I have known and loved and sung.
Thou hast a smile which would my smiling greet;
Thy brave heart beateth as my own doth beat,
And thou hast tears which should be true and sweet.
Thou art a creature, strong and fair and brave,
Such as I might have given the world to have
And love and cherish;--and thou art my slave.
I have my home in thee. Thy arms enfold
Me all night long, and I am rocked and rolled,
And thou art never weary of thy hold.
Thou art a woman in thy constancy,
And worthy better love than mine could be;
And yet, behold, I cannot suffer thee.
If thou wert dumb; if thou wert like the sky,
Which has not learned to speak our misery
In any voice less rude than the wind's cry;
If thou wert wholly young and didst not know
The secret of our ancient human woe,
Or if thou knewest it wholly as I know;
Or yet if thou wert old with all these years;
If thou wert dull to hopes and loves and fears;
If thou wert blind and couldst not see our tears;
If thou wert bounded by some rocky shore,
And hadst not given thyself thus wholly o'er
To our poor single selves with all thy store;
If thou wert not in thy immensity,
A single circle circling with the sky,
Where we must still be centres changelessly;
If thou wert other than thou art; alas,
If thou wert not of water, but a mass
Of formless earth, a waveless plain of grass;
If thou wert shapeless as the mountains are;
If thou wert clad in some discordant wear;
If thou wert not so blue and trim and fair;
If thou wert decked with towns and villages;
If there was heard, across the silent seas,
The music of church bells upon the breeze;
If thou wert this; or if thou wert not near,
But I could only sit apart and hear
The beating of thy waves, and find it drear,
But wild and quite unknown, and far from me;
Sea, if thou couldst no longer be the sea,
Then I could love thee as thou lovest me.
If thou wouldst have me love thee, beautiful sea,
Build up a wall of dark 'twixt thee and me;
Let me not see thee; call the night to thee.
League with the winds; rise up, and send them driven
To roll mad clouds about thy back at even.
Make thee a desolation of the heaven.
Thou shouldst compel me, with thy angry voice,
To choose 'twixt death and thee; and, at the choice,
If my cheek grew not pale, thou might'st rejoice,
And I might love thee, oh thou monstrous sea;
But now I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or bear thy beauty in my misery.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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