Mortua est
A torch watching closely the sad and wet tomb,
A bell chiming harshly in this holy gloom,
A dream which is dipping its wing in the gall
That's how you have traveled beyond the world's wall.
You've passed when the sky is a field of delight,
With rivers of sweet milk and flowers of light,
When castles of black clouds are hiding the sun
And moon, the fair queen, visits them one by one.
You are like the silver that catches the eye,
With wings elevated you soar to the sky,
The clouds airy scaffold you climb, pale white soul,
Through showers of sun rays, the stars are your goal.
A ray takes you higher, a song leads your quest,
Your arms, white and tender, are crossed on your chest,
When loud is the spinning of spells everywhere,
There's silver in waters and gold in the air.
Your pure, candid soul through heaven is rolled;
I watch your remains... just dust white and cold,
Attired in clothes in coffin they sleep
I look at your smile, still lively and deep –
And quickly I'm asking my poor injured soul,
How come you died angel and death took his toll?
Are you not the youngster who offered delight?
You've gone to extinguish a star shining bright?
But up there in heaven are castles it seems
With vaults made of fine gold and walls of star beams,
With bridges of silver and streams, which flames bring,
With banks full of myrrh trees and flowers that sing;
They're waiting for your steps, O, dear holy queen,
With hair made of sun rays and eyes bright and clean,
Dressed up in a blue dress – a gold spotted gown,
And wearing on your head a thin laurel crown.
O, death is a chaos, an ocean of stars
While life is a puddle of dreams and of scars;
O, death is an epoch embroidered with suns
While life is a story so ugly that stuns –
Or maybe my thinking is stormy and void
The good thoughts I cherish are quickly destroyed...
When all suns are dying and stars fall on earth
I'll come to believe that the world isn't worth.
The high vault of heaven may crash and lose might,
The nothingness maybe will bring its long night,
I may see the dark sky, its worlds out of breath,
Which are easy prey to perpetual death.
And if it were so... my thinking runs rife,
Your warm, feeble breathing won't come back to life,
Your voice sweet and sounding will hush in dismay,
So, this lovely angel was made out of clay.
And yet, my dead dust and beautiful queen,
Against your dark coffin my hoarse harp I lean;
I don't cry for your death, but happy I say
That you left the chaos and went far away.
I stand here and wonder, which one better goes,
To be or to not be... but anyone knows
That what's non-existent cannot feel the pain,
There are many hardships, few pleasures remain.
To be? It's sad madness and empty and wry
Your eyes are deceiving, your ears always lie;
An age teaches something, which others disdain,
So better have nothing than hoping in vain.
I see dreams embodied, which chase other dreams,
But each one in graveyard will give up its needs,
My thinking is hazy and all thoughts are frail,
Shall I laugh like crazy? Or curse them or wail?
But then, for what reason? There's madness throughout
How come, pretty angel, you had to die out?
Has this world a meaning? O, dear smiling face
You lived just for dying? An awful disgrace;
If this has a meaning, it's just a facade,
Because on your forehead it's not written God.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by Octavian Cocoş
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Venus and Madonna [Venere şi Madonă]
An ideal lost in darkness of a world that's gone for ever,
Which in fairy tales was thinking and in poems used to speak,
I can see and hear you, goddess, my sweet news, so young and clever
Living in a starry heaven full of deities antique.
Venus, warm and tender marble, eye of stone, which sparkles lively
Lazy arm, like the slow thinking of a king and poet, too,
Wonderful deification of the woman looking nicely,
Of that woman, which at present, still I think she's fair and true.
Raphael, lost in his visions, in a night when stars were present,
Soul by rays intoxicated and by many lovely springs,
Saw you and he dreamed the heaven with its gardens, smelling pleasant,
Saw you floating among angels and among the holy things.
And created on the canvas the Madonna, divine being,
With her maiden smile and wearing a tiara of stars bright
With pale face and yellow tresses, woman-angel and appealing,
For the woman is the image of the angels pure and white.
So did I, lost in the darkness of a life of rhymes enchanting,
I saw you, O, barren woman without soul, and I was struck
And I took you for an angel, sweet like magic and like chanting,
When the wretched life is lighted by a strong ray of good luck.
And I saw your pale complexion, sign of sick intoxication,
Your lips bruised by the corruption, which is biting nastily,
And I covered you, cruel woman, with white veils of inspiration,
On your pallor, with my poems, throwing rays of chastity.
I gave you the rays encircling with their magic and their power
The white forehead of the angel who will help us carry on,
Turned the fiend into a hermit and the sneer into a flower
And your bold and filthy glances into a majestic dawn.
But today, the veil is falling, ruthless woman! dreams are shattered,
Your chilled lips awaken quickly my sincere and sleepy brow
And I watch you, evil demon, and my love, so cold and scattered,
Teaches me a precious lesson, that I should despise you now!
You are like a young bacchante, who has stolen without caring
The green myrtle of the martyr from the forehead of a maid,
A young virgin, whose soul surely, is as holy as a praying,
While the one of the bacchante raves and wriggles in the shade.
Oh, as Raphael created the Madonna, divine being,
With her maiden smile and wearing a tiara of stars bright,
I made out of a pale woman a true goddess, nice and pleasing,
But devoid of any feelings, with a soul as black as night!
Are you crying, child? - I wonder, with your wet and pleading glances
Can you break again my poor heart as the wind would break a bough?
Falling at your feet I'm looking in your eyes, two black expanses,
And I kiss your hands while asking if they can forgive me now.
* * *
Wipe your eyes and stop your crying!... Blaming you was cruel, disgusting,
An unjust, crooked accusation, without essence, full of lies.
Even if you were a demon, love makes you a saint, I'm trusting,
And I love this evil demon with blonde hair and deep large eyes.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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You're my Angel
You're an Angel that nobody can see,
Still an Angel is what you are to me
An angel from heaven is what you are
In my sky you're definitely a heavenly star
You're an angel with beauty & grace
You're so kind & sweet,
you have an angel’s face
You have a pair of angel’s wings
Happiness and joy are just some things
That an angel can give
In my heart & mind is where you're living
You have hair as soft as the white clouds
A guardian angel is what I have gotten.
Your eyes are like sapphires that shine bright.
When everything is dark, you give me light.
You're an angel that gives me a reason to live,
You're an angel that teaches me to give.
You're an angel that teaches me the right things to say.
You're my angel & Ill always care.
You're my angel & you know Ill always be there.
poem by Dr Nihar Ranjan Ray
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The Mother
I
IT was April, blossoming spring,
They buried me, when the birds did sing;
Earth, in clammy wedging earth,
They banked my bed with a black, damp girth.
Under the damp and under the mould,
I kenned my breasts were clammy and cold.
Out from the red beams, slanting and bright,
I kenned my cheeks were sunken and white.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream,
And yet I kenned all things that seem.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream,
But you cannot bury a red sunbeam.
For though in the under-grave's doom-night
I lay all silent and stark and white,
Yet over my head I seemed to know
The murmurous moods of wind and snow,
The snows that wasted, the winds that blew,
The rays that slanted, the clouds that drew
The water-ghosts up from lakes below,
And the little flower-souls in earth that grow.
Under earth, in the grave's stark night,
I felt the stars and the moon's pale light.
I felt the winds of ocean and land
That whispered the blossoms soft and bland.
Though they had buried me dark and low,
My soul with the season's seemed to grow.
II
From throes of pain they buried me low,
For death had finished a mother's woe.
But under the sod, in the grave's dread doom,
I dreamed of my baby in glimmer and gloom.
I dreamed of my babe, and I kenned that his rest
Was broken in wailings on my dead breast.
I dreamed that a rose-leaf hand did cling;
Oh, you cannot bury a mother in spring!
When the winds are soft and the blossoms are red
She could not sleep in her cold earth-bed.
I dreamed of my babe for a day and a night,
And then I rose in my grave-clothes white.
I rose like a flower from my damp earth-bed
To the world of sorrowing overhead.
Men would have called me a thing of harm,
But dreams of my babe made me rosy and warm.
I felt my breasts swell under my shroud;
No star shone white, no winds were loud;
But I stole me past the graveyard wall,
For the voice of my baby seemed to call;
And I kenned me a voice, though my lips were dumb:
Hush, baby, hush! for mother is come.
I passed the streets to my husband's home;
The chamber stairs in a dream I clomb;
I heard the sound of each sleeper's breath,
Light waves that break on the shores of death.
I listened a space at my chamber door,
Then stole like a moon-ray over its floor.
My babe was asleep on a stranger's arm,
'O baby, my baby, the grave is so warm,
'Though dark and so deep, for mother is there!
O come with me from the pain and care!
'O come with me from the anguish of earth,
Where the bed is banked with a blossoming girth,
'Where the pillow is soft and the rest is long,
And mother will croon you a slumber-song–
'A slumber-song that will charm your eyes
To a sleep that never in earth-song lies!
'The loves of earth your being can spare,
But never the grave, for mother is there.'
I nestled him soft to my throbbing breast,
And stole me back to my long, long rest.
And here I lie with him under the stars,
Dead to earth, its peace and its wars;
Dead to its hates, its hopes, and its harms,
So long as he cradles up soft in my arms.
And heaven may open its shimmering doors,
And saints make music on pearly floors,
And hell may yawn to its infinite sea,
But they never can take my baby from me.
For so much a part of my soul he hath grown
That God doth know of it high on His throne.
And here I lie with him under the flowers
That sun-winds rock through the billowy hours,
With the night-airs that steal from the murmuring sea,
Bringing sweet peace to my baby and me.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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U R My Angle
You're an Angel that nobody can see,
Still an Angel is what you are to me
An angel from heaven is what you are
In my sky you're definably a heavenly star
You're an angel with beauty & grace
You're kind & sweet, you have an angel face
You have very graceful angel wings
Happiness and joy are just some things
that an angel can give
In my heart & mind is where you're living
You have hair as soft as the white clouds
A guardian angel is what Ive gotten.
Your eyes are like sapphires that shine bright.
When everything is dark, you give me light.
You're an angel that gives me a reason to live,
You're an angel that teaches me to give.
You're an angel that teaches me the right things to say.
You're my angel & Ill always care.
You're my angel & you know Ill always be there.
poem by Ankur Garg
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Heaven & Renaissance in Heaven
Up aloft behind the stars gleam
Heaven's eye on angel's wings
Where in ecstasy in light forever beam
To those who trust in god, god like things
There, children revel in innocent play
In valleys of green and mountains of clouds white'
Never turning dark, and forever day
Like living on a star in dark night
There is no dream for heaven's real
But dreams realized in a soul serene
Its beauty creates a crystalized zeal
Which dictates our will like a heavenly queen
Renaissance in Heaven
A mystic spirit, one sweeps through stars
and gathers all their heavenly light
In far off planets as strange as Mars
My imagination grows, my soul takes flight
Is this heaven whom sleeps in me
Tender love that wets mine eye
To cleanse the sin that I do see
And makes me desire my life to die?
In heaven, in love, my life shall be
With angels pristine as a baby's soul
To heaven, to love, my life with thee
In thine heart, thy heaven lull
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Introit : V. Litany Of Beauty
Joy, if the Soul or aught immortal be,
How may this Beauty know mortality?
O Beauty, perfect child of Light,
Sempiternal spirit of delight!
White and set with gold like the gold of the night,
The gold of the stars in quiet weather,--
White and shapely and pure!--
O lily-flower from stain secure,
With life and virginity dying together!
One lily liveth so,
Liveth for ever unstained, immortal, a mystic flower:
Perfectly wrought its frame,
Gold inwrought and eternal white,
White more white than cold of the snow,
For never, never, near it came,
Never shall come till the end of all,
Hurtful thing in wind or shower,
Worm or stain or blight;
But ever, ever, gently fall
The dews elysian of years that flow
Where it doth live secure
In flawless comeliness mature,
Golden and white and pure.
In the fair far-shining glow
Of eternal and holy Light.
Beauty of earthly things
Wrought by God and with hands of men!
Beauty of Nature and Art,
Fashioned anew for each Time brings,
For each new soul and living heart!
Beauty of Beauty that fills the ken
Till the soul is swooning, faint with delight!
Beauty of human form and voice,
Of eyes and ears and lips!--
O golden hair and brow of white!--
Wine of Beauty that whoso sips
Doth die to a spirit free, and rejoice,
Living with God and living with men,
Rapt rejoice in eternal bliss,
Raising his face to meet the kiss
Of the Beauty seraphic he sees above
In figure of his love.
O Beauty of Wisdom unsought
That in trance to poet is taught,
Uttered in secret lay,
Singing the heart from earth away,
Cunning the soul from care to lure,--
O mystic lily, from stain and death secure,
Till the end of all to stay!
O shapely flower that must for ever endure!
O voice of God that every heart must hear!
O hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere
The ravished soul that hears! O white, white gem!
O rose that dost the senses drown in bliss!
No thought shall stay the wing, or stem
The song or win the heart to miss
Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine!
O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine
The soul, the heart, the brain,
To own three in a loud perpetual strain,
Shriller and sweeter than song of wine,
Than song of sorrow or love or war!
Beauty of heaven and sun and day,
Beauty of water and frost and star,
Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey!
Beauty of silver light,
Beauty of purple night,
Beauty of solemn breath,
Beauty of closèd eye, and sleep, and death!
Beauty of dawn and dew,
Beauty of morning peace,
Ever ancient and ever new,
Ever renewed till waking cease
Or sleep for ever, when loud the angel's word
Through all the world is heard!
Beauty of brute and bird,
Beauty of earthly creatures
Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred!
Beauty of the soul,
Beauty informing forms and features,
Fairest to God's eye,--
Beauty that cannot fade or die
Though atoms to ruin roll!
Beauty of blinded Trust,
Led by the hand of God
To a heaven where Cherub hath never trod!
Austere Beauty of Truth
Lighting the way of the just!
Splendid Beauty of Youth
Staying when Youth is sped,
Living when Life is dead,
Burning in funeral dust!
The glory of form doth pale and pall,
Beauty endures to the end of all.
poem by Thomas MacDonagh
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Death
The journey of death, I think of dying as it were
a sleeping process which it brings our thoughts
the illusion of angel's, heaven, clouds and paradise,
we see ourselves in a utopia dream world,
that brings us peace and harmony. Death is a
sad word; a word that is continually present with
melancholy thoughts that haunts the mind. I always
dismiss it from my mind, but always comes back.
It's there always trying to torment me, maybe if death
wasn't so enigmatic and dreadful, our thoughts would
change. We wouldn't think about it at all. When I think
of the old age, is like thinking, death is near, it's the
nearest thing to old age. Death, death is like a cold
and lonely sigh, Death, it comes like thieves in the
night, it takes you and it wont give you a notice nor a
warning. A deep anguish takes over our feelings;
death is a sad word, An empty sensation and a huge
grief, that torture's the soul and mind. Death we can't
defeated, escape or make it null. A reminder each
day that time will eventually stop and become eternal.
Death the only sure thing we inherit from the second
we are born, death, death, I cannot comprehend the
purpose to all, we struggle in our journey in every way,
to at the end, become dust in the wind, and then after
time has past, not even a vestige of us.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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A Baby's Death
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.
Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.
Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.
The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?
A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.
Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen complete
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod
The little feet.
The little hands that never sought
Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands,
What gift has death, God's servant, brought
The little hands?
We ask: but love's self silent stands,
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought
To search where death's dim heaven expands.
Ere this, perchance, though love know nought,
Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,
Where hands of guiding angels caught
The little hands.
The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes?
Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?
No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.
Was life so strange, so sad the sky,
So strait the wide world's range,
He would not stay to wonder why
Was life so strange?
Was earth's fair house a joyless grange
Beside that house on high
Whence Time that bore him failed to estrange?
That here at once his soul put by
All gifts of time and change,
And left us heavier hearts to sigh
'Was life so strange?'
Angel by name love called him, seeing so fair
The sweet small frame;
Meet to be called, if ever man's child were,
Angel by name.
Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart he came,
And might not bear
The cloud that covers earth's wan face with shame.
His little light of life was all too rare
And soft a flame:
Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him there
Angel by name.
The song that smiled upon his birthday here
Weeps on the grave that holds him undefiled
Whose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tear
The song that smiled.
His name crowned once the mightiest ever styled
Sovereign of arts, and angel: fate and fear
Knew then their master, and were reconciled.
But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphere
Michael, an angel and a little child,
Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bier
The song that smiled.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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A Funeral Fantasie
Pale, at its ghastly noon,
Pauses above the death-still wood--the moon;
The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs;
The clouds descend in rain;
Mourning, the wan stars wane,
Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres!
Haggard as spectres--vision-like and dumb,
Dark with the pomp of death, and moving slow,
Towards that sad lair the pale procession come
Where the grave closes on the night below.
With dim, deep-sunken eye,
Crutched on his staff, who trembles tottering by?
As wrung from out the shattered heart, one groan
Breaks the deep hush alone!
Crushed by the iron fate, he seems to gather
All life's last strength to stagger to the bier,
And hearken--Do these cold lips murmur "Father?"
The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear,
Pierces the bones gnawed fleshless by despair,
And the heart's horror stirs the silver hair.
Fresh bleed the fiery wounds
Through all that agonizing heart undone--
Still on the voiceless lips "my Father" sounds,
And still the childless Father murmurs "Son!"
Ice-cold--ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies--
Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanished there--
The sweet and golden name of "Father" dies
Into thy curse,--ice-cold--ice-cold--he lies!
Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were!
Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora,
While the air like Elysium is smiling above,
Steeped in rose-breathing odors, the darling of Flora
Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.
So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss,
The silver wave mirrored the smile of his face;
Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss,
And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase.
Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world,
As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs;
As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurled,
Swept his hope round the heaven on its limitless wings.
Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein,
That, kingly, exults in the storm of the brave;
That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane,
Strode he forth by the prince and the slave!
Life like a spring day, serene and divine,
In the star of the morning went by as a trance;
His murmurs he drowned in the gold of the wine,
And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance.
Worlds lay concealed in the hopes of his youth!--
When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame!
Fond father exult!--In the germs of his youth
What harvests are destined for manhood and fame!
Not to be was that manhood!--The death-bell is knelling,
The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears--
How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling!
Not to be was that manhood!--Flow on, bitter tears!
Go, beloved, thy path to the sun,
Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest;
Go--quaff the delight which thy spirit has won,
And escape from our grief in the Halls of the Blest.
Again (in that thought what a healing is found!)
To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!--
Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound,
And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead.
And we cling to each other!--O Grave, he is thine!
The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears--
And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign,
Till the heart's sinful murmur is choked in its tears.
Pale at its ghastly noon,
Pauses above the death-still wood--the moon!
The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs:
The clouds descend in rain;
Mourning, the wan stars wane,
Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres.
The dull clods swell into the sullen mound;
Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave!
The grave locks up the treasure it has found;
Higher and higher swells the sullen mound--
Never gives back the grave!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Cora
Of Cora, once so dearly ours,
Would mournful memory sing;
Of how she came when came the flowers,
To leave us with the spring.
That day (returned) which gave her breath
Was that whereon she died,
And o’er the pangs of birth and death
Passed blooming as a bride.
The spring it came, with never a storm,
And nine times came and went,
Till its whole spirit with her form
In budding beauty blent.
Yea, till its sentiment was wreathed
About her eye it came,
And all its foregone influence breathed
At mention of her name.
And aye her soul, her inward worth,
Flushed out in subtle glows,
As from its heart come mantling forth
The ardours of a rose.
It was a glory from within
That made her face so fair,
A radiant spirit void of sin
Was working outward there.
Her locks as they were burnished shone
In many a massy fold,
Or fell in their profusion down
Like bursting sheaves of gold.
Bright garments of a spirit bright,
That even in the shroud
Were like the sunset’s aureate light
Within a lifeless cloud.
When she, our angel of the sun,
Had spread her wings in flight,
Ah, still would mournful memory sing
Of her, our lost delight!
Child with full orbs of heaven-deep blue
Illumined violet,
So richly gentle—touched with dew,
Befringed with glossy jet.
When with the spring we saw depart
Those eyes, those tresses curled,
Then summer dying in love’s heart,
To winger left the world.
Ah, soul that wore the snowy brow,
And gentle shining eyes,
Our song hath aye this burden now
Beneath the vernal skies.
In vain the dews of heaven are shed
Where blight hath been before;
So vainly weep we o’er the dead,
But only weep the more.
Yet from the bright time of her birth
And death, does faith construe
How, like the spring, though not on earth,
Our joy shall bloom anew.
poem by Charles Harpur
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From The Spanish Cancioneros
I.
Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful,
Heart so full of care and cumber,
I was lapped in rest and slumber,
Ye have made me wakeful, wistful!
In this life of labor endless
Who shall comfort my distresses?
Querulous my soul and friendless
In its sorrow shuns caresses.
Ye have made me, ye have made me
Querulous of you, that care not,
Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not
Say to what ye have betrayed me.
II.
Some day, some day
O troubled breast,
Shalt thou find rest.
If Love in thee
To grief give birth,
Six feet of earth
Can more than he;
There calm and free
And unoppressed
Shalt thou find rest.
The unattained
In life at last,
When life is passed,
Shall all be gained;
And no more pained,
No more distressed,
Shalt thou find rest.
III.
Come, O Death, so silent flying
That unheard thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
For thy sure approach perceiving,
In my constancy and pain
I new life should win again,
Thinking that I am not living.
So to me, unconscious lying,
All unknown thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
Unto him who finds thee hateful,
Death, thou art inhuman pain;
But to me, who dying gain,
Life is but a task ungrateful.
Come, then, with my wish complying,
All unheard thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
IV.
Glove of black in white hand bare,
And about her forehead pale
Wound a thin, transparent veil,
That doth not conceal her hair;
Sovereign attitude and air,
Cheek and neck alike displayed
With coquettish charms arrayed,
Laughing eyes and fugitive;--
This is killing men that live,
'Tis not mourning for the dead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love-Laurel
Ah! that God once would touch my lips with song
To pierce, as prayer doth heaven, earth’s breast of iron,
So that with sweet mouth I might sing to thee,
O sweet dead singer buried by the sea,
A song, to woo thee, as a wooing siren,
Out of that silent sleep which seals too long
Thy mouth of melody.
For, if live lips might speak awhile to dead,
Or any speech could reach the sad world under
This world of ours, song surely should awake
Thee who didst dwell in shadow for song’s sake!
Alas! thou canst not hear the voice of thunder,
Nor low dirge over thy low-lying head
The winds of morning make.
Down through the clay there comes no sound of these;
Down in the grave there is no sign of Summer,
Nor any knowledge of the soft-eyed Spring;
But Death sits there, with outspread ebon wing,
Closing with dust the mouth of each new-comer
To that mute land, where never sound of seas
Is heard, and no birds sing.
Now thou hast found the end of all thy days
Hast thou found any heart a vigil keeping
For thee among the dead—some heart that heard
Thy singing when thou wert a brown, sweet bird
Gray Æons gone, in some old forest sleeping
Beneath the seas long since? in Death’s dim ways
Has thy heart any word?
For surely those in whom the deathless spark
Of song is kindled, sang from the beginning
If life were always? But the old desires—
Do they exist when sad-eyed Hope expires?
How live the dead? what crowns have they for winning?
Have they, to warm them in the dreamless dark,
For sun earth’s central fires?
Are the dead dead indeed whom we call dead?
Has God no life but this of ours for giving?—
When that they took thee by each well-known place,
Stark in thy coffin with a cold white face,
What thought, O Brother, hadst thou of the living?
What of the sun that round thee glory shed?
What of the fair day’s grace?
Is thy new life made up of memories
Or dreams that lull the dead, bright visions bringing
Of Spring above! Are thy days short or long?
Thou who wert master of our singing throng
Mayhap in death thou hast not lost thy singing,
But chauntst unheard, beside the moaning sea,
A solitary song.
The chance spade turns up skulls. God help the dead
And thee whose singing days have all passed over—
Thee, whom the gold-haired Spring shall seek in vain
When at the glad year’s doors she stands again,
Remembering the song-garlands thou hast wove her
In years gone by: but all these years have fled
With all their joy and pain.
My soul laughed out to hear my heart speak so,
And sprang forth skyward, as an eagle, hoping
To look upon thy soul with living eyes,
Until it came to where our dim life dies,
And dead suns darkly for a grave are groping
Through cycles of immeasurable woe,
Stone-blind in the blind skies.
The stars walk shuddering on that awful verge
From which my soul, with swift and fearless motion,
Clove the black depths, and sought for God and thee;
But God dwells where nor stars nor suns there be—
No shore there is to His Eternal Ocean;
A thousand systems are a fringe of surge
On that great starless sea.
And thou wert not. So that, with weary plumes,
My soul through the great void its way came winging
To earth again. “What hope for him who sings
Is there?” it sighed. “Death ends all sweetest things.”
When lo! there came a swell of mighty singing,
Flooding all space, and swift athwart the glooms
A flash of sudden wings.
Dreamer of dreams, thy songs and dreams are done.
Down where thou sleepest in earth’s secret bosom
There is no sorrow and no joy for thee,
Who canst not see what stars at eve there be,
Nor evermore at morn the green dawn blossom
Into the golden king-flower of the sun
Across the golden sea.
But haply there shall come in days to be
One who shall hear his own heart beating faster,
Plucking a rose sprung from thy heart beneath,
And from his soul, as sword from out its sheath,
Song shall leap forth where now, O silent master,
On thy lone grave beside the sounding sea,
I lay this laurel-wreath.
poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So tender [Atât de fragedă]
You are so tender, just like when
The cherry blossom is pure, white
And like an angel among men
Into my life you come in sight.
You barely touch the rug below
The silk is rustling at your feet
And as you walk, from head to toe,
You float like eagles in the heat.
Out of your pleated dress you rise
Like a white marble and I'm struck...
My soul clings quickly to your eyes,
So full of tears and of good luck.
Oh, happy dream of love with style
Bride from old stories, little star,
Stop smiling! For your pretty smile
Reveals how beautiful you are.
How can you, with the charm of night,
Darken my eyes with so much grace,
And with your whispers, hot and light,
And with the chill of your embrace?
A thought is passing, I remark,
A wave upon your fervent eyes:
It's the surrender, deep and dark,
Shadow of lust that gently cries.
You go away; I comprehend,
To follow you is a vain goal,
You're lost for ever, it's the end,
O, dearest bride of my poor soul!
I saw you, it's my fault all right,
My heart forgiveness now withstands,
I'll expiate my dream of light
Reaching my hand for desert lands.
And like an icon you'll appear
Of Mary, for whom people yearn,
Wearing the crown on your head dear -
Where do you go? When you return?
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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At Dawn and Dusk
At Dawn and Dusk
Love-Laurel
IN MEMORY OF HENRY KENDALL
AH! that God once would touch my lips with song
To pierce, as prayer doth heaven, earth’s breast of iron,
So that with sweet mouth I might sing to thee,
O sweet dead singer buried by the sea,
A song, to woo thee, as a wooing siren,
Out of that silent sleep which seals too long
Thy mouth of melody.
For, if live lips might speak awhile to dead,
Or any speech could reach the sad world under
This world of ours, song surely should awake
Thee who didst dwell in shadow for song’s sake!
Alas! thou canst not hear the voice of thunder,
Nor low dirge over thy low-lying head
The winds of morning make.
Down through the clay there comes no sound of these;
Down in the grave there is no sign of Summer,
Nor any knowledge of the soft-eyed Spring;
But Death sits there, with outspread ebon wing,
Closing with dust the mouth of each new-comer
To that mute land, where never sound of seas
Is heard, and no birds sing.
Now thou hast found the end of all thy days
Hast thou found any heart a vigil keeping
For thee among the dead—some heart that heard
Thy singing when thou wert a brown, sweet bird
Gray Æons gone, in some old forest sleeping
Beneath the seas long since? in Death’s dim ways
Has thy heart any word?
For surely those in whom the deathless spark
Of song is kindled, sang from the beginning
If life were always? But the old desires—
Do they exist when sad-eyed Hope expires?
How live the dead? what crowns have they for winning?
Have they, to warm them in the dreamless dark,
For sun earth’s central fires?
Are the dead dead indeed whom we call dead?
Has God no life but this of ours for giving?—
When that they took thee by each well-known place,
Stark in thy coffin with a cold white face,
What thought, O Brother, hadst thou of the living?
What of the sun that round thee glory shed?
What of the fair day’s grace?
Is thy new life made up of memories
Or dreams that lull the dead, bright visions bringing
Of Spring above! Are thy days short or long?
Thou who wert master of our singing throng
Mayhap in death thou hast not lost thy singing,
But chauntst unheard, beside the moaning sea,
A solitary song.
The chance spade turns up skulls. God help the dead
And thee whose singing days have all passed over—
Thee, whom the gold-haired Spring shall seek in vain
When at the glad year’s doors she stands again,
Remembering the song-garlands thou hast wove her
In years gone by: but all these years have fled
With all their joy and pain.
. . . . .
My soul laughed out to hear my heart speak so,
And sprang forth skyward, as an eagle, hoping
To look upon thy soul with living eyes,
Until it came to where our dim life dies,
And dead suns darkly for a grave are groping
Through cycles of immeasurable woe,
Stone-blind in the blind skies.
The stars walk shuddering on that awful verge
From which my soul, with swift and fearless motion,
Clove the black depths, and sought for God and thee;
But God dwells where nor stars nor suns there be—
No shore there is to His Eternal Ocean;
A thousand systems are a fringe of surge
On that great starless sea.
And thou wert not. So that, with weary plumes,
My soul through the great void its way came winging
To earth again. “What hope for him who sings
Is there?” it sighed. “Death ends all sweetest things.”
When lo! there came a swell of mighty singing,
Flooding all space, and swift athwart the glooms
A flash of sudden wings.
. . . . .
Dreamer of dreams, thy songs and dreams are done.
Down where thou sleepest in earth’s secret bosom
There is no sorrow and no joy for thee,
Who canst not see what stars at eve there be,
Nor evermore at morn the green dawn blossom
Into the golden king-flower of the sun
Across the golden sea.
But haply there shall come in days to be
One who shall hear his own heart beating faster,
Plucking a rose sprung from thy heart beneath,
And from his soul, as sword from out its sheath,
Song shall leap forth where now, O silent master,
On thy lone grave beside the sounding sea,
I lay this laurel-wreath.
poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Evening Star [Luceafărul]
There was, as in the fairy-tales,
Back in the distant time,
Of royal blood, which still prevails,
A girl sweet and sublime.
The only child, with no constraints,
And fair and full of charms,
Shining like Mary among saints
And moon among the stars.
She glides through the majestic halls
As if she slowly skates,
Goes to the window where befalls
That Evening Star awaits.
Above the sea he always stays
For rises and shines bright,
Along the moving water ways
Guides all the ships at night.
And seeing him, wish burns her cheeks,
She's thrilled from head to toe;
He watches her for many weeks,
And love begins to grow.
While musing happy at her goal
And resting on her arm,
Deep in her heart and in her soul
She's longing for his charm.
How bright he then begins to burn
Night after night, with grace,
Above the palace black and stern,
Where she will show her face.
* * *
Then follows her; she's not upset,
For he dispels the gloom,
From chilly rays weaving a net
Of flames inside the room.
And when she needs a little rest
And on the bed she lies,
Touches her hands placed on her chest
And closes her sweet eyes.
And from the mirror – antique piece,
Light spreads throughout the place,
On her big eyes, which sleep in peace,
And on her lovely face.
She looks at him and smiles, it seems,
He glimmers in the glass,
Because he follows her in dreams
For she's a pretty lass.
And in her sleep she whispers low,
Her heart beats like a drum:
– O, prince of night, which always glow,
Why stay away? Do come!
Climb down, my star, so meek and kind,
Slide on a ray tonight,
Pervade the palace and my mind,
And in my life bring light!
He hears and shivers in the sky,
Burns harder, feeling free,
Then plunging quickly from on high
Sinks deep into the sea.
And where he falls the water's stirred
Makes circles, there's no doubt,
And from the depth – a thing unheard –
A handsome lad comes out.
He passes through the window pane
Without making a sound,
And in his hand he holds a cane
On top with reeds around.
Looks like a ruler, young and proud,
With soft and golden hair,
And on his shoulders hangs a shroud,
Which flutters in the air.
He seems to be a piece of ice
And has a pale white face –
A pretty corpse with lovely eyes,
Two coals burning with grace.
– I've left my sphere with pain and sigh,
Because you've told me: Come!
My father is the starry sky,
The sea is my dear mom.
To be now here, inside your room,
And stroke you with my rays,
I left behind the heaven's womb
And I was born from waves.
– O, come, my jewel from afar
And leave the world aside!
I am the lofty Evening Star
And you will be my bride.
You'll live in palaces with me,
For centuries you'll stay,
And all the creatures in the sea
Your orders will obey.
– O, you are gorgeous in my dreams,
Like angels you can talk,
But on this charming way it seems
That I shall never walk!
Weird are your clothes and what you've said,
And lifeless is your glow,
I am alive, but you are dead,
Your eye is cold as snow.
* * *
And one by one passed three more days
Then, in a starry night,
The Evening Star sent down his rays
And flooded her with light.
So she remembered him with ease
Although was fast asleep,
And craved her prince born from the seas,
Because her love was deep:
– Climb down, my star, so meek and kind,
Slide on a ray tonight,
Pervade the palace and my mind,
And in my life bring light!
As soon as he perceives the sound
His light goes out in pain,
The sky begins to turn around,
The movement is insane.
The flames which burn up in the air,
Spread all over the place,
And from the chaos, somewhere there,
Takes shape a lovely face.
On his long hair as black as night
There is a burning crown,
He floats on truth, as a brave knight,
And wears a fiery gown.
With a black shroud again is clad
His marble arms show grace,
Looks very thoughtful, bleak and sad,
And has a pallid face;
But his big eyes, which show delight,
Are lit by a small spark,
Two endless passions in the night
Profound and full of dark.
– I've left my sphere and here I run
Because you've told me: Come!
My father is the burning sun,
The night is my dear mom;
O, come, my jewel from afar
And leave the world aside!
I am the lofty Evening Star
And you will be my bride.
O, come, to hang in your blonde hair
Bright stars, looking like gem,
When in the sky you rise up there
To outshine all of them!
– O, you are handsome in my dreams,
A fiend with whom I talk,
But on this charming way it seems
That I shall never walk!
Your ruthless love burdens my brain
My heart cannot survive,
For your big eyes give me much pain,
Their flames burn me alive.
– How would you want me there to be?
I have a life ahead,
I am immortal, can't you see,
Whereas you'll soon be dead?
– My thoughts are simple and sincere,
Yet, words are not at hand –
Although you speak so loud and clear,
I cannot understand.
But if your love has any worth
And it is not a sham,
Come down and live upon the earth
Be mortal, as I am.
– You ask my immortality,
For a romantic touch,
I think it's a fatality
To cherish you so much;
Yes, I'll be born again from sin
To live by other law,
My fate for ever is to spin,
But I want to withdraw.
And went away driven by love
And by the child's sweet gaze,
Leaving the place he had above
For many, many days.
***
But in the meantime, Catalyne,
A buttons shrewd and neat,
Who fills the goblets with red wine
When people drink and eat.
A page who walks behind the queen
Her wondrous gowns to hold,
A bastard child, a stray sweet teen,
With glances sweet and bold,
With cheeks like roses, eyebrows raised
And with a blushing face,
At Catalyna looks amazed
Tucked in a hiding place.
He sees her beauty and her stance
And on the spot he's struck;
Well, Catalyne, this is your chance
To go and try your luck.
And thus he hugs her from behind
But in a gentle way,
– Hey, Catalyne, what's on your mind?
You'd better go away.
– What's on my mind? I think you guess,
I want to feel the bliss,
So, I won't let you go unless
You give me a sweet kiss.
– I do not know what you request,
Please leave and stay afar,
My heart is pounding in my chest
And craves the Evening Star.
– If you don't know, then I'd be glad
To teach you lovers game,
Only don't fuss and don't get mad,
Be lenient and tame.
As does the lonely hunter who
Lays traps and trusts his charms,
The moment I reach out to you
Embrace me with your arms;
And let your eyes, so pure and chaste,
To readily submit
And when I gently grab your waist
On tiptoe rise a bit;
Then, when you see my face is bent
Raise yours and don't be shy,
We shall remain embraced, content,
Until it's time to die.
To understand then fully how
The lovers' hearts do burn,
When kissing you, I'll slightly bow,
You'll kiss me in your turn.
She listens to the playful child
Amazed and ill at ease,
Now she is shy, now she is mild,
Now wants, now disagrees,
And says: – I've known you for so long,
A child astute and fair
And talkative and good and strong,
We two could make a pair...
However, came an Evening Star
And I did not foresee
That he would give a charm bizarre
To the secluded sea;
I keep my lashes lowered now
The teardrops fill my face,
Because I see the ripples how
They go towards his place;
He glows with a tremendous love
And watches me with care,
But he remains so far above
That I can't touch him there.
To light the world he is all set,
Like a majestic star...
For ever I shall love him, yet
For ever he'll stay far...
That's why my days do not seem right
And I want them to end,
But all the nights bring me delight
That I can't comprehend.
– You're just a child, let's run away
In the wide world, my dear,
They will forget our names one day
And so we'll disappear.
We'll be secure and we'll be glad,
Our souls will have no scars,
You will forget your mom and dad
And all the Evening Stars.
* * *
The Evening Star moved in the sky
With his impressive wings
And many thousands years went by
In just as many winks.
A starry sky there was below,
Above a starry sky –
He seemed a streak, a constant glow
That wandered there on high.
And from the chaos, from the bay,
And from his frozen sight,
As in that first and holy day
Flowed lights ablaze and bright.
And they surrounded him in haste
As water waves, how weird...
Driven by longing then he raced
Until they disappeared;
For where he went there was no bound
Or eyes to look about,
And time fought hard and moved around
From hollows to get out.
So, there was nothing, yet there was
A thirst, more like a threat,
A deep dark chasm, just because
It lured him to forget.
– Untie me, Father, from the chains
Of an eternal life,
May you be praised on all domains
And may your years be rife;
O, Lord, ask anything from me,
But listen my demands,
A spring of life you'll always be
And death is in your hands.
Remove the aura from my head
And the immortal dove,
Be good and offer me instead
An hour of true love...
From chaos I was born, no doubt,
In chaos I'd return,
And from the stillness I came out
For stillness now I yearn.
– Hyperion, who from abyss
Rise in the world in flames,
Don't ask for marvels, signs and bliss,
Which have no face, no names;
You wish to be a man, but how
To be like other men?
If all the people died right now
They would be born again.
And their ideals, right and clear,
Seem lofty, but are dumb,
When many ripples disappear
More ripples quickly come.
They look for lucky stars in space
And fate stops short their breath,
We do not have a time and place
And we don't know what's death.
From the eternal yesterday
Rise all and then decline,
If a bright sun now died away
Another one would shine;
But though it seems to stay alive
Death treats him with deep scorn,
For all will die after they thrive
And then again are born.
– But you, Hyperion, will last
Whenever you decline...
This thing I promised in the past –
My wisdom is divine.
How could I let that mouth to speak
And sing and to be free?
It would collapse the mountain peak
Deep down into the sea.
Or do you wish to show your worth
Your justice and your reign?
I'd give you every piece of earth
To make it your domain.
And all the masts I'll give to thee
And armies and much wealth,
To cross the earth and the wide sea,
But I can't give you death...
Tell me, for whom you want to die?
Go back now, turn around,
Look at that planet from on high
And see what's on the ground.
* * *
And in his place again he stays
For in the sky returns
And like in all the other days
His light in distance burns.
Now it is evening all around
Soon will begin the night;
The moon is rising, there's no sound,
The sea reflects her light.
And with her sparks borne by the breeze
She fills the forest lands;
Beneath a row of linden trees
Two youngsters hold their hands:
– O, baby, let my head to lie
Upon your breasts with care
And look at me with your sweet eye,
Which is so clear and fair;
Then with the charm of the cold light
Go deep into my brain,
Pour the deep silence of the night
Over my pangs of pain.
Don't go away, but stay above
And stop the sorrow stream,
You are my first and caring love,
But also my last dream.
Hyperion sees from the skies
Amazement on their face:
When his warm hand on her neck lies
She gives him an embrace...
The scent of lindens quickly spreads,
Their blossoms fall like rain
On top of those two children's heads
Fair-haired, who there remain.
Intoxicated by this love
She lifts her eyes and... lo!
The Evening Star is right above
She craves now for his glow:
– Climb down, my star, so meek and kind,
Slide on a ray tonight,
Pervade the forest and my mind,
And in my life bring light!
He shivers as it did before
On hills, in woods and caves,
While guiding safely to the shore
The lonely moving waves;
But doesn't fall as did one day
Into the foamy sea:
– Why would you care, O, face of clay
If it is him or me?
You live to beg the luck and fate
Your world is small, controlled,
But in my sphere I'm feeling great,
Immortal and so cold.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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The Three Kings
WHEN the star in the East was lit to shine
The three kings journeyed to Palestine;
They came from the uttermost parts of earth
With long trains laden with gifts of worth.
The first king rode on a camel's back,
He came from the land where the kings are black,
Bringing treasures desired of kings,
Rubies and ivory and precious things.
An elephant carried the second king,
He came from the land of the sun-rising,
And gems and gold and spices he bare
With broidered raiment for kings to wear.
The third king came without steed or train
From the misty land where the white kings reign.
He bore no gifts save the myrrh in his hand,
For he came on foot from a far-off land.
Now when they had travelled a-many days
Through tangled forests and desert ways,
By angry seas and by paths thorn-set
On Christmas Vigil the three kings met.
And over their meeting a shrouded sky
Made dark the star they had travelled by.
Then the first king spake and he frowned and said:
'By some ill spell have our feet been led,
'Now I see in the darkness the fools we are
To follow the light of a lying star.
'Let us fool no more, but like kings and men
Each get him home to his land again!'
Then the second king with the weary face,
Gold-tinct as the sun of his reigning place,
Lifted sad eyes to the clouds and said,
'It was but a dream and the dream is sped.
'We dreamed of a star that rose new and fair,
But it sets in the night of the old despair.
'Yet night is faithful though stars betray,
It will lead to our kingdoms far away.'
Then spake the king who had fared alone
From the far-off kingdom, the white-hung throne:
'O brothers, brothers, so very far
Ye have followed the light of the radiant star,
'And because for a while ye see it not
Shall its faithful shining be all forgot?
'On the spirit's pathway the light still lies
Though the star be hid from our longing eyes.
'To-morrow our star will be bright once more
The little pin-hole in heaven's floor--
'The Angels pricked it to let it bring
Our feet to the throne of the new-born King!'
And the first king heard and the second heard
And their hearts grew humble before the third.
And they laid them down beside bale and beast
and their sleeping eyes saw light in the East.
For the Angels fanned them with starry wings
And the waft of visions of unseen things.
And the next gold day waned trembling and white
And the star was born of the waxing night.
And the three kings came where the Great King lay,
A little baby among the hay,
The ox and the ass were standing near
And Mary Mother beside her Dear.
Then low in the litter the kings bowed down,
They gave Him gold for a kingly crown,
And frankincense for a great God's breath
and Myrrh to sweeten the day of death.
The Maiden Mother she stood and smiled
And she took from the manger her little child.
On the dark king's head she laid His hand
And anger died at that dear command.
She laid His hand on the gold king's head
And despair itself was comforted.
But when the pale king knelt in the stall
She heard on the straw his tears down fall.
And she stooped where he knelt beside her feet
And laid on his bosom her baby sweet.
And the king in the holy stable-place
Felt the little lips through the tears on his face.
* * * * * * *
Christ! lay Thy hand on the angry king
Who reigns in my breast to my undoing,
And lay thy hands on the king who lays
The spell of sadness on all my days,
And give the white king my soul, Thy soul,
Of these other kings the high control.
That soul and spirit and sense may meet
In adoration before Thy feet!
Now Glory to God the Father Most High,
And the Star, the Spirit, He leads us by.
And to God's dear Son, the Babe who was born
And laid in the manger on Christmas morn!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dreams
A DREAM of lilies: all the blooming earth,
A garden full of fairies and of flowers;
Its only music the glad cry of mirth,
While the warm sun weaves golden-tissued hours;
Hope a bright angel, beautiful and true
As Truth herself, and life a lovely toy,
Which ne'er will weary us, ne'er break, a new
Eternal source of pleasure and of joy.
A dream of roses: vision of Loves tree,
Of beauty and of madness, and as bright
As naught on earth save only dreams can be,
Made fair and odorous with flower and light;
A dream that Love is strong to outlast Time,
That hearts are stronger than forgetfulness,
The slippery sand than changeful waves that climb,
The wind-blown foam than mighty waters' stress.
A dream of laurels: after much is gone,
Much buried, much lamented, much forgot,
With what remains to do and what is done,
With what yet is, and what, alas! is not,
Man dreams a dream of laurel and of bays,
A dream of crowns and guerdons and rewards,
Wherein sounds sweet the hollow voice of praise,
And bright appears the wreath that it awards.
A dream of poppies, sad and true as Truth,—
That all these dreams were dreams of vanity;
And full of bitter penitence and ruth,
In his last dream, man deems 'twere good to die;
And weeping o'er the visions vain of yore,
In the sad vigils he doth nightly keep,
He dreams it may be good to dream no more,
And life has nothing like Death's dreamless sleep.
poem by Emma Lazarus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Go Down, Death
Weep not, weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter --weep no more;
She only just gone home.
Day before yesterday morning,
God was looking down from his great, high heaven,
Looking down on all his children,
And his eye fell of Sister Caroline,
Tossing on her bed of pain.
And God's big heart was touched with pity,
With the everlasting pity.
And God sat back on his throne,
And he commanded that tall, bright angel standing at his right hand:
Call me Death!
And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice
That broke like a clap of thunder:
Call Death!--Call Death!
And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven
Till it reached away back to that shadowy place,
Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.
And Death heard the summons,
And he leaped on his fastest horse,
Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.
Up the golden street Death galloped,
And the hooves of his horses struck fire from the gold,
But they didn't make no sound.
Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,
And waited for God's command.
And God said: Go down, Death, go down,
Go down to Savannah, Georgia,
Down in Yamacraw,
And find Sister Caroline.
She's borne the burden and heat of the day,
She's labored long in my vineyard,
And she's tired--
She's weary--
Do down, Death, and bring her to me.
And Death didn't say a word,
But he loosed the reins on his pale, white horse,
And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides,
And out and down he rode,
Through heaven's pearly gates,
Past suns and moons and stars;
on Death rode,
Leaving the lightning's flash behind;
Straight down he came.
While we were watching round her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn't see;
She saw Old Death.She saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn't frighten Sister Caroline;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to us: I'm going home,
And she smiled and closed her eyes.
And Death took her up like a baby,
And she lay in his icy arms,
But she didn't feel no chill.
And death began to ride again--
Up beyond the evening star,
Into the glittering light of glory,
On to the Great White Throne.
And there he laid Sister Caroline
On the loving breast of Jesus.
And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away her tears,
And he smoothed the furrows from her face,
And the angels sang a little song,
And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
And kept a-saying: Take your rest,
Take your rest.
Weep not--weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feast Of The Assumption
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead:
Thy Feast has fled;
My eyes are wet with tears unshed;
I bow my head;
Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway
I bend my knee,
And, like a homesick child, I pray,
Mary, to thee.
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And, all the day -- since white-robed priest
In farthest East,
In dawn's first ray -- began the Feast,
I -- I the least --
Thy least, and last, and lowest child,
I called on thee!
Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild;
Didst think of me?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! The angels bright,
With wings as white
As a dream of snow in love and light,
Flashed on thy sight;
They shone like stars around thee, Queen!
I knelt afar --
A shadow only dims the scene
Where shines a star!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, beyond the sky,
Sweet, pure, and high,
The angel's song swept sounding by
Triumphantly;
And when such music filled thy ear,
Rose round thy throne,
How could I hope that thou wouldst hear
My far, faint moan?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, where altars stand,
Or poor or grand,
A countless throng from every land,
With lifted hand,
Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale
In glad acclaim;
How couldst thou hear my lone lips wail
Thy sweet, pure name?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! Thou didst not hear
Nor bend thy ear,
To prayer of woe as mine so drear;
For hearts more dear
Hid me from hearing and from sight
This bright Feast-day;
Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its night
I kneel and pray?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set, the day is dead;
Thy Feast hath fled;
My eyes are wet with the tears I shed;
I bow my head;
Angels and altars hailed thee, Queen,
All day; ah! be
To-night what thou hast ever been --
A mother to me!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Thy queenly crown in angels' sight
Is fair and bright;
Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night
Its jeweled light
Shines not as the tender love-light shines,
O Mary! mild,
In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines
For poor, lost child!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway
Fore'er and aye
In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray
Lay it away.
Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above
Where angels are;
But, Mother! fold in thine arms of love
Thy child afar!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayer
My poor lips dare?
Yea! be to all a Queen most fair,
Crown, sceptre, bear!
But look on me with a mother's eyes
From heaven's bliss;
And waft to me from the starry skies
A mother's kiss!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead;
Her Feast has fled;
Can she forget the sweet blood shed,
The last words said
That evening -- 'Woman! behold thy Son!
Oh! priceless right,
Of all His children! The last, least one,
Is heard to-night.
poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
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