Poetry
- Locked due to inactivity on Aug 4, '16 4:34pm
Thread Topic: Poetry
-
THE LAST LEAF.
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he tottering o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the streets.
But now as he walks the streets,
And he looks at all that he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said--
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago--
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
Is his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit here and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat
And the breeches and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last lead upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling. -
THE ROSE ENTHRONED
It melts and seethes, the chaos that shall grow
To adamant beneath the house of life;
In hissing hatred atoms clash, and go
To meet intenser strife.
And ere that fever leaves the granite veins,
Down thunders over them a torrid sea:
Now Flood, now Fire, alternate despot reigns,
Immortal foes to be.
Built by the warring elements, they rise,
The massive earth-foundations, tier on tier,
Where slimy monsters with unhuman eyes
Their hideous heads uprear.
The building of the world is not for you,
That glare upon each other, and devour:
Race floating after race fades out of view,
Till beauty springs from power.
Meanwhile from crumbling rocks and shoals of death
Shoots up rank verdure to the hidden sun;
The gulfs are eddying to the vague, sweet breath
Of richer life begun;
Richer and sweeter far than aught before,
Though rooted in the grave of what has been:
Unnumbered burials yet must heap Earth's floor
Ere she her heir shall win;
And ever nobler lives and deaths more grand,
For nourishment of that which is to come;
While mid the ruins of the work she planned
Sits Nature, blind and dumb.
For whom or what she plans, she knows no more
Than any mother of her unborn child:
Yet beautiful forewarnings murmur o'er
Her desolations wild.
Slowly the clamor and the clash subside;
Earth's restlessness her patient hopes subdue;
Mild oceans shoreward heave a pulse-like tide;
The skies are veined with blue.
And life works through the growing quietness,
To bring some darling mystery into form:
Beauty her fairest Possible would dress
In colors pure and warm.
Within the depths of palpitating seas
A tender tint,anon a line of grace,
Some lovely thought from its dull atom frees,
The coming joy to trace:
A pencilled moss on tablets of the sand,
Such as shall veil the unbudded maiden-blush
Of beauty yet to gladden the green land;
A breathing, through the hush,
Of some sealed perfume longing to burst out,
And give its prisoned rapture to the air;
A brooding hope, a promise through a doubt,
Is whispered everywhere.
And, every dawn a shade more clear, the skies
A flush as from the heart of heaven disclose:
Through earth and sea and air a message flies,
Prophetic of the Rose.
At last a morning comes, of sunshine still,
When not a dewdrop trembles on the grass,
When all winds sleep, and every pool and rill
Is like a burnished glass
Where a long looked-for guest might lean to gaze;
When Day on Earth rests royally,a crown
Of molten glory, flashing diamond rays,
From heaven let lightly down.
In golden silence, breathless, all things stand;
What answer waits this questioning repose?
A sudden gush of light and odors bland,
And, lo,the Rose! the Rose!
The birds break into canticles around;
The winds lift Jubilate to the skies;
For, twin-born with the rose on Eden-ground,
Love blooms in human eyes.
Life's marvellous queen-flower blossoms only so,
In dust of low ideals rooted fast.
Ever the Beautiful is moulded slow
From truth in errors past.
What fiery fields of Chaos must be won,
What battling Titans rear themselves a tomb,
What births and resurrections greet the sun
Before the rose can bloom!
And of some wonder-blossom yet we dream
Whereof the time that is infolds the seed;
Some flower of light, to which the Rose shall seem
A fair and fragile weed.
^
This is one of my favorite poems. -
Wee, modest, crimson-tippd flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet
Wi' spreck'd breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield
High shelt'ring woods an' wa's maun shield:
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry's brink;
Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He ruin'd sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thineno distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom. -
Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot,
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
The minster-bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster-bell;
The organ 'gins to swell;
She's coming, she's coming!
My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes, -- she's here, she's past!
May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.
^I love this poem, but what bothered me about it was that I had to make quite a few grammar changes by copy-pasting it from the internet. *sigh* it bothers me that people can't read it the way it was originally written because so much was lost in interpretation. -
The wind flapp'd loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
I had walk'd on at the wind's will,
I sat now, for the wind was still.
Between my knees my forehead was,
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass,
My naked ears heard the day pass.
My eyes, wide open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few, out of the sun,
The woodspurge flower'd, three cups in one.
From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory:
One thing then learnt remains to me,
The woodspurge has a cup of three. -
Midways of a walled garden,
In the happy poplar land,
Did an ancient castle stand,
With an old knight for a warden.
Many scarlet bricks there were
In its walls, and old grey stone;
Over which red apples shone
At the right time of the year.
On the bricks the green moss grew.
Yellow lichen on the stone,
Over which red apples shone;
Little war that castle knew.
Deep green water fill'd the moat,
Each side had a red-brick lip,
Green and mossy with the drip
Of dew and rain; there was a boat
Of carven wood, with hangings green
About the stern; it was great bliss
For lovers to sit there and kiss
In the hot summer noons, not seen.
Across the moat the fresh west wind
In very little ripples went;
The way the heavy aspens bent
Towards it, was a thing to mind.
The painted drawbridge over it
Went up and down with gilded chains,
'Twas pleasant in the summer rains
Within the bridge-house there to sit.
There were five swans that ne'er did eat
The water-weeds, for ladies came
Each day, and young knights did the same,
And gave them cakes and bread for meat.
They had a house of painted wood,
A red roof gold-spiked over it,
Wherein upon their eggs to sit
Week after week; no drop of blood,
Drawn from men's bodies by sword-blows,
Came ever there, or any tear;
Most certainly from year to year
'Twas pleasant as a Provence rose.
The banners seem'd quite full of ease,
That over the turret-roofs hung down;
The battlements could get no frown
From the flower-moulded cornices.
Who walked in that garden there?
Miles and Giles and Isabeau,
Tall Jehane du Castel beau,
Alice of the golden hair,
Big Sir Gervaise, the good knight,
Fair Ellayne le Violet,
Mary, Constance fille de fay,
Many dames with footfall light.
Whosoever wander'd there,
Whether it be dame or knight,
Half of scarlet, half of white
Their raiment was; of roses fair
Each wore a garland on the head,
At Ladies' Gard the way was so:
Fair Jehane du Castel beau
Wore her wreath till it was dead.
Little joy she had of it,
Of the raiment white and red,
Or the garland on her head,
She had none with whom to sit
In the carven boat at noon;
None the more did Jehane weep,
She would only stand and keep
Saying: He will be here soon!
Many times in the long day
Miles and Giles and Gervaise passed,
Holding each some white hand fast,
Every time they heard her say:
Summer cometh to an end,
Undern cometh after noon;
Golden wings will be here soon,
What if I some token send?
Wherefore that night within the hall,
With open mouth and open eyes,
Like some one listening with surprise,
She sat before the sight of all.
Stoop'd down a little she sat there,
With neck stretch'd out and chin thrown up,
One hand around a golden cup;
And strangely with her fingers fair
She beat some tune upon the gold;
The minstrels in the gallery
Sung: Arthur, who will never die,
In Avallon he groweth old.
And when the song was ended, she
Rose and caught up her gown and ran;
None stopp'd her eager face and wan
Of all that pleasant company.
Right so within her own chamber
Upon her bed she sat; and drew
Her breath in quick gasps; till she knew
That no man follow'd after her.
She took the garland from her head,
Loosed all her hair, and let it lie
Upon the coverlet; thereby
She laid the gown of white and red;
And she took off her scarlet shoon,
And bared her feet; still more and more
Her sweet face redden'd; evermore
She murmur'd: He will be here soon;
Truly he cannot fail to know
My tender body waits him here;
And if he knows, I have no fear
For poor Jehane du Castel beau.
She took a sword within her hand,
Whose hilts were silver, and she sung
Somehow like this, wild words that rung
A long way over the moonlit land:
Gold wings across the sea!
Grey light from tree to tree,
Gold hair beside my knee,
I pray thee come to me,
Gold wings!
The water slips,
The red-bill'd moorhen dips.
Sweet kisses on red lips;
Alas! the red rust grips,
And the blood-red dagger rips,
Yet, O knight, come to me!
Are not my blue eyes sweet?
The west wind from the wheat
Blows cold across my feet;
Is it not time to meet
Gold wings across the sea?
White swans on the green moat,
Small feathers left afloat
By the blue-painted boat;
Swift running of the stoat,
Sweet gurgling note by note
Of sweet music.
O gold wings,
Listen how gold hair sings,
And the Ladies Castle rings,
Gold wings across the sea.
I sit on a purple bed,
Outside, the wall is red,
Thereby the apple hangs,
And the wasp, caught by the fangs,
Dies in the autumn night,
And the bat flits till light,
And the love-crazed knight
Kisses the long wet grass:
The weary days pass,
Gold wings across the sea.
Gold wings across the sea!
Moonlight from tree to tree,
Sweet hair laid on my knee,
O, sweet knight, come to me.
Gold wings, the short night slips,
The white swan's long neck drips,
I pray thee kiss my lips,
Gold wings across the sea!
No answer through the moonlit night;
No answer in the cold grey dawn;
No answer when the shaven lawn
Grew green, and all the roses bright.
Her tired feet look'd cold and thin,
Her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears,
Some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears,
Some fell from off her quivering chin.
Her long throat, stretched to its full length,
Rose up and fell right brokenly;
As though the unhappy heart was nigh
Striving to break with all its strength.
And when she slipp'd from off the bed,
Her cramp'd feet would not hold her; she
Sank down and crept on hand and knee,
On the window-sill she laid her head.
There, with crooked arm upon the sill,
She look'd out, muttering dismally:
There is no sail upon the sea,
No pennon on the empty hill.
I cannot stay here all alone,
Or meet their happy faces here,
And wretchedly I have no fear;
A little while, and I am gone.
Therewith she rose upon her feet,
And totter'd; cold and misery
Still made the deep sobs come, till she
At last stretch'd out her fingers sweet,
And caught the great sword in her hand;
And, stealing down the silent stair,
Barefooted in the morning air.
And only in her smock, did stand
Upright upon the green lawn grass;
And hope grew in her as she said:
I have thrown off the white and red,
And pray God it may come to pass
I meet him; if ten years go by
Before I meet him; if, indeed,
Meanwhile both soul and body bleed,
Yet there is end of misery,
And I have hope. He could not come,
But I can go to him and show
These new things I have got to know,
And make him speak, who has been dumb.
O Jehane! the red morning sun
Changed her white feet to glowing gold,
Upon her smock, on crease and fold,
Changed that to gold which had been dun.
O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau,
Fair Ellayne le Violet,
Mary, Constance fille de fay!
Where is Jehane du Castel beau?
O big Gervaise ride apace!
Down to the hard yellow sand,
Where the water meets the land.
This is Jehane by her face.
Why has she a broken sword?
Mary! she is slain outright;
Verily a piteous sight;
Take her up without a word!
Giles and Miles and Gervaise there,
Ladies' Gard must meet the war;
Whatsoever knights these are,
Man the walls withouten fear!
Axes to the apple-trees,
Axes to the aspens tall!
Barriers without the wall
May be lightly made of these.
O poor shivering Isabeau;
Poor Ellayne le Violet,
Bent with fear! we miss to-day
Brave Jehane du Castel beau.
O poor Mary, weeping so!
Wretched Constance fille de fay!
Verily we miss to-day
Fair Jehane du Castel beau.
The apples now grow green and sour
Upon the mouldering castle-wall,
Before they ripen there they fall:
There are no banners on the tower,
The draggled swans most eagerly eat
The green weeds trailing in the moat;
Inside the rotting leaky boat
You see a slain man's stiffen'd feet.
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