Eurydice
by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) (1886-1961)

            I

So you have swept me back,
I who could have walked with the live souls
above the earth,
I who could have slept among the live flowers
at last;

so for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I am swept back
where dead lichens drip
dead cinders upon moss of ash;

so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;

if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness
into peace,
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past.

            II

Here only flame upon flame
and black among the red sparks,
streaks of black and light
grown colourless;

why did you turn back,
that hell should be reinhabited
of myself thus
swept into nothingness?

why did you glance back?
why did you hesitate for that moment?
why did you bend your face
caught with the flame of the upper earth,
above my face?

what was it that crossed my face
with the light from yours
and your glance?
what was it you saw in my face?
the light of your own face,
the fire of your own presence?

What had my face to offer
but reflex of the earth,
hyacinth colour
caught from the raw fissure in the rock
where the light struck,
and the colour of azure crocuses
and the bright surface of gold crocuses
and of the wind-flower,
swift in its veins as lightning
and as white.

            III

Saffron from the fringe of the earth,
wild saffron that has bent
over the sharp edge of earth,
all the flowers that cut through the earth,
all, all the flowers are lost;

everything is lost,
everything is crossed with black,
black upon black
and worse than black,
this colourless light.

            IV

Fringe upon fringe
of blue crocuses,
crocuses, walled against blue of themselves,
blue of that upper earth,
blue of the depth upon depth of flowers,
lost;

flowers,
if I could have taken once my breath of them,
enough of them,
more than earth,
even than of the upper earth,
had passed with me
beneath the earth;

if I could have caught up from the earth,
the whole of the flowers of the earth,
if once I could have breathed into myself
the very golden crocuses
and the red,
and the very golden hearts of the first saffron,
the whole of the golden mass,
the whole of the great fragrance,
I could have dared the loss.

            V

So for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I have lost the earth   
and the flowers of the earth,
and the live souls above the earth,
and you who passed across the light
and reached
ruthless;

you who have your own light,
who are to yourself a presence,
who need no presence;

yet for all your arrogance
and your glance,
I tell you this:

such loss is no loss,
such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
of blackness,
such terror
is no loss;

hell is no worse than your earth
above the earth,
hell is no worse,
no, nor your flowers
nor your veins of light
nor your presence,
a loss;

my hell is no worse than yours
though you pass among the flowers and speak
with the spirits above earth.

            VI

Against the black
I have more fervour
than you in all the splendour of that place,
against the blackness
and the stark grey
I have more light;

and the flowers,
if I should tell you,
you would turn from your own fit paths
toward hell,
turn again and glance back
and I would sink into a place
even more terrible than this.

            VII

At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;

and my spirit with its loss
knows this;
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;

before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.

Views: 22

The Sand-Hill Crane
by Mary Hunter Austin (1868-1934)

Whenever the days are cool and clear,
The sand-hill crane goes walking
Across the field by the flashing weir,
Slowly, solemnly stalking.
The little frogs in the tules hear,
And jump for their lives if he comes near;
The fishes scuttle away in fear
When the sand-hill crane goes walking.

The field folk know if he comes that way,
Slowly, solemnly stalking,
There is danger and death in the least delay,
When the sand-hill crane goes walking.
The chipmunks stop in the midst of play;
The gophers hide in their holes away;
And ‛Hush, oh, hush!’ the field-mice say,
When the sand-hill crane goes walking.

Views: 22

An die Geliebte
by Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)

Wenn ich, von deinem Anschaun tief gestillt,
Mich stumm an deinem heil’gen Wert vergnüge,
Dann hör’ ich recht die leisen Atemzüge
Des Engels, welcher sich in dir verhüllt.

Und ein erstaunt, ein fragend Lächeln quillt
Auf meinem Mund, ob mich kein Traum betrüge,
Daß nun in dir, zu ewiger Genüge,
Mein kühnster Wunsch, mein einz’ger, sich erfüllt?

Von Tiefe dann zu Tiefen stürzt mein Sinn,
Ich höre aus der Gottheit nächt’ger Ferne
Die Quellen des Geschicks melodisch rauschen.

Betäubt kehr’ ich den Blick nach oben hin,
Zum Himmel auf—da lächeln alle Sterne;
Ich knie, ihrem Lichtgesang zu lauschen.

Views: 20

By the Lake
by Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

ACROSS the flat and the pastel snow
Two people go . . . . ‛And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?’ . . . ‛Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December.’
‛Dead, the leaves that like asses’s ears hung on the trees
When last we wandered and squandered joy here;
Now Midas your husband will listen for these
Whispers–these tears for joy’s bier.’
And as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
And all the ropes let down from the cloud
Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees—codas
Of overtones, ecstasies, grown for love’s shroud

Views: 30

Trust Thou Thy Love
by John Ruskin (1819-1900)

Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;
Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure

Views: 32

The Daft Days
by Robert Fergusson (1750-1774)

Now mirk December’s dowie face
Glowers owre the rigs wi’ sour grimace,
While, thro’ his minimum of space,
         The bleer-ey’d sun,
Wi’ blinkin light and stealin’ pace,
         His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae odorous flavour brings
         From Borean cave,
And dwynin’ nature droops her wings,
         Wi’ visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
When winter, ’midst his nipping train,
         Wi’ frozen spear,
Sends drift owre a’ his bleak domain,
         And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou’art the canty hole,
A bield for mony a caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,
         Baith warm and couth;
While round they gar the bicker roll
         To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
You’ll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fu’
         O’ gusty gear,
And kickshaws, strangers to our view,
         Sin’ fern-year.

Ye browster wives! now busk ye braw,
And fling your sorrows far awa’;
Then, come and gie’s the tither blaw
         Of reaming ale,
Mair precious than the well o’ Spa,
         Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho’ at odds wi a’ the warl’,
Amang oursels we’ll never quarrel;
Though Discord gie a canker’d snarl
         To spoil our glee,
As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel
         We’ll drink and gree.

Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
And rozet weel your fiddle-sticks;
But banish vile Italian tricks
         Frae out your quorum,
Not fortes wi’ pianos mix—
         Gie’s Tullochgorum.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weel
As can a canty Highland reel;
It even vivifies the heel
         To skip and dance:
Lifeless is he wha canna feel
         Its influence.

Let mirth abound, let social cheer
Invest the dawnin’ o’ the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
         To crown our joy;
Nor envy, wi sarcastic sneer
         Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god o’ aqua vitae!
Wha sway’st the empire o’ this city,
When fou, we’re sometimes capernoity,
         Be thou prepar’d
To hedge us frae that black banditti,
         The City Guard.

Views: 38

Resurrection
by Robert Huntington (1958-)

You smiled, took my arm, and whispered some words in my ear;
         I did not understand, but they must have meant
                  “Breathe again.”
         For a tremor shook the depths of my being,
And my dead thoughts, my dead hopes, stirred to life.
         Surely Lazarus felt this self-same joy
         When our Lord touched him and said “Live.”
And the worms and the maggots disappeared,
And the bones came together, bone to bone,
         And the sinews and flesh covered him,
And the wind put breath in him, and he lived, and stood up on his feet.

         But then our Lord spake a few words more:
“You may live, but life remains the same as before;
Men still pass each other indifferently on the street;
         Envy and calumny and deceit are unchanged;
                  Above all, love still struggles with shame
                           And finding no nourishment in hope,
Eats thistles and thorns, nourishing itself on despair.
         It is not an act of kindness that I perform;
         A wise man would prefer the worms.”

Views: 32

Evening on Calais Beach
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free;
   The holy time is quiet as a Nun
   Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
   Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
   And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
   If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought,
   Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
   And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
   God being with thee when we know it not.

Views: 33