Poem of the day

Piazza Piece
by John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974)

—I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small   
And listen to an old man not at all,
They want the young men’s whispering and sighing.   
But see the roses on your trellis dying
And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
For I must have my lovely lady soon,
I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying

—I am a lady young in beauty waiting   
Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss.   
But what grey man among the vines is this   
Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?   
Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream!   
I am a lady young in beauty waiting.

Views: 28

Poem of the day

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot
by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu’d, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I’m sick, I’m dead.
The dog-star rages! nay ’tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

      What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free;
Ev’n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me just at dinner-time.

      Is there a parson, much bemus’d in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoom’d his father’s soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock’d from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp’rate charcoal round his darken’d walls?
All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn’d works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Continue reading

Views: 43

Poem of the day

by Clément Marot (1495-1544)

Dieu gard’ ma Maistresse, et regente,
Gente de corps, et de façon,
Son cœur tient le mien en sa tente
Tant et plus d’un ardant frisson.
S’on m’oit pousser sur ma chanson
Son de luth, ou harpes doulcettes,
C’est Espoir, qui sans marrisson
Songer me faict en amourettes.
La blanche Colombelle belle,
Souvent je vois priant, criant:
Mais dessous la cordelle d’elle
Me jette un œil friant riant,
En me consommant, et sommant
A douleur, qui ma face efface,
Dont suis le reclamant amant,
Qui pour l’outrepasse trespasse.

Dieu des amants, de mort me garde,
Me gardant, donne-moi bonheur,
En le me donnant, prens ta darde,
En la prenant, navre son cœur,
En le navrant, me tiendra seur,
En seurté, suivrai l’accointance,
En l’accointant, ton serviteur
En servant aura jouissance.

Views: 39

Poem of the day

by Jessie Redmond Fauset (1882-1961)

When April’s here and meadows wide
Once more with spring’s sweet growths are pied
      I close each book, drop each pursuit,
      And past the brook, no longer mute,
I joyous roam the countryside.

Look, here the violets shy abide
And there the mating robins hide—
      How keen my sense, how acute,
            When April’s here!

And list! down where the shimmering tide
Hard by that farthest hill doth glide,
      Rise faint strains from shepherd’s flute,
      Pan’s pipes and Berecyntian lute.
Each sight, each sound fresh joys provide
            When April’s here.

Views: 39

Poem of the day

by Ludwig Uhland (1787-1862)

Noch ahnt man kaum der Sonne Licht,
Noch sind die Morgenglocken nicht
Im finstern Tal erklungen.

Wie still des Waldes weiter Raum!
Die Vöglein zwitschern nur im Traum,
Kein Sang hat sich erschwungen.

Ich hab’ mich längst ins Feld gemacht,
Und habe schon dies Lied erdacht,
Und hab’ es laut gesungen.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

The Keys of Morning
by Walter De la Mare (1873-1956)

While at her bedroom window once,
         Learning her task for school,
Little Louisa lonely sat
         In the morning clear and cool,
She slanted her small bead-brown eyes
         Across the empty street,
And saw Death softly watching her
         In the sunshine pale and sweet.

His was a long lean sallow face,
         He sat with half-shut eyes,
Like an old sailor in a ship
         Becalmed ’neath tropic skies.
Beside him in the dust he’d set
         His staff and shady hat;
These, peeping small, Louisa saw
         Quite clearly where she sat –
The thinness of his coal-black locks,
         His hands so long and lean
They scarcely seemed to grasp at all
         The keys that hung between:
Both were of gold, but one was small,
         And with this last did he
Wag in the air, as if to say,
         “Come hither, child, to me!”

Louisa laid her lesson book
         On the cold window-sill;
And in the sleepy sunshine house
         Went softly down, until
She stood in the half-opened door,
         And peeped; but strange to say,
Where Death just now had sunning sat
         Only a shadow lay; –
Just the tall chimney’s round-topped cowl,
         And the small sun behind,
Had with its shadow in the dust
         Called sleepy Death to mind.
But most she thought how strange it was
         Two keys that he should bear,
And that, when beckoning, he should wag
         The littlest in the air.

Views: 35

Poem of the day

A Modern Sappho
by Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)

They are gone—all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?
⁠      Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade.
Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river:
⁠      Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!

Ere he come,—ere the boat by the shining-branched border
⁠      Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,—
Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,
⁠      Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broidered flags gleam.

Last night we stood earnestly talking together:
⁠      She entered—that moment his eyes turned from me!
Fastened on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather.
⁠      As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.

Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,
⁠      Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.
They must love—while they must! but the hearts that love longer
⁠      Are rare—ah! most loves but flow once, and return.

I shall suffer—but they will outlive their affection;
⁠      I shall weep—but their love will be cooling; and he,
As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,
⁠      Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!

For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking
⁠      The strong band which passion around him hath furled,
Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,
⁠      Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.

Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,
⁠      Perceive but a voice as I come to his side;
—But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,
⁠      Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.

So, to wait! But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?
⁠      ’Tis he! ’tis their flag, shooting round by the trees!
—Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving!
⁠      Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.

Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure?
⁠      World, have thy children yet bowed at his knee?
Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crowned him, O pleasure?
⁠      —Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me.

Views: 144

Poem of the day

If I Should Die
by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

If I should die, think only this of me:
⁠      That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
⁠      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
⁠      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
⁠      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
      ⁠A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
⁠            Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
⁠      And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
⁠            In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Views: 34