Sapphics
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids,
Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather,
Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron
⁠         Stood and beheld me.

Then to me so lying awake a vision
Came without sleep over the seas and touched me,
Softly touched mine eyelids and lips; and I too,
⁠         Full of the vision,

Saw the white implacable Aphrodite,
Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled
Shine as fire of sunset on western waters;
⁠         Saw the reluctant

Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her,
Looking always, looking with necks reverted,
Back to Lesbos, back to the hills whereunder
⁠         Shone Mitylene;

Heard the flying feet of the Loves behind her
Make a sudden thunder upon the waters,
As the thunder flung from the strong unclosing
⁠         Wings of a great wind.

So the goddess fled from her place, with awful
Sound of feet and thunder of wings around her;
While behind a clamour of singing women
⁠         Severed the twilight.

Ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion!
All the Loves wept, listening; sick with anguish,
Stood the crowned nine Muses about Apollo;
⁠         Fear was upon them,

While the tenth sang wonderful things they knew not.
Ah the tenth, the Lesbian! the nine were silent,
None endured the sound of her song for weeping;
⁠         Laurel by laurel,

Faded all their crowns; but about her forehead,
Round her woven tresses and ashen temples
White as dead snow, paler than grass in summer,
⁠         Ravaged with kisses,

Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever.
Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite
Paused, and almost wept; such a song was that song.
⁠         Yea, by her name too

Called her, saying, “Turn to me, O my Sappho;”
Yet she turned her face from the Loves, she saw not
Tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids,
⁠         Heard not about her

Fearful fitful wings of the doves departing,
Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite
Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken raiment,
⁠         Saw not her hands wrung;

Saw the Lesbians kissing across their smitten
Lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of lute-strings,
Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her chosen,
⁠         Fairer than all men;

Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers,
Full of songs and kisses and little whispers,
Full of music; only beheld among them
⁠         Soar, as a bird soars

Newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel,
Made of perfect sound and exceeding passion,
Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders,
⁠         Clothed with the wind’s wings.

Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and scattered
Roses, awful roses of holy blossom;
Then the Loves thronged sadly with hidden faces
⁠         Round Aphrodite,

Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were silent;
Yea, the gods waxed pale; such a song was that song.
All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion,
⁠         Fled from before her.

All withdrew long since, and the land was barren,
Full of fruitless women and music only.
Now perchance, when winds are assuaged at sunset,
⁠         Lulled at the dewfall,

By the grey sea-side, unassuaged, unheard of,
Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight,
Ghosts of outcast women return lamenting,
⁠         Purged not in Lethe,

Clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing
Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven,
Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity,
⁠         Hearing, to hear them.

Views: 27

That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Cloud-Puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air-
built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs | they throng; they glitter in marches.
Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, | wherever an elm arches,
Shivelights and shadowtackle in long | lashes lace, lance, and pair.
Delightfully the bright wind boisterous | ropes, wrestles, beats earth bare
Of yestertempest’s creases; in pool and rut peel parches
Squandering ooze to squeezed | dough, crust, dust; stanches, starches
Squadroned masks and manmarks | treadmire toil there
Footfretted in it. Million-fuelèd, | nature’s bonfire burns on.
But quench her bonniest, dearest | to her, her clearest-selvèd spark
Man, how fast his firedint, | his mark on mind, is gone!
Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark
Drowned. O pity and indig | nation! Manshape, that shone
Sheer off, disseveral, a star, | death blots black out; nor mark
⁠                              Is any of him at all so stark
But vastness blurs and time | beats level. Enough! the Resurrection,
A heart’s-clarion! Away grief’s gasping, | joyless days, dejection.
⁠                              Across my foundering deck shone
A beacon, an eternal beam. | Flesh fade, and mortal trash
Fall to the residuary worm; | world’s wildfire, leave but ash:
⁠                              In a flash, at a trumpet crash,
I am all at once what Christ is, | since he was what I am, and
This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,
⁠                              Is immortal diamond.

Views: 20

Auf den Tod eines Kindes
by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)

Mir war’s, ich hört’ es an der Thüre pochen,
Und fuhr empor, als wärst du wieder da
Und sprächest wieder, wie du oft gesprochen,
Mit Schmeichelton: Darf ich hinein, Papa?

Und da ich Abends ging am steilen Strand,
Fühlt’ ich dein Händchen warm in meiner Hand.

Und wo die Flut Gestein herangewälzt,
Sagt’ ich ganz laut: Gieb Acht, daß du nicht fällst!

Views: 23

A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray’d hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step—and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

Views: 49

The Disabled Debauchee
by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680)

As some brave Admiral, in former War
Depriv’d of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two Rival Fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an Adjacent Hill,

From whence, with thoughts full of concern, he views
The wise and daring conduct of the Fight,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory and his past delight;

From his fierce eyes flashes of Rage he throws,
As from black Clouds when Lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the bloody Day:

So, when my days of Impotence approach,
And I’m by Pox and Wine’s unlucky chance
Forc’d from the pleasing Billows of Debauch
On the Dull Shore of lazy Temperance;

My pains at least some respite shall afford
While I behold the Battles you maintain,
When Fleets of Glasses Sail about the Board,
From whose broad sides Volleys of Wit shall Rain.

Nor shall the sight of honorable Scars,
Which my too forward valor did procure,
Frighten new-lifted Soldiers from the Wars;
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

Should hopeful youths, worth being drunk, prove nice,
And from their fair Inviters meanly shrink;
Twill please the Ghost of my departed Vice
If, at my counsel, they repent, and Drink.

Or should some cold complexion’d Sot forbid,
With his Dull Morals, your bold Night-Alarms;
I’ll fire his blood, by telling what I did
When I was strong, and able to bear Arms.

I’ll tell of Whores attack’d, their Lords at home;
Bauds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won:
Windows demolish’d, Watches overcome;
And handsome Ills, by my contrivance, done.

Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,
When each the well-look’d Linkboy strove t’enjoy;
And the best Kiss was the deciding Lot,
Whether the Boy Fuck’d you, or I the Boy.

With Tales like these, I will such thoughts inspire
As to important mischief shall incline;
I’ll make him long some Ancient Church to fire,
And fear no lewdness he’s call’d to by Wine.

Thus, Statesman-like, I’ll saucily Impose,
And, safe from Action, valiantly Advise;
Shelter’d in Impotence, urge you to blows:
And being good for nothing else, be Wise.

Views: 28