Barbara Frietchie
by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down.

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast
“Fire!”—out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

Views: 2

La Vase brisé
by Sully Prudhomme (1839-1937)

Le vase où meurt cette verveine
D’un coup d’éventail fut fêlé;
Le coup dut effleurer à peine:
Aucun bruit ne l’a révélé.

la légère meurtrissure,
Mordant le cristal chaque jour,
D’une marche invisible et sûre
En a fait lentement le tour

Son eau fraîche a fui goutte à goutte,
Le suc des fleurs s’est épuisé;
Personne encore ne s’en doute;
N’y touchez pas, il est brisé.

Souvent aussi la main qu’on aime,
Effleurant le cœur, le meurtrit;
Puis le cœur se fend de lui-même,
La fleur de son amour périt;

Toujours intact aux yeux du monde,
Il sent croître et pleurer tout bas
Sa blessure fine et profonde;
Il est brisé, n’y touchez pas.

Views: 2

Encore un livre
by Jules Laforgue (1860-1887)

Encore un livre; ô nostalgies
Loin de ces très goujates gens,
Loin des saluts et des argents,
Loin de nos phraséologies!

Encore un de mes pierrots mort;
Mort d’un chronique orphelinisme;
C’était un cœur plein de dandysme
Lunaire, en un drôle de corps.

Les dieux s’en vont; plus que des hures;
Ah! ça devient tous les jours pis;
J’ai fait mon temps, je déguerpis
Vers l’Inclusive Sinécure!

Views: 1

On the Russian Persecution of the Jews
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

O son of man, by lying tongues adored,
      By slaughterous hands of slaves with feet red-shod
       carnage deep as ever Christian trod
Profaned with prayer and sacrifice abhorred
And incense from the trembling tyrant’s horde,
      Brute worshippers or wielders of the rod,
      Most murderous even of all that call thee God,
Most treacherous even that ever called thee Lord;
Face loved of little children long ago,
      Head hated of the priests and rulers then,
            If thou see this, or hear these hounds of thine
            Run ravening as the Gadarean swine,
Say, was not this thy Passion, to foreknow
      In death’s worst hour the works of Christian men?

Views: 1

The Maldive Shark
by Herman Melville (1819-1891)

About the Shark, phlegmatical one,
Pale sot of the Maldive sea,
The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,
How alert in attendance be.
From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw
They have nothing of harm to dread,
But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank
Or before his Gorgonian head;
Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth
In white triple tiers of glittering gates,
And there find a haven when peril’s abroad,
An asylum in jaws of the Fates!
They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey,
Yet never partake of the treat—
Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull,
Pale ravener of horrible meat.

Views: 3

Letters
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Every day brings a ship,
Every ship brings a word;
Well for those who have no fear,
Looking seaward, well assured
That the word the vessel brings
Is the word they wish to hear.

Views: 1

The Rhodora
(On Being Asked, Whence Is the Flower?)
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew;
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Views: 9

Fannie
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)

Fannie has the sweetest foot
Ever in a gaiter boot!
And the hoyden knows it,
And, of course, she shows it–
Not the knowledge, but the foot–
Yet with such a modest grace,
Never seems it out of place,
         Ah, there are not many
            Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
         Or wickeder than Fannie.

Fannie has the blackest hair
   Of any of the village girls;
It does not shower on her neck
   In silken or coquettish curls.
It droops in folds around her brow,
   As clouds, at night, around the moon,
Looped with lilies here and there,
   In many a dangerous festoon.
And Fannie wears a gipsy hat,
Saucily-yes, all of that!
         Ah, there are not many
            Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
         Or wickeder than Fannie.

Fannie wears an open dress–
   Ah! the charming chemisette!
Half concealing, half revealing
   Something far more charming yet.
Fannie draper her breast with lace,
As one would drape a costly vase
To keep away mischevious flies;
But lace can’t keep away one’s eyes,
For every time her bosom heaves,
   Ah, it peepeth through it;
Yet Fannie looks the while as if
   Never once she knew it.
         Ah, there are not many
            Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
         Or innocent than Fannie.

Fannie lays her hand in mine;
   Fannie speaks with naivete,
Fannie kisses me, she does!
   In her own coquettish way.
Then softly speaks and deeply sighs,
With angels nestled in her eyes.
In the merrie month of May,
Fannie swears sincerely
She will be my own wife,
And love me dearly, dearly
Ever after all her life.
         Ah, there are not many
            Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
         As my true-hearted Fannie.

Views: 5

Love and Death
by Lord Byron (1788-1824) (his last poem)

I watched thee when the foe was at our side,
      Ready to strike at him—or thee and me.
Were safety hopeless—rather than divide
      Aught with one loved save love and liberty:

I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock
      Received our prow and all was storm and fear,
And bade thee cling to me through every shock;
      This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes,
      Yielding my couch and stretched me on the ground,
When overworn with watching, ne’er to rise
      From thence if thou an early grave hadst found.

The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall,
      And men and nature reeled as if with wine.
Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?
      For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine.

And when convulsive throes denied my breath
      The faintest utterance to my fading thought,
To thee—to thee—e’en in the gasp of death
      My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.

Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,
      And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
      To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.

Views: 7

Ars Poetica
by Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982)

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean
But be.

Views: 6