Art
(imitated from de Banville and Gautier)
by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

                  I

Yes! Beauty still rebels!
Our dreams like clouds disperse:
         She dwells
In agate, marble, verse.

No false constraint be thine!
But, for right walking, choose
         The fine,
The strict cothurnus, Muse.

Vainly ye seek to escape
The toil! The yielding phrase
         Ye shape
Is clay, not chrysoprase.

And all in vain ye scorn
That seeming ease which ne’er
         Was born
Of aught but love and care.

Take up the sculptor’s tool!
Recall the gods that die
         To rule
In Parian o’er the sky.

                  II

Poet, let passion sleep
Till with the cosmic rhyme
         You keep
Eternal tone and time,

By rule of hour and flower,
By strength of stern restraint
         And power
To fail and not to faint.

The task is hard to learn
While all the songs of Spring
         Return
Along the blood and sing.

Yet hear—from her deep skies,
How Art, for all your pain,
         Still cries
Ye must be born again!

Reject the wreath of rose,
Take up the crown of thorn
         That shows
To-night a child is born.

The far immortal face
In chosen onyx fine
         Enchase,
Delicate line by line.

Strive with Carrara, fight
With Parian, till there steal
         To light
Apollo’s pure profile.

Set the great lucid form
Free from its marble tomb
         To storm
The heights of death and doom.

Take up the sculptor’s tool!
Recall the gods that die
         To rule
In Parian o’er the sky.

Views: 37

The White City
by Claude McKay (1889-1948)

I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch
I bear it nobly as I live my part.
My being would be a skeleton, a shell,
If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,
And makes my heaven in the white world’s hell,
Did not forever feed me vital blood.
I see the mighty city through a mist—
The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,
The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,
The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate,
Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.

Views: 47

Horses Chawin’ Hay
by Hamlin Garland (1860-1940)

I tell yeh whut! The chankin’
      Which the tired horses makes
When you’ve slipped the harness off’m,
      An’ shoved the hay in flakes
From the hay-mow overhead,
      Is jest about the equal of any pi-anay;
They’s nothin’ soun’s s’ cumftabul
      As horsus chawin’ hay.

I love t’ hear ’em chankin’,
      Jest a-grindin’ slow and low,
With their snoots a-rootin’ clover
      Deep as their ol’ heads ’ll go.
It’s kind o’ sort o’ restin’
      To a feller’s bones, I say.
It soun’s s’ mighty cumftabul—
      The horsus chawin’ hay.

Gra-onk, gra-onk, gra-onk!
      In a stiddy kind o’ tone,
Not a tail a-waggin’ to ’um,
      N’r another sound ’r groan—
Fer the flies is gone a-snoozin’.
Then I loaf around an’ watch ’em
      In a sleepy kind o’ way,
F’r they soun’ so mighty cumftabul
      As they rewt and chaw their hay.

An’ it sets me thinkin’ sober
      Of the days of ’53,
When we pioneered the prairies—
      M’ wife an’ dad an’ me,
In a dummed ol’ prairie-schooner,
      In a rough-an’-tumble way,
Sleepin’ out at nights, to music
      Of the horsus chawin’ hay.

Or I’m thinkin’ of my comrades
      In the fall of ’63,
When I rode with ol’ Kilpatrick
      Through an’ through ol’ Tennessee.
I’m a-layin’ in m’ blanket
      With my head agin a stone,
Gazin’ upwards toward the North Star—
      Billy Sykes and Davy Sloan
      A-snorin’ in a buck-saw kind o’ way,
An’ me a-layin’, listenin’
      To the horsus chawin’ hay.

It strikes me turrible cur’ous
      That a little noise like that,
Can float a feller backwards
      Like the droppin’ of a hat;
An’ start his throat a-achin’,
      Make his eyes wink that a-way—
They ain’t no sound that gits me
      Like horsus chawin’ hay!

Views: 46

The Day Is Past and Gone
by John Leland (1503-1552)

The day is past and gone
The evening shades appear;
O may we all remember well,
The night of death is near.

We lay our garments by,
Upon our beds to rest;
So death will soon disrobe us all
Of what we here possess.

Lord, keep us safe this night,
Secure from all our fears;
May angels guard us while we sleep,
Till morning light appears.

And when we early rise,
And view th’unwearied sun,
May we set out to win the prize,
And after glory run.

And when our days are past,
And we from time remove,
O may we in Thy bosom rest,
The bosom of Thy love.

Views: 40

Love Between Brothers and Sisters
by Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

Whatever brawls disturb the street,
⁠      There should be peace at home:
Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,
⁠      Quarrels should never come.

Birds in their little nests agree;
⁠      And ’tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
⁠      Fall out and chide and fight.

Views: 42

A Mother to Her Waking Infant
by Joanna Baillie (1762-1861)

Now in thy dazzled half-op’d eye,
Thy curled nose and lip awry,
Up-hoisted arms and noddling head,
And little chin with crystal spread,
Poor helpless thing! what do I see,
That I should sing of thee?
From thy poor tongue no accents come,
Which can but rub thy toothless gum:
Small understanding boasts thy face,
Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace:
A few short words thy feats may tell,
And yet I love thee well.
When wakes the sudden bitter shriek,
And redder swells thy little cheek;
When rattled keys thy woes beguile,
And through thine eye-lids gleams the smile,
Still for thy weakly self is spent
Thy little silly plaint.
But when thy friends are in distress,
Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’ertheless,
Nor with kind sympathy be smitten,
Though all are sad but thee and kitten;
Yet, puny varlet that thou art,
Thou twitchest at the heart.
Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm;
Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm;
Thy silken locks that scantly peep,
With gold-tipp’d ends, where circles deep,
Around thy neck in harmless grace,
So soft and sleekly hold their place,
Might harder hearts with kindness fill,
And gain our right goodwill.
Each passing clown bestows his blessing,
Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing;
E’en lighter looks the gloomy eye
Of surly sense when thou art by;
And yet, I think, whoe’er they be,
They love thee not like me.
Perhaps when time shall add a few
Short months to thee thou’lt love me too;
And after that, through life’s long way,
Become my sure and cheering stay;
Will care for me and be my hold,
When I am weak and old.
Thou’lt listen to my lengthened tale,
And pity me when I am frail—
But see, the sweepy spinning fly,
Upon the window takes thine eye.
Go to thy little senseless play;
Thou dost not heed my lay.

Views: 34

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: 32

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: 29

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: 26

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: 42