Poem of the day

Upon Phillis Walking In A Morning Before Sun-rising
by John Cleveland (1613-1658

The sluggish morne as yet undrest,  
My Phillis brake from out her East;  
As if shee’d made a match to run  
With Venus, Usher to the sun.  
The Trees like yeomen of her guard,
Serving more for pomp then ward,  
Rankt on each side with loyall duty,  
Weave branches to enclose her beauty.  
The Plants whose luxury was lopt,  
Or age with crutches underpropt;
Whose wooden carkases are growne  
To be but coffins of their owne;  
Revive, and at her generall dole  
Each receives his ancient soule:  
The winged Choristers began  
To chirp their Mattins: and the Fan  
Of whistling winds like Organs plai’d,  
Untill their Voluntaries made  
The wakened earth in Odours rise  
To be her morning Sacrifice.
The flowers, call’d out of their beds,  
Start, and raise up their drowsie heads;  
And he that for their colour seekes,  
May find it vaulting in her cheekes,  
Where Roses mixe: no Civil War  
Betweene her Yorke and Lancaster.  
The Marigold whose Courtiers face  
Ecchoes the Sun, and doth unlace  
Her at his rise, at his full stop  
Packs and shuts up her gaudy shop,
Mistakes her cue, and doth display:  
Thus Philis antedates the day.  
 These miracles had cramp’t the Sunne,  
Who thinking that his kingdom ’s wonne,  
Powders with light his freezled lockes,
To see what Saint his lustre mocks.  
The trembling leaves through which he plai’d,  
Dapling the walke with light and shade,  
Like Lattice-windowes, give the spie  
Roome but to peep with halfe an eye;
Lest her full Orb his sight should dim,  
And bid us all good-night in him,  
Till she would spend a gentle ray  
To force us a new fashion’d day.  
But what religious Paulsie ’s this
Which makes the boughs divest their bliss?  
And that they might her foot-steps strawe,  
Drop their leaves with shivering awe?  
Phillis perceives, and (least her stay  
Should wed October unto May;
And as her beauty caus’d a Spring,  
Devotion might an Autumne bring)  
With-drew her beames, yet made no night,  
But left the Sun her Curate-light.

Views: 45

Poem of the day

Rose Aylmer
by Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)

Ah! what avails the sceptred race,
   Ah! what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
   Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
   May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
   I consecrate to thee.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

The Dead Hero
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936)

We never saw you, like our sires,
⁠   For whom your face was Freedom’s face,
Nor know what office-tapes and wires⁠
⁠   With such strong cords may interlace;
We know not if the statesmen then
⁠   Were fashioned as the sort we see,
We know that not under your ken
⁠   Did England laugh at Liberty.

Yea, this one thing is known of you,
⁠   We know that not till you were dumb,
Not till your course was thundered through,
⁠   Did Mammon see his kingdom come.
The songs of theft, the swords of hire,
⁠T   he clerks that raved, the troops that ran
The empire of the world’s desire,
⁠   The dance of all the dirt began.

The happy jewelled alien men
⁠   Worked then but as a little leaven;
From some more modest palace then
⁠   The Soul of Dives stank to Heaven.
But when they planned with lisp and leer
⁠   Their careful war upon the weak,
They smote your body on its bier,
⁠   For surety that you could not speak.

A hero in the desert died;
⁠   Men cried that saints should bury him,
And round the grave should guard and ride,
⁠   A chivalry of Cherubim.
God said: “There is a better place,
⁠   A nobler trophy and more tall;
The beasts that fled before his face
⁠   Shall come to make his funeral.

“The mighty vermin of the void
⁠   That hid them from his bended bow,
Shall crawl from caverns overjoyed,
⁠   Jackal and snake and carrion crow.
And perched above the vulture’s eggs,
⁠   Reversed upon its hideous head,
A blue-faced ape shall wave its legs
⁠   To tell the world that he is dead.”

Views: 40

Poem of the day

When You Are Old
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Views: 42

Poem of the day

To Celia
by Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
⁠   And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
⁠   And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
⁠   Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
⁠   I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
⁠   Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
⁠   It could not wither’d be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
⁠   And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
⁠   Not of itself but thee!

Views: 46

Poem of the day

Baadster
by Louis Couperus (1863-1923)

Een blanke nymf steeg ze uit het marmren bad,
En toefde op de eerste treê; heur armen beurden
En wrongen ’t blonde hair, dat druipend nat
Nog van den amber der violen geurde.

Hoe ’t rozig-blond van ’t blozend rozeblad
De sneeuw haars teedren lichaams warmer kleurde,
Terwijl van paerlen vloeyende en omspat,
Zij lelie was, die in den dauwe treurde!

Daar stond ze, steunende op het slanke been,
Zoo, dat bevallig zich de heupe rondde,
Nu de armen hoog de dartle lokken bonden.

Daar stond ze, glanzend-wit als marmersteen,
Geheel omsluyerd in den korenblonde:
Antieke vaas met douden veile omwonden.

Views: 39

Poem of the day

Litany to the Holy Spirit
by Robert Herrick (1691-1574)

In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown’d in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but on his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When his potion and his pill
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing, but to kill ;
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing bell doth toll,
And the furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said,
’Cause my speech is now decayed,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I’m toss’d about,
Either with despair, or doubt ;
Yet before the glass be out,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu’th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the judgment is reveal’d,
And that open’d which was seal’d,
When to Thee I have appeal’d,
            Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

Views: 35

Poem of the day

L’Apparition
by Marguerite Yourcenar (1903-1987)

Dans le xyste où rêvait sa jeunesse immortelle,
L’éphèbe Antinoos aux jardins de Tibur
Vit, parmi les débris détachés de sa stèle,
Les ronces l’envahir sous l’impassible azur.

À l’heure où les ramiers, d’un lourd battement d’aile,
Font trembler l’ombre claire aux blancheurs du vieux mur,
Seul, le tiède baiser de la clarté fidèle
Consolait la Statue au geste calme et pur.

Les siècles ont détruit cette image mystique
Et terni la candeur du marbre éblouissant.
Qu’importe… Je revois le bel Adolescent:

Il monte avec lenteur les degrés du portique,
Et, posant ses pieds nus sur le sable vermeil,
Revit pour un instant et s’étire au soleil. …

Views: 37

Poem of the day

Der Tod
by Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)

Er erschreckt uns
Unser Retter, der Tod. Sanft kommt er,
Leis’ im Gewölke des Schlafs.

Aber er bleibt fürchterlich, und wir sehn nur
Nieder ins Grab ob er gleich uns zur Vollendung
Führt aus Hüllen der Nacht hinüber
In der Erkenntnisse Land.

Views: 43

Poem of the day

СНОВИДЕНИЕ
by Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837)
because this is both Pushkin’s birthday and UN Russian Language Day

Недавно, обольщен прелестным сновиденьем,
В венце сияющем, царем я зрел себя;
Мечталось, я любил тебя —
И сердце билось наслажденьем.
Я страсть у ног твоих в восторгах изъяснял.
Мечты! ах! отчего вы счастья не продлили?
Но боги не всего теперь меня лишили:
Я только — царство потерял.

Views: 63