I Hear It Was Charged Against Me
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions;
But really I am neither for nor against institutions;
(What indeed have I in common with them?—Or what with the destruction of them?)
Only I will establish in the Mannahatta, and in every city of These States, inland and seaboard,
And in the fields and woods, and above every keel, little or large, that dents the water,
Without edifices, or rules, or trustees, or any argument,
The institution of the dear love of comrades.

Views: 66

Love’s Blindness
by Alfred Austin (1835-1913)

Now do I know that Love is blind, for I
Can see no beauty on this beauteous earth,
No life, no light, no hopefulness, no mirth,
Pleasure nor purpose, when thou art not nigh.
Thy absence exiles sunshine from the sky,
Seres Spring’s maturity, checks Summer’s birth,
Leaves linnet’s pipe as sad as plover’s cry,
And makes me in abundance find but dearth.
But when thy feet flutter the dark, and thou
With orient eyes dawnest on my distress,
Suddenly sings a bird on every bough,
The heavens expand, the earth grows less and less,
The ground is buoyant as the ether now,
And all looks lovely in thy loveliness.

Views: 64

The Rolling English Road
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936)

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road,
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire,
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread,
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

Views: 33

Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
by Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
   Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
   Live fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
   Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
   Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
   And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known,
   To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
   But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
   The same look which she turned when he rose!

Views: 51

The Battle Hymn of the Republic
by Julia Ward Howe (1819-1910)

This has recorded umpteen million times but for my money the best rendition is Odetta’s.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps,
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you My grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.”

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat:
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

Views: 45

An Answer to a Love-Letter
by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689–1762)

Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain?
Are heaven’s choicest gifts bestowed in vain?
A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride,
Your love rewarded, gratify’d your pride:
Yet leaving her—’tis me that you pursue
Without one single charm, but being new.
How vile is man! how I detest their ways
Of artful falsehood, and designing praise!
Tasteless, an easy happiness you slight,
Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight,
Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind)
Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin’d?
Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan
While roves unpunish’d the destroyer, man.
Not bound by vows, and unrestrain’d by shame,
In sport you break the heart, and rend the fame.
Not that your art can be successful here,
Th’ already plunder’d need no robber fear:
Nor sighs, nor charms, nor flatteries can move,
Too well secur’d against a second love
Once, and but once, that devil charm’d my mind;
To reason deaf, to observation blind;
I idly hop’d (what cannot love persuade?)
My fondness equal’d, and my love repaid:
Slow to distrust, and willing to believe,
Long hush’d my doubts, and did myself deceive;
But oh! too soon—this tale would ever last;
Sleep, sleep my wrongs, and let me think them past.
For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief,
And ask so boldly like a begging thief,
May soon some other nymph inflict the pain,
You know so well with cruel art to feign.
Though long you sported with Dan Cupid’s dart,
You may see eyes, and you may feel a heart.
So the brisk wits, who stop the evening coach,
Laugh at the fear which follows their approach;
With idle mirth, and haughty scorn despise
The passenger’s pale cheek and staring eyes:
But seiz’d by Justice, find a fright no jest,
And all the terror doubled in their breast.

Views: 53

Give All to Love
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit and the Muse,—
Nothing refuse.

’T is a brave master;
Let it have scope:
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope:
High and more high
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But it is a god,
Knows its own path
And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean;
It requireth courage stout.
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending,
It will reward,—
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.

Leave all for love;
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,—
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, forever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
First vague shadow of surmise
Flits across her bosom young,
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free;
Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.

Views: 67

The Widow at Windsor
by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

’Ave you ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor
⁠   With a hairy gold crown on ’er ’ead?
She ’as ships on the foam—she ’as millions at ’ome,
⁠   An’ she pays us poor beggars in red.
⁠      (Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There’s ’er nick on the cavalry ’orses,
⁠   There’s ’er mark on the medical stores—
An’ ’er troopers you’ll find with a fair wind be’ind
⁠   That takes us to various wars.
⁠      (Poor beggars!—barbarious wars!)
            Then ’ere’s to the Widow at Windsor,
⁠               An’ ’ere’s to the stores an’ the guns,
⁠            The men an’ the ’orses that makes up the forces
⁠               O’ Missis Victorier’s sons.
⁠            (Poor beggars! Victorier’s sons!)

Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor,
⁠   For ’alf o’ Creation she owns:
We ’ave bought ’er the same with the sword an’ the flame,
⁠   An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones.
⁠      (Poor beggars!—it’s blue with our bones!)
Hands off o’ the sons of the Widow,
⁠   Hands off o’ the goods in ’er shop,
For the Kings must come down an’ the Emperors frown
⁠   When the Widow at Windsor says “Stop!”
⁠      (Poor beggars!—we’re sent to say “Stop!”)
            Then ’ere’s to the Lodge o’ the Widow,
               ⁠From the Pole to the Tropics it runs—
⁠            To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an’ the file,
⁠               An’ open in form with the guns.
⁠            (Poor beggars!—it’s always the guns!)

We ’ave ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,
⁠   It’s safest to leave ’er alone:
For ’er sentries we stand by the sea an’ the land
⁠   Wherever the bugles are blown.
⁠      (Poor beggars!—an’ don’t we get blown!)
Take ’old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,
⁠   An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;
But you won’t get away from the tune that they play
⁠   To the bloomin’ old Rag over’ead.
⁠      (Poor beggars!—it’s ’ot over’ead!)
            Then ’ere’s to the sons o’ the Widow
⁠               Wherever, ’owever they roam.
⁠            ’Ere’s all they desire, an’ if they require
⁠               A speedy return to their ’ome.
⁠            (Poor beggars!—they’ll never see ’ome!)

Views: 36

Ångest
by Pär Lagerkvist (1891-1974)

Ångest, ångest är min arvedel,
min strupes sår,
mitt hjärtas skri i världen.
Nu styvnar löddrig sky
i nattens grova hand,
nu stiga skogarna
och stela höjder
så kargt mot himmelens
förkrympta valv.
Hur hårt är allt,
hur stelnat, svart och stilla!

Jag famlar kring i detta dunkla rum,
jag känner klippans vassa kant mot mina fingrar,
jag river mina uppåtsträckta händer
till blods mot molnens frusna trasor.

Ack, mina naglar sliter jag från fingrarna,
mina händer river jag såriga, ömma
mot berg och mörknad skog,
mot himlens svarta järn
och mot den kalla jorden!

Ångest, ångest är min arvedel,
min strupes sår,
mitt hjärtas skri i världen.

Views: 40

La Délicate
by Catulle Mendès (1841-1909)

J’ai conduit ma mie au village,
Parmi les bois et les prés verts;
Au cri des vagues sur la plage
Nous avons répondu des vers.

Nous avons gravi la colline
Le long des buissons épineux,
Et sa robe de mousseline,
En passant, s’accrochait aux nœuds.

Sa bouche riait sur ma bouche
En devisant près du ruisseau;
Mais son pied fait pour la babouche
Tressaillait au contact de l’eau.

Puis ce miroir, qui se rebelle,
Éraillé par les cailloux blonds,
Ne la faisait pas assez belle,
Et ma muse m’a dit: Allons!

A cheval sur un beau nuage,
Rose flocon, houppe de lait,
J’ai conduit ma.mie au rivage
Où l’idéal étincelait.

Là, parmi les Édens sans voiles,
Elle cueillait d’un doigt mignon
Ces fleurs d’or que l’on nomme étoiles
Et les plantait dans son chignon!

Mais lasse, un jour, dans retendue
De poursuivre un follet trompeur,
A mon cou doucement pendue,
Tremblante, elle m’a dit: J’ai peur!

Alors, à la blonde, volage:
O muse blonde, que veux-tu?
Tu n’aimes pas le gai village,
Son église au clocher pointu;

Les grillons chantant sous le seigle,
Les bergers dormant sous les houx,
Et tu n’as pas les yeux d’un aigle
Pour braver le grandi soleil roux!

Veux-tu, pleurant sur une tombe,
Habiller tes chansons de deuil?
Hélas! une larme qui tombe
Rougirait le coin de ton œil.

En fière amazone équipée,
Aimes-tu les combats sanglants?
La sueur rouge de l’épée
Déshonorerait tes pieds blancs.

Et la belle a dit: Ce que j’aime?
Je préfère aux ombres du soir,
Aux senteurs de la rose même,
L’ombre et le.s senteurs du boudoir!

Qu’autour de moi tout s’effémine!
A travers la création
J’ai des épouvantes d’hermine,
De sensitive et d’alcyon.

Mes yeux épris d’ombres choisies
Craignent le noir des vastes nuits;
Le jour aux rouges frénésies
Offense mes tendres ennuis.

Il faut aux lieux où je repose,
Si pâle sous des rideaux bruns,
Que l’on répande un encens rose,
Qu’on m’éclaire avec des parfums.

Je veux, dans la pâte d’amande
Parfumant mes ongles, avoir
Le divan sombre où je m’étende,
Cygne endormi sur un flot noir.

A moi les robes de guipure,
Où, s’harmoniant à mon teint,
Frissonne sur îa trame pure
La clarté du miroir éteint,

Et pour ma toilette éternelle,
Lorsque viendra le jour fatal,
Je veux un linceul de dentelle,
Dans une bière de santal!

Views: 23