The Garden of Proserpine
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

Here, where the world is quiet,
   Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
   In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
   A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
   And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
   For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
   And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
   And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
   Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
   And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
   No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
   Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes,
Save this whereout she crushes
   For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
   In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
   All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
   Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
   He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
   Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
   In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
   Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
   With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
   From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
   She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
   The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
   And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
   The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
   And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
   Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,
   And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
   Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
   Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
   From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
   Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
   Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
   Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
   Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
   In an eternal night.

Views: 44

Hymne à la Beauté
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l’abîme,
O Beauté? Ton regard, infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l’on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.

Tu contiens dans ton œil le couchant et l’aurore;
Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore
Qui font le héros lâche et l’enfant courageux.

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
Le Destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien;
Tu sèmes au hasard la joie et les désastres,
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien.

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques,
De tes bijoux l’Horreur n’est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.

L’éphémère ébloui vole vers toi, chandelle,
Crépite, flambe et dit : Bénissons ce flambeau!
L’amoureux pantelant incliné sur sa belle
A l’air d’un moribond caressant son tombeau.

Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l’enfer, qu’importe,
O Beauté! monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu!
Si ton œil, ton souris, ton pied, m’ouvrent la porte
D’un Infini que j’aime et n’ai jamais connu?

De Satan ou de Dieu, qu’importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu’importe, si tu rends, — fée aux yeux de velours,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine! —
L’univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?

Views: 23

Κάκιωμα
by Dionysios Solomos (1798–1857)

Πλέον δὲν ἐρχομαι ‘ς τὸ βρέφος
Ὡραιότητες γεμᾶτο,
Σὰν τριαντάφυλλο δροσᾶτο,
Ὁποῦ ἀνοίγει αὐγερινό.

Ὄχι, πλέον δὲ θέλω νἄλθω,
Οὔτε ἄν ἔξαφνα ἀρχινήσῃ
Λυπηρὰ νὰ τραγουδήσῃ
Τὴ βοσκούλα ‘ς τὸ βουνό·

Οὔτε ἄν ψάλλοντας τὸ ἰδοῦνε
Τὸν πατέρα του νὰ δείξῃ,
Καὶ τὰ δάκρυα νὰ σφουγγίξῃ
Μὲ τὸ χέρι τὸ μικρό.

Μόνον ἄν τὸ πάρῃ ἡ μοῖρα.
Καὶ στενέψῃ ἐμὲ νὰ κλίνω,
Τότες ἔρχομαι καί δίνω
Ἕνα φίλημα κ’ ἐγώ.

Views: 23

We Are Seven
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit—
I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you then,” said I,
“If they two are in Heaven?”
The little Maiden did reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in Heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away: for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

Views: 30

Time
by Jasper Mayne (1604-1672)

   ⁠Time is the feather’d thing,
   And, whilst I praise
The sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,
         Takes wing,
   Leaving behind him as he flies
An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.
   His minutes, whilst they’re told,
      Do make us old;
   And every sand of his fleet glass,
   Increasing age as it doth pass,
   Insensibly sows wrinkles there
   Where flowers and roses do appear.
   Whilst we do speak, our fire
   Doth into ice expire,
      Flames turn to frost;
      And ere we can
   Know how our crow turns swan,
   Or how a silver snow
   Springs there where jet did grow,
Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.

   Since then the Night hath hurl’d
      Darkness, Love’s shade,
   Over its enemy the Day, and made
         The world
   Just such a blind and shapeless thing
As ’twas before light did from darkness spring,
   Let us employ its treasure
   And make shade pleasure:
Let ’s number out the hours by blisses,
And count the minutes by our kisses;
   Let the heavens new motions feel
   And by our embraces wheel;
   And whilst we try the way
   By which Love doth convey
      Soul unto soul,
      And mingling so
   Makes them such raptures know
   As makes them entranced lie
      In mutual ecstasy,
Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!

Views: 46

Hertha
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

         I am that which began;
            Out of me the years roll;
         Out of me God and man;
            I am equal and whole;
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul.

         Before ever land was,
            Before ever the sea,
         Or soft hair of the grass,
            Or fair limbs of the tree,
Or by the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me.

         First life on my sources
            First drifted and swam;
         Out of me are the forces
            That save it or damn;
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird; before God was, I am.

         Beside or above me
            Nought is there to go;
         Love or unlove me,
            Unknow me or know,
I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow.

         I the mark that is missed
            And the arrows that miss,
         I the mouth that is kissed
            And the breath in the kiss,
The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is.

         I am the thing which blesses
            My spirit elate;
         That which caresses
            With hands uncreate
My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate.

         But what thing dost thou now,
            Looking Godward, to cry
         ‛I am I, thou art thou,
            I am low, thou art high?’
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I.

         I the grain and the furrow,
            The plough-cloven clod
         And the ploughshare drawn thorough,
            The germ and the sod,
The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God.

         Hast thou known how I fashioned thee,
            Child, underground?
         Fire that impassioned thee,
            Iron that bound,
Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found?

         Canst thous say in thine heart
            Thou hast seen with thine eyes
         With what cunning of art
            Thou wast wrought in what wise,
By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies?

         Who hath given, who hath sold it thee,
            Knowledge of me?
         Hath the wilderness told it thee?
            Hast thou learnt of the sea?
Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee?

         Have I set such a star
            To show light on thy brow
         That thou sawest from afar
            What I show to thee now?
Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou?

         What is here, dost thou know it?
            What was, has thou known?
         Prophet nor poet
            Nor tripod nor throne
Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone.

         Mother, not maker,
            Born, and not made;
         Though her children forsake her,
            Allured or afraid,
Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, who stirs not for all that have prayed.

         A creed is a rod,
            And a crown is of night;
         But this thing is God,
            To be man with thy might,
To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out of thy life as the light.

         I am in thee to save thee,
            As my soul in thee saith;
         Give thou as I gave thee,
            Thy life-blood and breath,
Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death.

         Be the ways of thy giving
            As mine were to thee;
         The free life of thy living,
            Be the gift of it free;
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me.

         O children of banishment,
            Souls overcast,
         Were the lights ye see vanish meant
            Always to last,
Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast.

         I that saw where ye trod
            The dim paths of the night
         Set the shadow called God
            In your skies to give light;
But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight.

         The tree many-rooted
            That swells to the sky
         With frondage red-fruited,
            The life-tree am I;
In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die.

         But the Gods of your fashion
            That take and that give,
         In their pity and passion
            That scourge and forgive,
They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live.

         My own blood is what stanches
            The wounds in my bark;
         Stars caught in my branches
            Make day of the dark,
And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

         Where dead ages hide under
            The live roots of the tree,
         In my darkness the thunder
            Makes utterance of me;
In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

         That noise is of Time,
            As his feathers are spread
         And his feet set to climb
            Through the boughs overhead,
And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.

         The storm-winds of ages
            Blow through me and cease,
         The war-wind that rages,
            The spring-wind of peace,
Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase.

         All sounds of all changes,
            All shadows and lights
         On the world’s mountain-ranges
            And stream-riven heights,
Whose tongue is the wind’s tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights;

         All forms of all faces,
            All works of all hands
         In unsearchable places
            Of time-stricken lands,
All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands.

         Though sore be my burden
            And more than ye know,
         And my growth have no guerdon
            But only to grow,
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or death-worms below.

         These too have their part in me,
            As I too in these;
         Such fire is at heart in me,
            Such sap is this tree’s,
Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas.

         In the spring-coloured hours
            When my mind was as May’s,
         There brake forth of me flowers
            By centuries of days,
Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays.

         And the sound of them springing
            And smell of their shoots
         Were as warmth and sweet singing
            And strength to my roots;
And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits.

         I bid you but be;
            I have need not of prayer;
         I have need of you free
            As your mouths of mine air;
That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair.

         More fair than strange fruit is
            Of faiths ye espouse;
         In me only the root is
            That blooms in your boughs;
Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows.

         In the darkening and whitening
            Abysses adored,
         With dayspring and lightning
            For lamp and for sword,
God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord.

         O my sons, O too dutiful
            Toward Gods not of me,
         Was not I enough beautiful?
            Was it hard to be free?
For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see.

         Lo, winged with world’s wonders,
            With miracles shod,
         With the fires of his thunders
            For raiment and rod,
God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God.

         For his twilight is come on him,
            His anguish is here;
         And his spirits gaze dumb on him,
            Grown grey from his fear;
And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year.

         Thought made him and breaks him,
            Truth slays and forgives;
         But to you, as time takes him,
            This new thing it gives,
Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives.

         For truth only is living,
            Truth only is whole,
         And the love of his giving
            Man’s polestar and pole;
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul.

         One birth of my bosom;
            One beam of mine eye;
         One topmost blossom
            That scales the sky;
Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I.

Views: 29

Bitter-Sweet
by George Herbert (1593-1633)

Ah, my dear angry Lord,
Since thou dost love, yet strike;
Cast down, yet help afford;
Sure I will do the like.

I will complain, yet praise;
I will bewail, approve;
And all my sour-sweet days
I will lament and love.

Views: 32

At Dawn
by John Collings Squire (1884-1958)

I rise from the chair and shut the books,
      The light is coming, the glad birds wake,
First the little ones, then the rooks–
      O the hubbub those old rooks make!

They cease for a moment; a scarce-heard sigh
      As the dawn wind rises, the cold trees stir;
As I look at their branches listlessly
      Why is it, I wonder, I think of her?

Views: 31

The Disabled Debauchee
by John Wilmot (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: 26

To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
   But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
   Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Views: 60