Song
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

When I am dead, my dearest,
⁠   Sing no sad song for me;
Plant no roses at my head,
⁠   Nor shady cypress-tree;
Be the green grass above me
⁠   With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
⁠   And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
⁠   I shall not feel the rain,
I shall not hear the nightingale
⁠   Sing on, as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
⁠   That doth not rise or set,
Haply I may remember,
⁠   And haply I may forget.

Views: 28

Mondnacht
by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Weg in den Garten, tief wie ein langes Getränke,
leise im weichen Gezweig ein entgehender Schwung.
Oh und der Mond, der Mond, fast blühen die Bänke
von seiner zögernden Näherung.

Stille, wie drängt sie. Bist du jetzt oben erwacht?
Sternig und fühlend steht dir das Fenster entgegen.
Hände der Winde verlegen
an dein nahes Gesicht die entlegenste Nacht.

Views: 31

Stella Maris
by Arthur Symons (1865-1945)

Why is it I remember yet
You, of all women one has met
In random wayfare, as one meets
The chance romances of the streets,
The Juliet of a night? I know
Your heart holds many a Romeo.
And I, who call to mind your face
In so serene a pausing-place,
Where the bright pure expanse of sea,
The shadowy shore’s austerity,
Seems a reproach to you and me,
I too have sought on many a breast
The ecstasy of love’s unrest,
I too have had my dreams, and met
(Ah me!) how many a Juliet.
Why is it, then, that I recall
You, neither first nor last of all?
For, surely as I see to-night
The glancing of the lighthouse light,
Against the sky, across the bay,
As turn by turn it falls my way,
So surely do I see your eyes
Out of the empty night arise,
Child, you arise and smile to me
Out of the night, out of the sea,
The Nereid of a moment there,
And is it seaweed in your hair?

O lost and wrecked, how long ago,
Out of the drowned past, I know,
You come to call me, come to claim
My share of your delicious shame.
Child, I remember, and can tell
One night we loved each other well;
And one night’s love, at least or most,
Is not so small a thing to boast.
You were adorable, and I
Adored you to infinity,
That nuptial night too briefly borne
To the oblivion of morn.
Oh, no oblivion! for I feel
Your lips deliriously steal
Along my neck, and fasten there;
feel the perfume of your hair,
And your soft breast that heaves and dips,
Desiring my desirous lips,
And that ineffable delight
When souls turn bodies, and unite
In the intolerable, the whole
Rapture of the embodied soul.

That joy was ours, we passed it by;
You have forgotten me, and I
Remember you thus strangely, won
An instant from oblivion.
And I, remembering, would declare
That joy, not shame, is ours to share,
Joy that we had the will and power,
In spite of fate, to snatch one hour,
Out of vague nights, and days at strife,
So infinitely full of life.
And ’tis for this I see you rise,
A wraith, with starlight in your eyes,
Here, where the drowsy-minded mood
Is one with Nature’s solitude;
For this, for this, you come to me
Out of the night, out of the sea.

Views: 30

Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
by Ernest Dowson (1867-1900)

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine,
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
      Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon my heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within my arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
      When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
      Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
      Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Views: 25

L’Envoi (Departmental Ditties)
by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

The smoke upon your Altar dies,
⁠      The flowers decay,
The Goddess of your sacrifice
⁠      Has flown away.
What profit then to sing or slay
The sacrifice from day to day?

“We know the Shrine is void,” they said,
⁠      “The Goddess flown—
“Yet wreaths are on the altar laid—
⁠      “The Altar-Stone
“Is black with fumes of sacrifice,
“Albeit She has fled our eyes.

“For, it may be, if still we sing
⁠      “And tend the Shrine,
“Some Deity on wandering wing
⁠      “May there incline;
“And, finding all in order meet,
“Stay while we worship at Her feet.”

Views: 36

To Sleep
by Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

Come Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
   The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
   The indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
   Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw:
Oh make in me those civil wars to cease;
   I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
   A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland, and a weary head;
   And if these things, as being thine by right,
      Move not thy heavy Grace, thou shalt in me,
      Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.

Views: 64

Our Little Ghost
by Louisa May Alcott (1832-1888)

Oft, in the silence of the night,
   When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
   And we hear the owl’s shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
   By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
   Comes a spirit all in white.

A winsome little ghost it is,
   Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
   From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
   For the “big dark” brings no dread,
And a baby’s boundless fancy
   Makes a kingdom of a bed.

A fearless little ghost it is;
   Safe the night seems as the day;
The moon is but a gentle face,
   And the sighing winds are gay.
The solitude is full of friends,
   And the hour brings no regrets;
For, in this happy little soul,
   Shines a sun that never sets.

A merry little ghost it is,
   Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
   Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
   As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
   Mimicking the owl’s shrill call.

A thoughtful little ghost if is;
   And, when lonely gambols tire,
With chubby hands on chubby knees,
   It sits winking at the fire.
Fancies innocent and lovely
   Shine before those baby-eyes, —
Endless fields of dandelions,
   Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.

A loving little ghost it is:
   When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father’s shoulder laid,
   Its head on mother’s breast,
It watches each familiar face,
   With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
   Sings its own soft lullaby.

Then those who feigned to sleep before,
   Lest baby play till dawn,
Wake and watch their folded flower —
   Little rose without a thorn.
And, in the silence of the night,
   The hearts that love it most
Pray tenderly above its sleep,
   “God bless our little ghost!”

Views: 63

Introduction to the Songs of Innocence
by William Blake (1757-1827)

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’
So I piped with merry cheer.
‘Piper, pipe that song again.’
So I piped: he wept to hear.

‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:’
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

‘Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.’
So he vanish’d from my sight;
And I pluck’d a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

Views: 58

“Non omnis moriar” (Odes, III, 30)
by Quintus Horatius Flaccus (“Horace”) (65 B.C.E.-8 B.C.E.)

Exegi monumentum aere perennius
regalique situ pyramidum altius,
quod non imber edax, non Aquilo inpotens
possit diruere aut innumerabilis
annorum series et fuga temporum.
Non omnis moriar multaque pars mei
vitabit Libitinam; usque ego postera
crescam laude recens, dum Capitolium
scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex.
Dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus
et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium
regnavit populorum, ex humili potens
princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos
deduxisse modos. Sume superbiam
quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica
lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.

Views: 59

Light Shining Out of Darkness
by William Cowper (1731-1800)

God moves in a mysterious way
   His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
   And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
   Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
   And works His sov’reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
   The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
   In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
   But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
   He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
   Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
   But sweet will be the flow’r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
   And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
   And He will make it plain.

Views: 62