Daphne
By Bliss Carmen (1861–1929)

I know that face!
In some lone forest place,
When June brings back the laurel to the hills,
Where shade and sunlight lace,

Where all day long
The brown birds make their song—
A music that seems never to have known
Dismay nor haste nor wrong—

I once before
Have seen thee by the shore,
As if about to shed the flowery guise
And be thyself once more.

Dear, shy, soft face,
With just the elfin trace
That lends thy human beauty the last touch
Of wild, elusive grace!

Can it be true,
A god did once pursue
Thy gleaming beauty through the glimmering wood
Drenched in the Dorian dew,

Too mad to stay
His hot and headstrong way,
Demented by the fragrance of thy flight,
Heedless of thy dismay?

But I to thee
More gently fond would be,
Nor less a lover woo thee with soft words
And woodland melody;

Take pipe and play
Each forest fear away;
Win thee to idle in the leafy shade
All the long summer day;

Tell thee old tales
Of love, that still avails
More than all mighty things in this great world,
Still wonder works nor fails;

Teach thee new lore,
How to love more and more,
And find the magical delirium
In joys unguessed before.

I would try over
And over to discover
Some wild, sweet, foolish, irresistible
New way to be thy lover—

New, wondrous ways
To fill thy golden days,
Thy lovely pagan body with delight,
Thy loving heart with praise.

For I would learn,
Deep in the brookside fern,
The magic of the syrinx whispering low
With bubbly fall and turn;

Mock every note
Of the green woodbird’s throat,
Till some wild strain, impassioned yet serene,
Should form and float

Far through the hills,
Where mellow sunlight fills
The world with joy, and from the purple vines
The brew of life distils.

Ah, then indeed
Thy heart should have no need
To tremble at a footfall in the brake,
And bid thy bright limbs speed.

But night would come,
And I should make thy home
In the deep pines, lit by a yellow star
Hung in the dark blue dome—

A fragrant house
Of woven balsam boughs,
Where the great Cyprian mother should receive
Our warm unsullied vows.

Views: 37

Love-in-Idleness
By Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803–1849)

                        I

“SHALL I be your first love, lady, shall I be your first?
      Oh! then I’ll fall before you, down on my velvet knee,
      And deeply bend my rosy head and press it upon thee,
And swear that there is nothing more, for which my heart doth thirst,
      But a downy kiss, and pink,
      Between your lips’ soft chink.”

                        II

“Yes, you shall be my first love, boy, and you shall be my first,
      And I will raise you up again unto my bosom’s fold;
      And when you kisses many one on lip and cheek have told,
I’ll let you loose upon the grass, to leave me if you durst;
      And so we’ll toy away
      The night besides the day.”

                        III

“But let me be your second love, but let me be your second,
      For then I’ll tap so gently, dear, upon your window pane,
      And creep between the curtains in, where never man has lain,
And never leave thy gentle side till the morning star hath beckoned,
      Held in the silken lace
      Of thy young arms’ embrace.”

                        IV

“Well thou shalt be my second love, yes, gentle boy, my second,
      And I will wait at eve for thee all lonely in my bower,
      And yield unto thy kisses, like a bud to April’s shower,
From moonset till the tower-clock the hour of dawn hath reckoned,
      And lock thee with my arms
      All silent up in charms.”

                        V

“No, I will be thy third love, lady, ay, I will be the third,
      And break upon thee, bathing, in woody place alone,
      And catch thee to my saddle and ride o’er stream and stone,
And press thee well, and kiss thee well, and never speak a word,
      ’Till thou has yielded up
      The first taste of love’s cup.”

                        VI

“Then thou shalt not be my first love, boy, nor my second, nor my third;
      If thou’rt the first, I’ll laugh at thee and pierce thy flesh with thorns;
      If the second, from my chamber pelt with jeering laugh and scorns;
And if thou darest be the third, I’ll draw my dirk unheard
      And cut thy heart in two,—
      And then die, weeping you.”

Views: 34

Edward
traditional ballad reworked by Thomas Percy (1729-1811)

Why dois your brand sae drap wi’ bluid,
                  Edward, Edward?
Why dois your brand sae drap wi’ bluid?
      And why sae sad gang ye, O?
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
                  Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
      And I had nae mair bot hee, O.

Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
                  Edward, Edward,
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
      My deir son I tell thee, O.
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
                  Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
      That erst was sae fair and frie, O.

Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
                  Edward, Edward,
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
      Sum other dule ye drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
                  Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
      Alas, and wae is mee, O.

And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,
                  Edward, Edward?
And whatten penance will ye drie for that?
      My deir son, now tell me, O.
Ile set my feit in yonder boat,
                  Mither, mither,
Il set my feit in yonder boat,
      And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.

And what wul ye doe wi’ your towirs and your ha’,
                  Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye doe wi’ your towirs and your ha’,
      That were sae fair to see, O?
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa’,
                  Mither, mither,
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa’,
      For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.

And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
                  Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
      Whan ye gang ovir the sea, O?
The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
                  Mither, mither,
The warldis room, let them beg thrae life,
      For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.

And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,
                  Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir?
      My deir son, now tell mee, O.
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
                  Mither, mither,
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
      Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.

Views: 33

Madam, Be Covered
by Anonymous (circa 1650)

Madam be covered! why stand you bare?
It fits not with your female sex.
We know you carry worthy Ware,
Which found may be without Index.
      These bare signs do but bid us look
      For unknown stuff in your two-leaved book.

Spartan Ladies some there be
Which to their Suitors naked stood,
And you your bare Breasts let us see,
Which tells your hidden parts are good.
      Thus wanton Venus drew on Mars,
      A bare breast shews an open Tarse.

They hang forth signs at common Inns,
That strangers may know where to lodge;
And you show forth your naked Twins,
And use them as a Brothel-badge.
      These wanton signs direct men gratis
      The highway to your nunquam satis.

Diana being naked seen
Did hornify Acteon’s crest.
And the fair stripped Hebrew Queen
Her husband’s forehead finely dressed;
      Shut up then Madam! flye men’s scorns
      For open breasts breed secret horns.

The Persian Matrons when their men
Before the Medes did fly and fall;
For to encourage them again,
Showed them their Bellies bare and all.
      You with your fair breasts would belike
      Move even a heartless man to strike.

Our Grandam Eve before the Fall
Went naked, and shamed not a whit;
You, not to one but unto all.
Show both your Hills and naked Pit:
      Very well read in Rhetorick School,
      You show us but a part for th’whole.

The Mask you wear upon your Face
Upon your Breasts would better show;
By nature that’s a naked place,
Then, Madam, use your Mask below,
      Lest that some gazing fellow venture,
      And so descend to Love’s low centre.

Views: 35

The Sweets of Evening
by Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

The sweets of Evening charm the mind,
      Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more’s confin’d,
But exercise with freedom join’d,
      When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

The softer scenes of nature sooth
      The organs of our sight;
The Zephyrs fan the meadows smooth,
And on the brook we build the booth
      In pastoral delight.

While all-serene the summer moon
      Sends glances thro’ the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
      With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
      And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
      With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by Time
      None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
      In fancy’s highest sphere.

Views: 29

The Last Hero
by George William Russell (1867-1935)

We laid him to rest with tenderness;
Homeward we turned in the twilight’s gold;
We thought in ourselves with dumb distress—
All the story of earth is told.

A beautiful word at the last was said:
A great deep heart like the hearts of old
Went forth; and the speaker had lost the thread,
Or all the story of earth was told.

The dust hung over the pale dry ways
Dizzily fired with the twilight’s gold,
And a bitter remembrance blew in each face
How all the story of earth was told.

Views: 33

Venus Verticordia
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

She hath the apple in her hand for thee,
      Yet almost in her heart would hold it back;
      She muses, with her eyes upon the track
Of that which in thy spirit they can see.
Haply, “Behold, he is at peace,” saith she;
      “Alas! the apple for his lips,—the dart
      That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,—
The wandering of his feet perpetually!”

A little space her glance is still and coy,
      But if she give the fruit that works her spell,
Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy.
      Then shall her bird’s strained throat the woe foretell,
And her far seas moan as a single shell,
      And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy.

Views: 22

“Much madness is divinest sense”
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye ;
Much sense the starkest madness.
‘Tis the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane ;
Demur, — you’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.

Views: 23

The Solitary Reaper
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Behold er, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened till I had my fill:
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Views: 30

Shiloh: A Requiem
(April, 1862)
by Herman Melville (1819-1891)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
⁠      The swallows fly low
Over the field in clouded days,
⁠      The forest-field of Shiloh—
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
⁠      Around the church of Shiloh—
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
⁠      And natural prayer
Of dying foemen mingled there—
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve—
⁠      Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
⁠      But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
⁠      And all is hushed at Shiloh.

Views: 23