Poem of the day

Before Dawn
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

Sweet life, if life were stronger,
Earth clear of years that wrong her,
Then two things might live longer,
      Two sweeter things than they;
Delight, the rootless flower,
And love, the bloomless bower;
Delight that lives an hour,
      And love that lives a day.

From evensong to daytime,
When April melts in Maytime,
Love lengthens out his playtime,
      Love lessens breath by breath,
And kiss by kiss grows older
On listless throat or shoulder
Turned sideways now, turned colder
      Then life that dreams of death.

This one thing once worth giving
Life gave, and seemed worth living;
Sin sweet beyond forgiving
      And brief beyond regret:
To laugh and love together
And weave with foam and feather
And wind and words the tether
      Our memories play with yet.

Ah, one thing worth beginning,
One thread in life worth spinning,
Ah sweet, one sin worth sinning
      With all the whole soul’s will;
To lull you till one stilled you,
To kiss you till one killed you,
To feed you till one filled you,
      Sweet lips, if love could fill;

To hunt sweet love and lose him
Between white arm and bosom,
Between the bud and blossom,
      Between your throat and chin;
To say of shame—what is it?
Or virtue—we can miss it;
Of sin—we can but kiss it,
      And it’s no longer sin;

To feel the strong soul, stricken
Through fleshly pulses, quicken
Beneath swift sighs that thicken,
      Soft hands and lips that smite;
Lips that no love can tire,
And hands that sting like fire,
Weaving the web Desire
      To snare the bird Delight.

But love so lightly plighted,
Our love with torch unlighted,
Paused near us unaffrighted,
      Who found and left him free;
None, seeing us woven in sunder,
Will weep or laugh or wonder;
Light love stands clear of thunder,
      And safe from winds at sea.

As, when late larks give warning
Of dying lights and dawning,
Night murmurs to the morning,
      “Lie still, O love, lie still;”
And half her dark limbs cover
The white limbs of her lover,
With amorous plumes that hover
      And fervent lips that chill;

As scornful day represses
Night’s void and vain caresses,
And from her cloudier tresses
      Unwinds the gold of his,
With limbs by limbs dividing
And breath by breath subsiding;
For love has no abiding,
      But dies before the kiss;

So hath it been, so be it;
For who shall live and flee it?
But look that no man see it
      Or hear it unaware;
Lest all who love and choose him
See Love, and so refuse him;
For all who find him lose him,
      But all have found him fair.

Views: 29

Poem of the day

The Deserted Village
by Oliver Goldsmith (1730-1774)

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed,
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o’er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground,
And slights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin’s side-long looks of love,
The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove!
These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed,
These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled. Continue reading

Views: 33

Poem of the day

Life
by George Herbert (1593-1633)

I made a posy, while the day ran by:
“Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
                  My life within this band.”
But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
                  And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
                  Time’s gentle admonition;
Who did so sweetly death’s sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
                  Yet sugaring the suspicion.

Farewell dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
                  And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
                  It be as short as yours.

Views: 28

Poem of the day

A Vision of Truth
by John Collings Squire (1884-1958)

As it fell upon a day
I made another garden, yea,
I got me flowers to strew the way
      Like to the summer’s rain;
And the chaffinth sings on the orchard bough
“Poor moralist, and what art thou?
But blessings on thy frosty pow
      And she shall rise again!”

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
A highly respectable Chancellor,
A military casque he wore
      Half-hidden from the eye;
The robin redbreast and the wren,
The Pickwick, the Owl and the Waverley pen,
Heckety-peckety my black hen,
      He took her with a sigh.

The fight is o’er, the battle won,
And Furious Frank and fiery Hun,
Stole a pig and away he run
      And drew my snickersnee,
A gulf divides the west and worst
“Ho! Bring us wine to quench our thirst!”
We were the fist who ever burst
      Under the greenwood tree.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep
(She is a shepherdess of sheep),
Bid me to weep and I will weep,
      Thy tooth is not so keen,
Then up and spake Sir Patrick Spens
Who bought a fiddle for eighteenpenc
And reverently departed thence,
      His wife could eat no lean.

                  Epilogue
‘Twas roses, roses all the way
      Nor any drop to drink.

Views: 35

Poem of the day

Return
by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680)

Absent from thee I languish still;
         Then ask me not, when I return?
The straying fool ’twill plainly kill
         To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear! from thine arms then let me fly,
         That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try
         That tears my fixed heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe,
         To thy safe bosom I retire
Where love and peace and truth does flow,
         May I contented there expire,

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
         I fall on some base heart unblest,
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,
         And lose my everlasting rest.

Views: 32

Poem of the day

A Dialogue Between the Soul and Body
by Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

         Soul
O who shall, from this Dungeon, raise
A Soul inslav’d so many ways?
With bolts of Bones, that fetter’d stands
In Feet; and manacled in Hands.
Here blinded with an Eye; and there,
Deaf with the drumming of an Ear.
A Soul hung up, as ’twere, in Chains
Of Nerves, and Arteries, and Veins.
Tortur’d, besides each other part,
In a vain Head, and double Heart.

         Body
O who shall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?
Which, stretcht upright, impales me so,
That mine own Precipice I go;
And warms and moves this needless Frame:
(A Fever could but do the same.)
And, wanting where its spite to try,
Has made me live to let me die.
A Body that could never rest,
Since this ill Spirit it possest.

         Soul
What Magic could me thus confine
Within another’s Grief to pine?
Where whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain.
And all my care its self employs,
That to preserve, which me destroys:
Constrain’d not only to endure
Diseases, but what’s worse, the Cure:
And ready oft the port to gain,
And Shipwrackt into Health again.

         Body
But Physic yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach;
Whom the first Cramp of Hope dost tear:
And then the Palsy shakes of Fear.
The Pestilence of Love does heat:
Or Hatred’s hidden Ulcer eat.
Joy’s cheerful Madness does perplex:
Or Sorrow’s other Madness vex.
Which Knowledge forces me to know,
And Memory will not forgo.
What but a Soul could have the wit
To build me up for Sin so fit?
So Architects do square and hew,
Green Trees that in the Forest grew.

Views: 28

Poem of the day

Stunden
by Yvan Goll (1891-1950)

Wasserträgerinnen
Hochgeschürzte Töchter
Schreiten schwer herab die Totenstraße
Auf den Köpfen wiegend
Einen Krug voll Zeit
Eine Ernte ungepflückter Tropfen
Die schon reifen auf dem Weg hinab
Wasserfälle Flüsse Tränen Nebel Dampf
Immer geheimere Tropfen immer kargere Zeit
Schattenträgerinnen
Schon vergangen schon verhangen
Ewigkeit

Views: 46

Poem of the day

El pescador
by José de Espronceda (1808-1842)

   Pescadorcita mía,
Desciende a la ribera,
Y escucha placentera
Mi cántico de amor;
   Sentado en su barquilla,
Te canta su cuidado,
Cual nunca enamorado
Tu tierno pescador.

   La noche el cielo encubre
Y acalla manso el viento,
Y el mar sin movimiento
También en calma está:
   A mi batel desciende,
Mi dulce amada hermosa:
La noche tenebrosa
Tu faz alegrará.

   Aquí apartados, solos,
Sin otros pescadores,
Suavísimos amores
Felice te diré,
   Y en esos dulces labios
De rosas y claveles
El ámbar y las mieles
Que vierten libaré.

   La mar adentro iremos,
En mi batel cantando
Al son del viento blando
Amores y placer;
   Regalarete entonces
Mil varios pececillos
Que al verte, simplecillos,
De ti se harán prender.

   De conchas y corales
Y nácar a tu frente
Guirnalda reluciente,
Mi bien, te ceñiré;
   Y eterno amor mil veces
Jurándote, cumplida
En ti, mi dulce vida,
Mi dicha encontraré.

   No el hondo mar te espante,
Ni el viento proceloso,
Que al ver tu rostro hermoso
Sus iras calmarán;
   Y sílfidas y ondinas
Por reina de los mares
Con plácidos cantares
A par te aclamarán.

   Ven ¡ay! a mi barquilla,
Completa mi fortuna;
Naciente ya a la luna
Refleja el ancho mar;
   Sus mansas olas bate
Süave, leve brisa;
Ven ¡ay! mi dulce Elisa,
Mi pecho a consolar.

Views: 42

Poem of the day

A Hand-Mirror
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

Hold it up sternly—see this it sends back, (who is it? is it you?)
Outside fair costume, within ashes and filth,
No more a flashing eye, no more a sonorous voice or springy step,
Now some slave’s eye, voice, hands, step,
A drunkard’s breath, unwholesome eater’s face, venerealee’s flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous,
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,
Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,
Words babble, hearing and touch callous,
No brain, no heart left, no magnetism of sex;
Such from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence,
Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!

Views: 26

Poem of the day

The Hawk
by Raymond Knister (1899-1932)

Across the bristled and sallow fields,
The speckled stubble of cut clover,
Wades your shadow.

Or against a grimy and tattered
Sky
You plunge.

Or you shear a swath
From trembling tiny forests
With the steel of your wings—

Or make a row of waves
By the heat of your flight
Along the soundless horizon.

Views: 34