At a Reading
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)

The spare professor, grave and bald,
Began his paper. It was called,
I think, “A Brief Historic Glance
At Russia, Germany, and France.”
A glance, but to my best belief
‘T was almost anything but brief–
A wide survey, in which the earth
Was seen before mankind had birth;
Strange monsters basked them in the sun,
Behemoth, armored glyptodon,
And in the dawn’s unpractised ray
The transient dodo winged its way;
Then, by degrees, through slit and slough,
We reached Berlin–I don’t know how.
The good Professor’s monotone
Had turned me into senseless stone
Instanter, but that near me sat
Hypatia in her new spring hat,
Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom
Lighted the heavy-curtained room.
Hypatia–ah, what lovely things
Are fashioned out of eighteen springs!
At first, in sums of this amount,
The eighteen winters do not count.
Just as my eyes were growing dim
With heaviness, I saw that slim,
Erect, elastic figure there,
Like a pond-lily taking air.
She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat,
So altogether crisp and sweet,
I quite forgot what Bismarck said,
And why the Emperor shook his head,
And how it was Von Moltke’s frown
Cost France another frontier town.
The only facts I took away
From the Professor’s theme that day
Were these: a forehead broad and low,
Such as antique sculptures show;
A chin to Greek perfection true;
Eyes of Astarte’s tender blue;
A high complection without fleck
Or flaw, and curls about her neck.

Views: 27

Notte d’Inverno
by Giosuè Carducci (1835-1907)

Innanzi, innanzi. Per le foscheggianti
Coste la neve ugual luce e si stende,
E cede e stride sotto il piè: d’avanti
Vapora il sospir mio che l’aer fende.

Ogni altro tace. Corre tra le stanti
Nubi la luna sul gran bianco, e orrende
L’ombre disegna di quel pin che tende
Cruccioso al suolo informe i rami infranti,

Come pensier di morte desïosi.
Cingimi, o bruma, e gela de l’interno
Senso i frangenti che tempestan forti;

Ed emerge il pensier su quei marosi
Naufrago, ed a ’l ciel grida: O notte, o inverno,
Che fanno giú ne le lor tombe i morti?

Views: 30

A Prairie Water Colour
by Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947)

Beside the slew the poplars play
In double lines of silver-grey: —
A trembling in the silver trees
A shadow-trembling in the slew.
Standing clear above the hill
The snow-grey clouds are still,
Floating there idle as light;
Beyond, the sky is almost white
Under the pure deep zenith-blue.
Acres of summer-fallow meet
Acres of growing gold-green wheat
That ripen in the heat.
Where a disc-harrow tears the soil,
Up the long slope six horses toil,
The driver, one with the machine; —
The group is dimly seen
For as they go a cloud of dust
Comes like a spirit out of earth
And follows where they go.
Upward they labour, drifting slow,
The disc-rims sparkle through the veil;
Now upon the topmost height
The dust grows pale,
The group springs up in vivid light
And, dipping below the line of sight,
Is lost to view.
Yet still the little cloud is there,
All dusky-luminous in air,
Then thins and settles on the land
And lets the sunlight through.
All is content. The fallow field
Is waiting there till next year’s yield
Shall top the rise with ripening grain,
When the green-gold harvest plain
Shall break beneath the harrow.
Still-purple, growing-gold they lie,
The crop and summer fallow. The vast sky
Holds all in one pure round of blue —
And nothing moves except the play
Of silver-grey in the poplar trees
Of shadow in the slew.

Views: 29

Two in the Campagna
by Robert Browning (1812-1889)

                  I

I wonder do you feel to-day
      As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
      In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?

                  II

For me, I touched a thought, I know,
      Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
      Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.

                  III

Help me to hold it! First it left
      The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork’s cleft,
      Some old tomb’s ruin: yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,

                  IV

Where one small orange cup amassed
      Five beetles,—blind and green they grope
Among the honey-meal: and last,
      Everywhere on the grassy slope
I traced it. Hold it fast!

                  V

The champaign with its endless fleece
      Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
      An everlasting wash of air—
Rome’s ghost since her decease.

                  VI

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
      Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
      Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!

                  VII

How say you? Let us, O my dove,
      Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
      How is it under our control
To love or not to love?

                  VIII

I would that you were all to me,
      You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
      Where does the fault lie? What the core
O’ the wound, since wound must be?

                  IX

I would I could adopt your will,
      See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
      At your soul’s springs,—your part my part
In life, for good and ill.

                  X

No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
      Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul’s warmth,—I pluck the rose
      And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.

                  XI

Already how am I so far
      Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
      Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?

                  XII

Just when I seemed about to learn!
      Where is the thread now? Off again!
The old trick! Only I discern—
      Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.

Views: 44

The Massacre of Glencoe
by Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
George Thomson commission Beethoven to compose a setting for this poem. Here is a recording by Richard Dyer-Bennet.

“O, Tell me, Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Far down the desert of Glencoe,
      Where none may list their melody?
Say, harp’st thou to the mists that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle that from high
      Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?”

“No, not to these, for they have rest,—
The mist-wreath has the mountain crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
      Abode of lone security.
But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wildwood deep, nor mountain gray,
Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day,
      Could screen from treach’rous cruelty.

“Their flag was furled, and mute their drum,
The very household dogs were dumb,
Unwont to bay at guests that come
      In guise of hospitality.
His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside,
      To tend her kindly housewifery.

“The hand that mingled in the meal
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host’s kind breast to feel
      Meed for his hospitality!
The friendly hearth which warmed that hand
At midnight armed it with the brand,
That bade destruction’s flames expand
      Their red and fearful blazonry.

“Then woman’s shriek was heard in vain,
Nor infancy’s unpitied plain,
More than the warrior’s groan, could gain
      Respite from ruthless butchery!
The winter wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that cloaked the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still
      Far more than Southern clemency.

“Long have my harp’s best notes been gone,
Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
They can but sound in desert lone
      Their gray-haired master’s misery.
Were each gray hair a minstrel string,
Each chord should imprecations fling,
Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
      ‘Revenge for blood and treachery!’”

Views: 28

I Care Not For These Ladies
by Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
This song has often been recorded, e.g., by Alfred Deller.

I care not for these ladies,
That must be wooed and prayed:
Give me kind Amaryllis,
The wanton country maid.
Nature art disdaineth,
Her beauty is her own.
Her when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

If I love Amaryllis,
She gives me fruit and flowers:
But if we love these ladies,
We must give golden showers.
Give them gold, that sell love,
Give me the nut-brown lass,
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

These ladies must have pillows,
And beds by strangers wrought;
Give me a bower of willows,
Of moss and leaves unbought,
And fresh Amaryllis,
With milk and honey fed;
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

Views: 26

The Old Familiar Faces
by Charles Lamb (1775-1834)

Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?
I had a mother, but she died, and left me,
Died prematurely in a day of horrors —
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her —
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
Earth seemed a desart I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces —

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Views: 32

Le Génie
by Jules Verne (1828-1905)

Comme un pur stalactite, œuvre de la nature,
Le génie incompris apparaît à nos yeux.
Il est là, dans l’endroit où l’ont placé les Cieux,
Et d’eux seuls, il reçoit sa vie et sa structure.

Jamais la main de l’homme assez audacieuse
Ne le pourra créer, car son essence est pure,
Et le Dieu tout-puissant le fit à sa figure;
Le mortel pauvre et laid, pourrait-il faire mieux?

Il ne se taille pas, ce diamant byzarre,
Et de quelques couleurs dont l’azur le chamarre,
Qu’il reste tel qu’il est, que le fit l’éternel!

Si l’on veut corriger le brillant stalactite,
Ce n’est plus aussitôt qu’un caillou sans mérite,
Qui ne réfléchit plus les étoiles du ciel.

Views: 36

Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

                                                1
Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling,
Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard,
Give me a field where the unmow’d grass grows,
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis’d grape,
Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content,
Give me nights perfecdy quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars,
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturb’d,
Give me for marriage a sweet-breath’d woman of whom I should never tire,
Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the world a rural domestic life,
Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears only,
Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities!
These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rack’d by the war-strife,)
These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,
While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city,
Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets,
Where you hold me enchain’d a certain time refusing to give me up,
Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich’d of soul, you give me forever faces;
(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries,
I see my own soul trampling down what it ask’d for.)

                                                2
Keep your splendid silent sun,
Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods,
Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards,
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum;
Give me faces and streets—give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs!
Give me interminable eyes—give me women—give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!
Let me see new ones every day—let me hold new ones by the hand every day!
Give me such shows—give me the streets of Manhattan!
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—give me the sound of the trumpets and drums!
(The soldiers in companies or regiments—some starting away, flush’d and reckless,
Some, their time up, returning with thinn’d ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)
Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships!
O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied!
The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!
The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torchlight procession!
The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following;
People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants,
Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now,
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of the wounded,)
Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus!
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

Views: 40

Chanson Un Peu Naïve
by Louise Bogan (1897-1970)

What body can be ploughed,
Sown, and broken yearly?
She would not die, she vowed,
But she has, nearly.
         Sing, heart sing;
         Call and carol clearly.

And, since she could not die,
Care would be a feather,
A film over the eye
Of two that lie together.
         Fly, song, fly,
         Break your little tether.

So from strength concealed
She makes her pretty boast:
Plain is a furrow healed
And she may love you most.
         Cry, song, cry,
         And hear your crying lost.

Views: 28