The Poet
by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
He sang of life, serenely sweet,
With, now and then, a deeper note.
From some high peak, nigh yet remote,
He voiced the world’s absorbing beat.
He sang of love when earth was young,
And Love, itself, was in his lays.
But ah, the world, it turned to praise
A jingle in a broken tongue.
Views: 44
Miniver Cheevy
by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
Views: 41
The Double Fortress
by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
Time, would’st thou hurt us? Never shall we grow old.
Break as thou wilt these bodies of blind clay,
Thou canst not touch us here, in our stronghold,
Where two, made one, laugh all thy powers away.
Though ramparts crumble and rusty gates grow thin,
And our brave fortress dwine to a hollow shell,
Thou shalt hear heavenly laughter, far within;
Where, young as Love, two hidden lovers dwell.
We shall go clambering up our twisted stairs
To watch the moon through rifts in our grey towers.
Thou shalt hear whispers, kisses, and sweet prayers
Creeping through all our creviced walls like flowers.
Would’st wreck us, Time? When thy dull leaguer brings
The last wall down, look heavenward. We have wings.
Views: 45
Scots Wha Hae
by Robert Burns (1721-1770)
because today is Bannockburn Day and here is a version recorded by Theodore Bikel.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward’s power –
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor’s knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha’s sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s King and Law,
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa’?
Let him follow me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do, or die!
Views: 58
Ode to the Evening Star
by Mark Akenside (1721-1770)
To-night retir’d the queen of heaven
With young Endymion stays:
And now to Hesper is it given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.
O Hesper, while the starry throng
With awe thy path surrounds,
Oh listen to my suppliant song,
If haply now the vocal sphere
Can suffer thy delighted ear
To stoop to mortal sounds.
So may the bridegroom’s genial strain
Thee still invoke to shine:
So may the bride’s unmarried train
To Hymen chaunt their flattering vow,
Still that his lucky torch may glow
With lustre pure as thine.
Far other vows must I prefer
To thy indulgent power.
Alass, but now I paid my tear
On fair Olympia’s virgin tomb:
And lo, from thence, in quest I roam
Of Philomela’s bower.
Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulph or steep lie hid for harm:
But lead where music’s healing charm
May sooth afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow’d,
These lawns, Olympia’s haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk’d,
Or fix’d, while Philomela talk’d,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beachen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came while her inchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till by a clamorous owl compell’d
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark; I hear her liquid tone.
Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marle with moss o’ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either hand
Inlarg’d it spreads around:
See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o’er half the level mead
Inclos’d in woods profound.
Hark, how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:
How sweetly down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends:
The stars shine out: the forest bends:
The wakeful heifers gaze.
Whoe’er thou art whom chance may bring
To this sequester’d spot,
If then the plaintive Syren sing,
Oh softly tread beneath her bower,
And think of heaven’s disposing power,
Of man’s uncertain lot.
Oh think, o’er all this mortal stage,
What mournful scenes arise:
What ruin waits on kingly rage:
How often virtue dwells with woe:
How many griefs from knowledge flow:
How swiftly pleasure flies.
O sacred bird, let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity nature’s common cares
Till I forget my own.
Views: 48
Goodbye
by Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)
The last of last words spoken is, Goodbye—
The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge,
The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing,
The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye.
A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye,
Shines into nothing the watcher’s burnt-out candle,
Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense,
Faints in the outer silence the hunting-cry.
Love of its muted music breathes no sigh,
Thought in her ivory tower gropes in her spinning,
Toss on in vain the whispering trees of Eden,
Last of all last words spoken is Goodbye.
Views: 57
Tropical Town
by Salomón de la Selva (1893-1959)
Blue pink and yellow houses, and, afar,
The cemetery, where the green trees are.
Sometimes you see a hungry dog pass bay,
And there are always buzzards in the sky.
Sometimes you hear the big cathedral bell,
A blind man rings it; and sometimes you hear
A rumbling ox-cart that brings wood to sell.
Else nothing ever breaks the ancient spell
That holds the town asleep, save, once a year,
The Easter Festival. . . .
I come from there,
And when I tire of hoping,
and despair Is heavy over me,
my thoughts go far,
Beyond that length of lazy street,
to where the lonely green trees and the white graves are.
Views: 40
Souvenir
by Merceline Desbordes-Valmore (1786-1859)
Quand il pâlit un soir, et que sa voix tremblante
S’éteignit tout à coup dans un mot commencé;
Quand ses yeux, soulevant leur paupière brûlante,
Me blessèrent d’un mal dont je le crus blessé;
Quand ses traits plus touchants, éclairés d’une flamme
Qui ne s’éteint jamais,
S’imprimèrent vivants dans le fond de mon âme,
Il n’aimait pas: j’aimais!
Views: 33
Husband and Heathen
by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)
O’er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia,
And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan,
Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes,
And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan;
And she said she loved ’em so,
Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo.
If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly
Loaded down with jam and jelly,
Succotash and vermicelli,
Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie.
She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca
With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee
And give cake in fullest measure
To the men of Australasia
And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea;
And the Anthropophagi,
All their lives deprived of pie,
She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince;
And those miserable Australians
And the Borrioboolighalians,
She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and quince.
But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers,
Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf;
If the men of Madagascar,
And the natives of Alaska,
Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself.
And his coat had but one tail
And he used a shingle nail
To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work;
And she used to spend his money
To buy sugar-plums and honey
For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk.
Views: 56
La Laitière
by Pamphile Le May (1837-1918)
Le sarrasin fleuri verse un parfum de miel,
Et le moineau, gorgé des blés mûrs qu’il saccage,
Vole à son nid. L’érable et le pin du bocage
Dentellent, au ponant, les champs pourpres du ciel.
C’est le soir. Dans l’air pur, monte un vibrant appel,
Et soudain le troupeau qu’on a mis au pacage,
Par la sente connue ou par le marécage,
Accourt lécher la main d’où s’égraine le sel.
La génisse rumine auprès de la barrière.
Avec un bruit de source, au fond d’une chaudière,
De sa lourde mamelle il tombe un flot de lait.
La laitière caresse un rêve. Elle présume
Qu’avec deux fois le prix de cette blanche écume
Elle peut étrenner un joli mantelet.
Views: 38