The End of Desire
by Hugh McCrae (1876-1958)

A flooded fold of sarcenet
Against her slender body sank,
Death-black, and beaded all with jet
Across the pleasures of her flank.

The incense of a holy bowl
Flowed round her knees, till it did seem
That she was standing on the shoal
Of some forbidden sunlit stream.

A little gong, far through the wall.
Complained like one deep sorrowing.
And from the arras I saw fall
The woven swallow fluttering;

While o’er the room there swam the breath
Of roses on a trellised tree;
Loose ladies in pretended death
Of sweet abandon to the bee.

Flames filled the hollows of my hands;
Red blood rushed, hammering, round my heart
Like mighty sleds when anvil bands
Gape out, and from their holdings start.

No peace had I, and knew not where
To find a solace that would kill
This pain of flesh so hard to bear.
This sin of soul against the will.

But ever yet mine eyes would seek
That golden woman build for love,
Whose either breast displayed the beak
Through pouted plumes, of Venus’ dove.

Her heavy hair, as smoke blown down
Athwart the fields of plenteousness;
Her folded lips, her placid frown,
Her insolence of nakedness.

I took her closely, but while yet
I trembled, vassal to my lust,
Lo!—Nothing but some sarcenet
Deep buried in a pile of dust.

Views: 30

Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces,
⁠      The mother of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
⁠      With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the brown bright nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
⁠      The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
⁠      Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a noise of winds and many rivers,
⁠      With a clamour of waters, and with might;
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,
Over the splendour and speed of thy feet;
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
⁠      Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
⁠      Fold our hands round her knees, and cling?
O that man’s heart were as fire and could spring to her,
⁠      Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
⁠      And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.

For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
⁠      And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
⁠      The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
⁠      Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
⁠      Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
⁠      From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes
⁠      The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
⁠      Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
⁠      The Mænad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
⁠      The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal’s hair
⁠      Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare
⁠      Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
⁠      The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

Views: 31

Abschied
by Johann Freiherr von Eichendorff (1788-1857)

O Thäler weit, o Höhen,
O schöner, grüner Wald,
Du meiner Lust und Wehen
Andächt’ger Aufenthalt!
Da draußen, stets betrogen,
Saust die geschäft’ge Welt,
Schlag’ noch einmal die Bogen
Um mich, du grünes Zelt!

Wenn es beginnt zu tagen,
Die Erde dampft und blinkt,
Die Vögel lustig schlagen,
Daß dir dein Herz erklingt:
Da mag vergehn, verwehen
Das trübe Erdenleid,
Da sollst du auferstehen
In junger Herrlichkeit!

Da steht im Wald geschrieben,
Ein stilles, ernstes Wort
Von rechtem Thun und Lieben,
Und was des Menschen Hort.
Ich habe treu gelesen
Die Worte, schlicht und wahr,
Und durch mein ganzes Wesen
Ward’s unaussprechlich klar.

Bald werd’ ich dich verlassen
Fremd in der Fremde geh’n,
Auf buntbewegten Gassen
Des Lebens Schauspiel seh’n;
Und mitten in dem Leben
Wird deines Ernst’s Gewalt
Mich Einsamen erheben,
So wird mein Herz nicht alt.

Views: 37

To Mr. Coleridge
by Anna Laeititia Barbauld (1743-1825)

Midway the hill of Science, after steep
And rugged paths that tire th’ unpractised feet,
A Grove extends, in tangled mazes wrought,
And fill’d with strange enchantment:–dubious shapes
Flit thro’ dim glades, and lure the eager foot
Of youthful ardour to eternal chase.
Dreams hang on every leaf; unearthly forms
Glide thro’ the gloom, and mystic visions swim
Before the cheated sense. Athwart the mists,
Far into vacant space, huge shadows stretch
And seem realities; while things of life,
Obvious to sight and touch, all glowing round
Fade to the hue of shadows. Scruples here
With filmy net, most like th’ autumnal webs
Of floating Gossamer, arrest the foot
Of generous enterprize; and palsy hope
And fair ambition, with the chilling touch
Of sickly hesitation and blank fear.
Nor seldom Indolence these lawns among
Fixes her turf-built seat, and wears the garb
Of deep philosophy, and museful sits,
In dreamy twilight of the vacant mind,
Soothed by the whispering shade; for soothing soft
The shades; and vistas lengthening into air,
With moon beam rainbows tinted. Here each mind
Of finer mould, acute and delicate,
In its high progress to eternal truth
Rests for a space, in fairy bowers entranced;
And loves the softened light and tender gloom;
And, pampered with most unsubstantial food,
Looks down indignant on the grosser world,
And matter’s cumbrous shapings. Youth belov’d
Of Science–of the Muse belov’d, not here,
Not in the maze of metaphysic lore
Build thou thy place of resting; lightly tread
The dangerous ground, on noble aims intent;
And be this Circe of the studious cell
Enjoyed, but still subservient. Active scenes
Shall soon with healthful spirit brace thy mind;
And fair exertion, for bright fame sustained,
For friends, for country, chase each spleen-fed fog
That blots the wide creation–
Now Heaven conduct thee with a Parent’s love!

Views: 47

Casabianca
by Felicia Hemans (1793-1835)

The boy stood on the burning deck,
⁠      Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
⁠      Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
⁠      As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
⁠      A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on—he would not go
⁠      Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
⁠      His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, “Say, father, say
⁠      If yet my task is done?”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
⁠      Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
⁠      “If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,
⁠      And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
⁠      And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death,
⁠      In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud
⁠      “My father! must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
⁠      The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
⁠      They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child
⁠      Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound—
⁠      The boy oh! where was he?
—Ask of the winds that far around
⁠      With fragments strew the sea;

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
⁠      That well had borne their part—
But the noblest thing that perished there
⁠      Was that young, faithful heart.

Views: 37

At Sunset
by Pauline Johnson (1861-1913)

To-night the west o’er-brims with warmest dyes;
Its chalice overflows
With pools of purple colouring the skies,
Aflood with gold and rose;
And some hot soul seems throbbing close to mine,
As sinks the sun within that world of wine.

I seem to hear a bar of music float
And swoon into the west;
My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note,
But something in my breast
Blends with that strain, till both accord in one,
As cloud and colour blend at set of sun.

And twilight comes with grey and restful eyes,
As ashes follow flame.
But O! I heard a voice from those rich skies
Call tenderly my name;
It was as if some priestly fingers stole
In benedictions o’er my lonely soul.

I know not why, but all my being longed
And leapt at that sweet call;
My heart outreached its arms, all passion thronged
And beat against Fate’s wall,
Crying in utter homesickness to be
Near to a heart that loves and leans to me.

Views: 27

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: 43

The Zealless Zylographer
by Mary Mapes Dodge (1830-1905)

A xylographer started to cross the sea
         By means of a Xanthic Xebec;
But, alas! he sighed for the Zuyder Zee,
         And feared he was in for a wreck.
He tried to smile, but all in vain,
         Because of a Zygomatic pain;
And as for singing, his cheeriest tone
         Reminded him of a Xylophone–
Or else, when the pain would sharper grow,
         His notes were as keen as a Zuffolo.
And so it is likely he did not find
         On board Xenodochy to his mind.
The fare was poor, and he was sure
         Xerofphagy he could not endure;
Zoöphagous surely he was, I aver,
         This dainty and starving Xylographer.
Xylophagous truly he could not be–
         No sickly vegetarian he!
He’d have blubbered like any old Zeuglodon
         Had Xerophthalmia not come on.
And the end of it was he never again
         In a Xanthic Xebec went sailing the main.

Views: 41

John Hancock Otis
by Edgar Lee Masters (1868-1950)

As to democracy, fellow citizens,
Are you not prepared to admit
That I, who inherited riches and was to the manner born,
Was second to none in Spoon River
In my devotion to the cause of Liberty?
While my contemporary, Anthony Findlay,
Born in a shanty and beginning life
As a water carrier to the section hands,
Then becoming a section hand when he was grown,
Afterwards foreman of the gang, until he rose
To the superintendency of the railroad,
Living in Chicago,
Was a veritable slave driver,
Grinding the faces of labor,
And a bitter enemy of democracy.
And I say to you, Spoon River,
And to you, O republic,
Beware of the man who rises to power
From one suspender.

Views: 33

To My Mother
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
⁠The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
⁠None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
⁠You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
⁠In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
⁠Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
⁠And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
⁠Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

Views: 26