Bathsheba’s Song
by George Peele (1556-1596)
Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me;
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wand’reth lightly.Views: 38
Goliath and David
FOR D.C.T. KILLED AT FRICOURT, MARCH 1916
by Robert Graves (1895-1985)
Once an earlier David took
Smooth pebbles from the brook:
Out between the lines he went
To that one-sided tournament,
A shepherd boy who stood out fine
And young to fight a Philistine
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears
That he’s killed lions, he’s killed bears,
And those that scorn the God of Zion
Shall perish so like bear or lion.
But the historian of that fight
Had not the heart to tell it right.
Striding within javelin range
Goliath marvels at this strange
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.
David’s clear eye measures the length;
With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,
Poises a moment thoughtfully,
And hurls with a long vengeful swing.
The pebble, humming from the sling
Like a wild bee, flies a sure line
For the forehead of the Philistine,
Then … but there comes a brazen clink,
And quicker than a man can think
Goliath’s shield parries each cast,
Clang! clang! and clang! was David’s last.
Scorn blazes in the Giant’s eye
Towering unhurt six cubits high.
Says foolish David, “Damn your shield,
And damn my sling, but I’ll not yield.”
He takes his staff of Mamre oak,
A knotted shepherd-staff that’s broke
The skull of many a wolf and fox
Come filching lambs from Jesse’s flocks.
Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh
Can scatter chariots like blown chaff
To rout: but David, calm and brave,
Holds his ground, for God will save.
Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!
Shame for Beauty’s overthrow!
(God’s eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)
One cruel backhand sabre cut—
“I’m hit, I’m killed,” young David cries,
Throws blindly forward, chokes … and dies.
And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,
Goliath straddles over him.Views: 37
Hymn on Solitude
by James Thomson (1700-1748)
Hail, mildly pleasing solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools, and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper’d talk,
Which innocence, and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;
A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain;
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking HARFORD’S bloom,
As, with her MUSIDORA, she,
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival’d nightingale.
Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while Meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landskip swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.
Descending angels bless thy train,
The Virtues of the sage, and swain;
Plain Innocence in white array’d,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:
Religion’s beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.
Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!
And in thy deep recesses dwell!
Perhaps from Norwood’s oak-clad hill,
When meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London’s spiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.
Views: 44
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
by Robert Browning (1812-1889)
Because today is Ratcatcher’s Day
I.
Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.
Views: 44
On My Birthday, July 21
by Matthew Prior (1664-1721)
I, my dear, was born to-day—
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne’er been born:
I wish to die, even whilst I say—
‘I, my dear, was born to-day.’
I, my dear, was born to-day:
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe?
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say—
‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’
Views: 43
Keen Fitful Gusts
by John Keats (1795-1821)
Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there
Among the bushes, half leafless and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare;
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair.
For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid’ drown’d;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown’d.
Views: 38
Love and the Butterfly
by Alice Dunbar Nelson (1875-1935)
I heard a merry voice one day
And glancing at my side,
Fair Love, all breathless, flushed with play,
A butterfly did ride.
“Whither away, oh sportive boy?”
I asked, he tossed his head;
Laughing aloud for purest joy,
And past me swiftly sped.
Next day I heard a plaintive cry
And Love crept in my arms;
Weeping he held the butterfly,
Devoid of all its charms.
Sweet words of comfort, whispered I
Into his dainty ears,
But Love still hugged the butterfly,
And bathed its wounds with tears.
Views: 43
Sonnet à Sir Bob
Chien de femme legère, braque anglais pur sang
by Tristan Corbière (1845-1875)
Beau chien, quand je te vois caresser ta maîtresse,
Je grogne malgré moi — pourquoi? — Tu n’en sais rien …
— Ah ! c’est que moi — vois-tu — jamais je ne caresse,
Je n’ai pas de maîtresse, et… ne suis pas beau chien.
— Bob! Bob! — Oh! le fier nom à hurler d’allégresse!…
Si je m’appelais Bob… Elle dit Bob si bien!…
Mais moi je ne suis pas pur sang. — Par maladresse,
On m’a fait braque aussi … mâtiné de chrétien.
— Ô Bob! nous changerons, à la métempsycose:
Prends mon sonnet, moi ta sonnette à faveur rose;
Toi ma peau, moi ton poil — avec puces ou non…
Et je serai sir Bob — Son seul amour fidèle!
Je mordrai les roquets, elle me mordrait, Elle!…
Et j’aurai le collier portant Son petit nom.
Views: 38
À un Poète mort
by Charles Leconte de Lisle (1818-1894)
Toi dont les yeux erraient, altérés de lumière,
De la couleur divine au contour immortel
Et de la chair vivante à la splendeur du ciel,
Dors en paix dans la nuit qui scelle ta paupière.
Voir, entendre, sentir? Vent, fumée et poussière.
Aimer? La coupe d’or ne contient que du fiel.
Comme un Dieu plein d’ennui qui déserte l’autel,
Rentre et disperse-toi dans l’immense matière.
Sur ton muet sépulcre et tes os consumés
Qu’un autre verse ou non les pleurs accoutumés,
Que ton siècle banal t’oublie ou te renomme;
Moi, je t’envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir,
D’être affranchi de vivre et de ne plus savoir
La honte de penser et l’horreur d’être un homme!
Views: 30
Abend
by Andreas Gryphius (1616-1664)
Der schnelle Tag ist hin; die Nacht schwingt ihre Fahn’
Und führt die Sternen auf. Der Menschen müde Scharen
Verlassen Feld und Werk; wo Tier’ und Vögel waren,
Trau’rt itzt die Einsamkeit. Wie ist die Zeit vertan!
Der Port naht mehr und mehr sich zu der Glieder Kahn,
Gleich wie dies Licht verfiel, so wird in wenig Jahren
Ich, du, und was man hat, und was man sieht, hinfahren.
Dies Leben kommt mir vor als eine Rennebahn.
Laß, höchster Gott, mich doch nicht auf dem Laufplatz gleiten!
Laß mich nicht Schmerz, nicht Pracht, nicht Lust, nicht Angst verleiten!
Dein ewig heller Glanz sei vor und neben mir!
Laß, wenn der müde Leib entschläft, die Seele wachen,
Und wenn der letzte Tag wird mit mir Abend machen,
So reiß mich aus dem Tal der Finsternis zu dir.
Views: 32