Kubla Khan
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

      In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
⁠         A stately pleasure-dome decree:
⁠      Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
⁠      Through caverns measureless to man
⁠         Down to a sunless sea.
      So twice five miles of fertile ground
      With walls and towers were girdled round
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

      The shadow of the dome of pleasure
⁠         Floated midway on the waves;
⁠      Where was heard the mingled measure
⁠         From the fountain and the caves.
⁠   It was a miracle of rare device,
⁠   A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

⁠

      A damsel with a dulcimer
⁠         In a vision once I saw:
⁠      It was an Abyssinian maid,
⁠         And on her dulcimer she played,
⁠      Singing of Mount Abora.
⁠      Could I revive within me
⁠      Her symphony and song,
⁠   To such a deep delight ’twould win me
   That with music loud and long,
   I would build that dome in air,
   That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
   And all who heard should see them there,
   And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
   His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
   Weave a circle round him thrice,
   And close your eyes with holy dread,
   For he on honey-dew hath fed,
   And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Views: 26

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

            I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

            II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

            III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

            IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

            V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

            VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

            VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

            VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

            IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

            X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

            XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

            XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

            XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Views: 28

Revelation
by Edmund Gosse (1849-1928)

            Into the the silver night
                  She brought with her pale hand
            The topaz lanthorn-light,
      And darted splendour o’er the land;
                  Around her in a band,
Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying,
      And flapping with their mad wings, fann’d
The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.
            Behind the thorny pink
                  Close wall of blossom’d may,
            I gazed thro’ one green chink
      And saw no more than thousands may,—
                  Saw sweetness, tender and gay,—
Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,
      Saw braided locks more dark than bay,
And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.

            With food for furry friends
                  She pass’d, her lamp and she,
            Till eaves and gable-ends
      Hid all that saffron sheen from me:
                  Around my rosy tree
Once more the silver-starry night was shining,
      With depths of heaven, dewy and free,
And crystals of a carven moon declining.

            Alas! for him who dwells
                  In frigid air of thought,
            When warmer light dispels
      The frozen calm his spirit sought;
                  By life too lately taught
He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing;
      Reels from the joy experience brought,
And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.

Views: 50

“Take, O take those Lips Away”
from Measure For Measure
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Take, O take those lips away,
⁠      That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day.
⁠      Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
                  Bring again;
Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,
                  Seal’d in vain.

Views: 49

Edward
Anonymous Ballad

“Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
            Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
      And why sae sad gang ye, O?”
“O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
            Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
      And I had nae mair but he, O.”

“Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
            Edward, Edward;
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
      My dear son, I tell thee, O.”
“O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
            Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
      That erst wa sae fair and free, O.”

“Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
            Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
      Some other dule ye dree, O.”
“O I hae kill’d my father dear,
            Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my father dear,
      Alas, and wae is me, O!”

“And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
            Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
      My dear son, now tell me, O.”
“I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
            Mither, mither;
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
      And I’ll fare over the sea, O.”

“And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
            Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
      That were sae fair to see, O?”
“I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
            Mither, mither;
I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
      For here never mair maun I be, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
            Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
      When ye gang owre the sea, O?”
“The warld’s room: let them beg through life,
            Mither, mither;
The warld’s room: let them beg through life;
      For them never mair will I see, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
            Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
      My dear son, now tell me, O?”
“The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
            Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
      Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!”

Views: 51

Il Sogno
by Pietro Metastasio (1698-1782)

Pur nel sonno almen talora
vien colei, che m’innamora,
le mie pene a consolar.
Rendi Amor, se giusto sei,
più veraci i sogni miei,
o non farmi risvegliar.
Di solitaria fonte
sul margo assiso al primo albore, o Fille,
sognai d’esser con te. Sognai, ma in guisa
che sognar non credei. Garrir gli augelli,
frangersi l’acque e susurrar le foglie
pareami udir. De’ tuoi begli occhi al lume,
come suol per costume,
fra’ suoi palpiti usati era il cor mio.
Sol nel vederti, oh Dio!
pietosa a me, qual non ti vidi mai,
di sognar qualche volta io dubitai.
Quai voci udii! Che dolci nomi ottenni,
cara, da’ labbri tuoi! Quali in quei molli
tremuli rai teneri sensi io lessi!
Ah se mirar potessi
quanto splendan più belle
fra i lampi di pietà le tue pupille,
mai più crudel non mi saresti, o Fille
Qual io divenni allora,
quel che allora io pensai, ciò che allor dissi,
ridir non so. So che sul vivo latte
della tua mano io mille baci impressi;
tu d’un vago rossor tingesti il volto.
Quando improvviso ascolto
d’un cespuglio vicin scuoter le fronde:
mi volgo, e mezzo ascoso
scopro il rival Fileno,
che d’invido veleno
livido in faccia i furti miei rimira.
Fra la sorpresa e l’ira
avvampai, mi riscossi in un momento,
e fu breve anche in sogno il mio contento.
Partì con l’ombra, è ver,
l’inganno ed il piacer;
ma la mia fiamma, oh Dio!
idolo del cor mio,
con l’ombra non partì.
Se mai per un momento
sognando io son felice,
poi cresce il mio tormento,
quando ritorna il dì.

Views: 34

The Sweets of Evening
by Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

The sweets of Evening charm the mind,
      Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more’s confin’d,
But exercise with freedom join’d,
      When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

The softer scenes of nature sooth
      The organs of our sight;
The Zephyrs fan the meadows smooth,
And on the brook we build the booth
      In pastoral delight.

While all-serene the summer moon
      Sends glances thro’ the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
      With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
      And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
      With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by Time
      None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
      In fancy’s highest sphere.

Views: 34

Satia Te Sanguine
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

If you loved me ever so little,
      I could bear the bonds that gall,
I could dream the bonds were brittle;
      You do not love me at all.

O beautiful lips, O bosom
      More white than the moon’s and warm,
A sterile, a ruinous blossom
      Is blown your way in a storm.

As the lost white feverish limbs
      Of the Lesbian Sappho, adrift
In foam where the sea-weed swims,
      Swam loose for the streams to lift,

My heart swims blind in a sea
      That stuns me; swims to and fro,
And gathers to windward and lee
      Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.

A broken, an emptied boat,
      Sea saps it, winds blow apart,
Sick and adrift and afloat,
      The barren waif of a heart.

Where, when the gods would be cruel,
      Do they go for a torture? where
Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel?
      Ah, not in the flesh, not there!

The racks of earth and the rods
      Are weak as foam on the sands;
In the heart is the prey for gods,
      Who crucify hearts, not hands.

Mere pangs corrode and consume,
      Dead when life dies in the brain;
In the infinite spirit is room
      For the pulse of an infinite pain.

I wish you were dead, my dear;
      I would give you, had I to give,
Some death too bitter to fear;
      It is better to die than live.

I wish you were stricken of thunder
      And burnt with a bright flame through,
Consumed and cloven in sunder,
      I dead at your feet like you.

If I could but know after all,
      I might cease to hunger and ache,
Though your heart were ever so small,
      If it were not a stone or a snake.

You are crueller, you that we love,
      Than hatred, hunger, or death;
You have eyes and breasts like a dove,
      And you kill men’s hearts with a breath.

As plague in a poisonous city
      Insults and exults on her dead,
So you, when pallid for pity
      Comes love, and fawns to be fed.

As a tame beast writhes and wheedles,
      He fawns to be fed with wiles;
You carve him a cross of needles,
      And whet them sharp as your smiles.

He is patient of thorn and whip,
      He is dumb under axe or dart;
You suck with a sleepy red lip
      The wet red wounds in his heart.

You thrill as his pulses dwindle,
      You brighten and warm as he bleeds,
With insatiable eyes that kindle
      And insatiable mouth that feeds.

Your hands nailed love to the tree,
      You stript him, scourged him with rods,
And drowned him deep in the sea
      That hides the dead and their gods.

And for all this, die will he not;
      There is no man sees him but I;
You came and went and forgot;
      I hope he will some day die.

Views: 40

La Vie antérieure
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

J’ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.

Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d’une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.

C’est là que j’ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes,
Au milieu de l’azur, des vagues, des splendeurs
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d’odeurs,

Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l’unique soin était d’approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.

Views: 30

The Emperor of Ice-Cream
by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Views: 19