Author: Mar_eli

Lilies will languish; violets look ill;
Sickly the primrose; pale the daffodil;
That gallant tulip will hang down his head,
Like to a virgin newly ravished;
Pansies will weep, and marigolds will wither,
And keep a fast and funeral together;
Sappho droop, daisies will open never,
But bid good-night, and close their lids for ever.

Robert Herrick (baptized 24 August 1591 – buried 15 October 1676

Out in a world of death far to the northward lying,
Under the sun and the moon, under the dusk and the day;
Under the glimmer of stars and the purple of sunsets dying,
Wan and waste and white, stretch the great lakes away.

Never a bud of spring, never a laugh of summer,
Never a dream of love, never a song of bird;
But only the silence and white, the shores that grow chiller and dumber,
Wherever the ice winds sob, and the griefs of winter are heard.

Crags that are black and wet out of the grey lake looming,
Under the sunset’s flush and the pallid, faint glimmer of dawn;
Shadowy, ghost-like shores, where midnight surfs are booming
Thunders of wintry woe over the spaces wan.

Lands that loom like spectres, whited regions of winter,
Wastes of desolate woods, deserts of water and shore;
A world of winter and death, within these regions who enter,
Lost to summer and life, go to return no more.

Moons that glimmer above, waters that lie white under,
Miles and miles of lake far out under the night;
Foaming crests of waves, surfs that shoreward thunder,
Shadowy shapes that flee, haunting the spaces white.

Lonely hidden bays, moon-lit, ice-rimmed, winding,
Fringed by forests and crags, haunted by shadowy shores;
Hushed from the outward strife, where the mighty surf is grinding
Death and hate on the rocks, as sandward and landward it roars.

William Wilfred Campbell 

 

 

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882)

Lying still and silent, I listen to the night,
The Emotions of a day gone by are dying with the light.

Busy places settle and enjoy the evening breeze.
The atmosphere is cleansed and given time to drift and breathe.

I think I hear the clouds, whisper with relief,
As the sun no longer sears through them and the winds’ cool underneath.

The orange glow from street lights can make a cosy place,
When weary eyes are rested by it’s false one-colour haze.

Threatening and fearful places of the day,
Are mellowed by the shadows as you slowly drift away.

A million moods may pass you by, if your senses are awake.
As a day is gone and one is ready now, for you to take.

©  Tamara Forge

You

By Mar_eli

You’re so full of laughter

You couldn’t hear me crying

You’re eyes so full of joy

You didn’t see me dying

Dying in the dark, for you have all the light

Light that goes but nowhere, it drifts into the night

For all you’re love is wasted, on no-one else but you

And so deep down I hate you, I only wish you knew

© Tamara Forge

Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, —
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.

Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, — or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, — white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.

I can remember much forgetfulness.

Harold Hart Crane – 21 July 1899 – 27 April 1932

Bed me in autumn’s leaves, Beloved;
take me under this red-gold canopy,
under October’s crystal sky.
Lay yourself on me; cover me
like a carpet of shimmering gold.
Let me inhale autumn’s fragrance
with your rich, warm man-scent.
Silver frosts our hair, Beloved;
our eyes are shadow-grayed.
But the fires of our youth still smolder
in glowing embers needing but
a breath of crisp, sparkling air
to burst into vibrant flame
and warm an autumn’s night…
Share with me again this love
that has grown and ripened
nigh these thirty years
round, sweet and full as red apples.
The passion of youth is hot and quick,
but time has taught us patience
and the trembling joy of each kiss,
each sigh, each potent thrust.
We are Zeus and Demeter, locked
in love, in longing, in renewal.
This is our season, Beloved;
so bed me autumn’s leaves.

Deborah Kellogg  10/09/13

 

Fire and Ice

By Mar_eli

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

William Butler Yeats

First Love

By Mar_eli

I ne’er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start —
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more

John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864)


Oh, caurnie, whaur’s your rhymers noo?
You yince had poets quite a few,
But noo I look your paper through,
and no’a verse,
Can it be you’ve lost the breed
That jingled cot a wee bit screed?
Are they asleep or are they deid?
whit mak’s them scarce?

But maybe it’s because you’re “dry”,
And no’ a drink to them supply,
That they to ither taverns hie,
and you neglect
And there they sing O’ “Ballochmyle”,”
Or else some place in Erin’s Isle,
And you, forgotten a’ the while,
gets nae respect.

Oh, wha will rise and sing a sang,
And praise you up baith loud and lang,
For wi’ you there’s naething’ wrang-
oh, one thing, yes,
When will your honest, sober folk
Tak’ pity on your bare-faced nock?
They let it staun’ the tempest’s shock
witoot a glass.

The a’e hauf does its very best,
Fechtin’ winds frae east or west,
An tho’ at times it’s backward pressed,
will no’ gi’e in,
Meanwhile, on the sheltered side
The haunds ha’e got a smoother glide,
Waiting not for time nor tide,
aroond they spin.

The two haunds on the northern face
Ha’e found a way to set the pace,
For lockit in a fond embrace
the ‘oors flee past,
The wee yin, noo she’s got a mate,
Cars’oors flee by at sic a rate,
She’s able now tae change the date,
an’ jook the blast.

And Archie Leitch, who tols the bell,
How he kens when I canna tell,
Unless the callant’s bocht himsel’
a pocket ben.

No, Archie keep your wee watch right,
Tak’ care it’s no’ rowed up too ticht,
Or we’ll miss some ‘oors sleep some night
awaitin’ ten.

I hope I havena’ raisen your ire
By criticisin’ yor auld spire,
Whar each face ca’s the ither liar
behint their back,
For I set oot withoot intention
Ony fan’ts o’ yours tae mention,
But maybe noo some fists are clenchin’
my jaw tae smack.

So, for the present, that’s enough:
You, for the warld, I widna’ huff;
I’ll balance this wi’praisin’ stuff
when I come back


Kenneth Robertson

K. Herald 6 April 1958

                            A madame Judith Mendès

A la fin de juillet les villages sont vides.
Depuis longtemps déjà des nuages livides,
Menaçant d’un prochain orage à l’occident,
Conseillaient la récolte au laboureur prudent.
Donc voici la moisson, et bientôt la vendange ;
On aiguise les faux, on prépare la grange,
Et tous les paysans, dès l’aube rassemblés,
Joyeux vont à la fête opulente des blés.
Or, pendant tout ce temps de travail, les aïeules
Au village, devant les portes, restent seules,
Se chauffant au soleil et branlant le menton,
Calmes et les deux mains jointes sur leur bâton ;
Car les travaux des champs leur ont courbé la taille.
Avec leur long fichu peint de quelque bataille,
Leur jupe de futaine et leur grand bonnet blanc,
Elles restent ainsi tout le jour sur un banc,
Heureuses, sans penser peut-être et sans rien dire,
Adressant un béat et mystique sourire
Au clair soleil qui dore au loin le vieux clocher
Et mûrit les épis que leurs fils vont faucher.

Ah ! c’est la saison douce et chère aux bonnes vieilles!
Les histoires autour du feu, les longues veilles
Ne leur conviennent plus. Leur vieux mari, l’aïeul,
Est mort, et, quand on est très-vieux, on est tout seul :
La fille est au lavoir, le gendre est à sa vigne.
On vous laisse ; et pourtant encore on se résigne,
S’il fait un beau soleil aux rayons réchauffants.
Elles aimaient naguère à bercer les enfants.
Le cœur des vieilles gens, surtout à la campagne,
Bat lentement et très-volontiers s’accompagne
Du mouvement rythmique et calme des berceaux.
Mais les petits sont grands aujourd’hui ; ces oiseaux
Ont pris leur vol ; ils n’ont plus besoin de défense ;
Et voici, que les vieux, dans leur seconde enfance,
N’ont même plus, hélas ! ce suprême jouet.

Elles pourraient encor bien tourner le rouet;
Mais sur leurs yeux pâlis le temps a mis son voile; •
Leurs maigres doigts sont las de filer de la toile ;
Car de ces mêmes mains, que le temps fait pâlir,
Elles ont déjà dû souvent ensevelir
Des chers défunts la froide et lugubre dépouille
Avec ce même lin filé par leur quenouille.

Mais ni la pauvreté constante, ni la mort
Des troupeaux, ni le fils aîné tombant au sort,
Ni la famine après les mauvaises récoltes,
Ni les travaux subis sans cris et sans révoltes,
Ni la fille, servante au loin, qui n’écrit pas,
Ni les mille tourments qui font pleurer tout bas,
En cachette, la nuit, les craintives aïeules,
Ni la foudre du ciel incendiant les meules,
Ni tout ce qui leur parle encore du passé
Dans l’étroit cimetière à l’église adossé
Où vont jouer les blonds enfants après l’école,
Et qui cache, parmi l’herbe et la vigne folle,
Plus d’une croix de bois qu’elles connaissent bien,
Rien n’a troublé leur cœur héroïque et chrétien.
Et maintenant, à l’âge où l’âme se repose,
Elles ne semblent pas désirer autre chose
Que d’aller, en été, s’asseoir, vers le midi,
Sur quelque banc de pierre au soleil attiédi,
Pour regarder d’un œil plein de sereine extase
Les canards bleus et verts caquetant dans la vase,
Entendre la chanson des laveuses et voir
Les chevaux de labour descendre à l’abreuvoir.
Leur sourire d’enfant et leur front blanc qui tremble
Rayonnent de bien-être et de candeur; il semble
Qu’elles ne songent plus à leurs chagrins passés,
Qu’elles pardonnent tout, et que c’est bien assez
Pour elles que d’avoir, dans leurs vieilles années,
Les peines d’autrefois étant bien terminées,
Et pour donner la joie à leurs quatre-vingts ans,
Le grand soleil, ce vieil ami des paysans.

François COPPÉE 1842 – 1908
Poèmes Et Récits, Édition Illustrée De 45
Sans date (1886)
Dessins De Myrbach, Gravés Par Florian.

SONY DSC

After great pain, a formal feeling comes–
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Toombs–
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round–
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought–
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone–

This is the Hour of Lead–
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow–
First–Chill–then Stupor–then the letting go–

Emily Dickinson

The sea is calm tonight,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!

Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)