Authors

Hymn To Love

Poem by Lascelles Abercrombie

We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee,
As théou, Léove, were the déep thought
And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we,
Thy fires of thought out-spoken:

But burn’d not through us thy imagining
Like fiérce méood in a séong céaught,
We were as clamour’d words a fool may fling,
Loose words, of meaning broken.

For what more like the brainless speech of a fool,—
The lives travelling dark fears,
And as a boy throws pebbles in a pool
Thrown down abysmal places?

Hazardous are the stars, yet is our birth
And our journeying time theirs;
As words of air, life makes of starry earth
Sweet soul-delighted faces;

As voices are we in the worldly wind;
The great wind of the world’s fate
Is turn’d, as air to a shapen sound, to mind
And marvellous desires.

But not in the world as voices storm-shatter’d,
Not borne down by the wind’s weight;
The rushing time rings with our splendid word
Like darkness fill’d with fires.

For Love doth use us for a sound of song,
And Love’s meaning our life wields,
Making our souls like syllables to throng
His tunes of exultation.

Down the blind speed of a fatal world we fly,
As rain blown along earth’s fields;
Yet are we god-desiring liturgy,
Sung joys of adoration;

Yea, made of chance and all a labouring strife,
We go charged with a strong flame;
For as a language Love hath seized on life
His burning heart to story.

Yea, Love, we are thine, the liturgy of thee,
Thy thought’s golden and glad name,
The mortal conscience of immortal glee,
Love’s zeal in Love’s own glory.

On Another’s Sorrow

Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,      
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?      
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,      
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;      

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all;      
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;      
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O! He gives to us His joy
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone      
He doth sit by us and moan.

William Blake (1757–1827)

The Divine Image


To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love      
Is God, our Father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is man, His child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,      
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,      
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.      

William Blake (1757–1827)


A Soldier – His Prayer

(This anonymous poem was blown by the wind into a slit trench at El Agheila, Libya, during a heavy bombardment).

Stay with me, God. The night is dark,
The night is cold: my little spark
Of courage dies. The night is long;
Be with me, God, and make me strong.

I love a game. I love a fight.
I hate the dark; I love the light.
I love my child; I love my wife.
I am no coward. I love life,

Life with its change of mood and shade.
I want to live. I’m not afraid,
But me and mine are hard to part;
Oh, unknown God, lift up my heart.

You stilled the waters at Dunkirk
And saved Your servants.  All your work
Is wonderful, dear God. You strode
Before us down that dreadful road.

We were alone, and hope had fled;
We loved our country and our dead,
And could not shame them; so we stayed
The course, and were not much afraid.

Dear God, that nightmare road! And then
That sea! We got there – we were men.
My eyes were blind, my feet were torn,
My soul sang like a bird at dawn!

I knew that death is but a door.
I knew what we were fighting for:
Peace for the kids, our brothers freed,
A kinder world, a cleaner breed.

I’m but the son my mother bore,
A simple man, and nothing more.
But – God of strength and gentleness,
Be pleased to make me nothing less.

Help me, O God, when Death is near
To mock the haggard face of fear,
That when I fall – if fall I must –
My soul may triumph in the Dust.

From the anthology 'Poems from the Desert –  Published by George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd.



All Last Night




    All last night I had quiet
            In a fragrant dream and warm:
    She became my Sabbath,
            And round my neck, her arm.

    I knew the warmth in my dreaming;
            The fragrance, I suppose,
    Was her hair about me,
            Or else she wore a rose.

    Her hair I think; for likest
            Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring
    Loitering down the wet woodways
            Treads it sauntering.

    No light, nor any speaking;
            Fragrant only and warm.
    Enough to know my lodging,
            The white Sabbath of her arm.

Lascelles Abercrombie

Roses Can Wound

Roses can wound,
But not from having thorns they do most harm;
Often the night gives, starry-sheen or moon'd,
Deep in the soul alarm.
And it hath been deep within my heart like fear,
Girl, when you are near.

The mist of sense,
Wherein the soul goes shielded, can divide,
And she must cringe and be ashamed, and wince,
Not in appearance hide
Of rose or girl from the blazing mastery
Of bared Eternity.


Lascelles Abercrombie -  (9 January 1881 – 27 October 1938) 



Night

William Blake (1757–1827).


THE SUN descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower,      
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight.      
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,      
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are cover’d warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.      
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,      
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,      
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,      
And walking round the fold,
Saying ‘Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.      

‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For, wash’d in life’s river,      
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.’

Gefunden (Deutsch/ Arabisch)

Ich ging im Walde
So für mich hin, Und nichts zu suchen, Das war mein Sinn. Im Schatten sah ich Ein Blümchen stehn, Wie Sterne leuchtend, Wie Äuglein schön. Ich wollt es brechen, Da sagt es fein: Soll ich zum Welken Gebrochen sein? Ich grub's mit allen Den Würzlein aus. Zum Garten trug ich's Am hübschen Haus Und pflanzt es wieder Am stillen Ort; Nun zweigt es immer Und blüht so fort.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1813)



وجدتها مرّةً في أعماقِ الغابةِ مشيتُ وحيداً؛ أبحثُ عّن لا شيء عزمتُ أفكاري. وجدتُ في الضلمةِ وردةً تَقِفُ هناك تتلألأُت كالنجومْ، كانت جميلةً كالعيون. سَعَيتُ لِقطفِها،— فقالت برقةٍ: "هل ستقطفني لأموت؟" اجتثتُها بِكُلِ جذورها و حملتها برقة تامة، و عُدتُ بها إلى بيتي، لحديقتي العزيزة. و في زاويةٍ صامتة زُرِعتْ على عجل؛ لتنمو للأبد، هناكَ حتى تزهر مرةً أخرى. الكاتب: يوهان فولفغانغ غوته

Übersetzung: Loai



 

 (vorgetragen von Ilyas 7 Jahre)

The Sick Rose

William Blake (1757–1827).



O ROSE, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed      
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Hope

Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.

(Joseph Addison)

Ah! Sun-Flower

William Blake (1757–1827).

AH, Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the traveller’s journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,      
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.


The Garden of Love



I went to the Garden of Love,
And I saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And „Thou shalt not.“ Writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

William Blake

.surrender.

tap into the well
all the tears
the heartache
and past selves
release
bring them to this reservoir
and bathe
under moonlight
with compassion 
and gentleness as guides
helping to rid 
what is no longer needed


L'sJourney
Source Poem and Image: http://www.lsjourney.com/
(With kind permission)

A Dream

Once a dream did weave a shade
O’er my Angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wilder’d, and forlorn,      
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke I heard her say:

‘O, my children! do they cry?
Do they hear their father sigh?      
Now they look abroad to see:
Now return and weep for me.’

Pitying, I dropp’d a tear;
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied: ‘What wailing wight      
Calls the watchman of the night?

‘I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle’s hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home.

William Blake (1757–1827).

I Taught Myself To Live Simply

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.

Anna Akhmatova

Night

The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower,
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold,
Saying, ‚Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.

‚And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For, washed in life’s river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.‘

To His Love


     "Teach me, love, to be true;
        Teach me, love, to love;
     Teach me to be pure like you.
        It will be more than enough!

     "Ah, and in days to come,
        Give me, my seraph, too,
     A son nobler than I,
        A daughter true like you:

     "A son to battle the wrong,
        To seek and strive for the right;
     A beautiful daughter of song,
        To point us on to the light!"

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

You Will Hear Thunder


You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

Anna Akhmatova

I Slept, And Dreamed That Life Was Beauty

 "I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
        I woke, and found that life was duty.
        Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
        Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
        And thou shall find thy dream to be
        A noonday light and truth to thee."

Louisa May Alcott



       

A farewell

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

(Alfred Lord Tennyson)