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Best Famous Robert Seymour Bridges Poems

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Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Melancholia

 the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving for the lost redhead, I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad quite sad, then I rise CLEANSED even though nothing is solved.
that's what I get for kicking religion in the ass.
I should have kicked the redhead in the ass where her brains and her bread and butter are at .
.
.
but, no, I've felt sad about everything: the lost redhead was just another smash in a lifelong loss .
.
.
I listen to drums on the radio now and grin.
there is something wrong with me besides melancholia.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Absence

 HERE, ever since you went abroad, 
 If there be change no change I see: 
I only walk our wonted road, 
 The road is only walk'd by me.
Yes; I forgot; a change there is-- Was it of that you bade me tell? I catch at times, at times I miss The sight, the tone, I know so well.
Only two months since you stood here? Two shortest months? Then tell me why Voices are harsher than they were, And tears are longer ere they dry.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Absence

 WHEN from the craggy mountain's pathless steep,
Whose flinty brow hangs o'er the raging sea, 
My wand'ring eye beholds the foamy deep,
I mark the restless surge­and think of THEE.
The curling waves, the passing breezes move, Changing and treach'rous as the breath of LOVE; The "sad similitude" awakes my smart, And thy dear image twines about my heart.
When at the sober hour of sinking day, Exhausted Nature steals to soft repose, When the hush'd linnet slumbers on the spray, And scarce a ZEPHYR fans the drooping ROSE; I glance o'er scenes of bliss to friendship dear, And at the fond remembrance drop a tear; Nor can the balmy incense soothe my smart, Still cureless sorrow preys upon my heart.
When the loud gambols of the village throng, Drown the lorn murmurs of the ring-dove's throat; I think I hear thy fascinating song, Join the melodious minstrel's tuneful note­ My list'ning ear soon tells me ­'tis not THEE, Nor THY lov'd song­nor THY soft minstrelsy; In vain I turn away to hide my smart, Thy dulcet numbers vibrate in my heart.
When with the Sylvan train I seek the grove, Where MAY'S soft breath diffuses incense round, Where VENUS smiles serene, and sportive LOVE With thornless ROSES spreads the fairy ground; The voice of pleasure dies upon mine ear, My conscious bosom sighs­THOU ART NOT HERE ! Soft tears of fond regret reveal its smart, And sorrow, restless sorrow, chills my heart.
When at my matin pray'rs I prostrate kneel, And Court RELIGION's aid to soothe my woe, The meek-ey'd saint who pities what I feel, Forbids the sigh to heave, the tear to flow; For ah ! no vulgar passion fills my mind, Calm REASON's hand illumes the flame refin'd, ALL the pure feelings FRIENDSHIP can impart, Live in the centre of my aching heart.
When at the still and solemn hour of night, I press my lonely couch to find repose; Joyless I watch the pale moon's chilling light, Where thro' the mould'ring tow'r the north-wind blows; My fev'rish lids no balmy slumbers own, Still my sad bosom beats for thee alone: Nor shall its aching fibres cease to smart, 'Till DEATH's cold SPELL is twin'd about my HEART.


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Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Nimium Fortunatus

 I have lain in the sun
I have toil'd as I might,
I have thought as I would,
And now it is night.
My bed full of sleep, My heart full of content For friends that I met The way that I went.
I welcome fatigue While frenzy and care Like thin summer clouds Go melting in air.
To dream as I may And awake when I will With the song of the birds And the sun on the hill.
Or death - were it death - To what would I wake Who loved in my home All life for its sake? What good have I wrought? I laugh to have learned That joy cannot come Unless it be earned; For a happier lot Than God giveth me It never hath been Nor ever shall be.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

To the President of Magdalen College Oxford

 Since now from woodland mist and flooded clay 
I am fled beside the steep Devonian shore, 
Nor stand for welcome at your gothic door, 
'Neath the fair tower of Magdalen and May, 
Such tribute, Warren, as fond poets pay 
For generous esteem, I write, not more 
Enhearten'd than my need is, reckoning o'er 
My life-long wanderings on the heavenly way: 
But well-befriended we become good friends, 
Well-honour'd honourable; and all attain 
Somewhat by fathering what fortune sends.
I bid your presidency a long reign, True friend; and may your praise to greater ends Aid better men than I, nor me in vain.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

When Death to Either shall come

 When Death to either shall come,— 
I pray it be first to me,— 
Be happy as ever at home, 
If so, as I wish, it be.
Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to the child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

While yet we wait for spring and from the dry

 While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry 
And blackening east that so embitters March, 
Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch, 
And driven dust and withering snowflake fly; 
Already in glimpses of the tarnish'd sky 
The sun is warm and beckons to the larch, 
And where the covert hazels interarch 
Their tassell'd twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.
Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid A million buds but stay their blossoming; And trustful birds have built their nests amid The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing Till one soft shower from the south shall bid, And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Winter Nightfall

 The day begins to droop,-- 
Its course is done: 
But nothing tells the place 
Of the setting sun.
The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain.
An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky.
The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue.
A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air: His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick: He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

To Joseph Joachim

 Belov'd of all to whom that Muse is dear 
Who hid her spirit of rapture from the Greek, 
Whereby our art excelleth the antique, 
Perfecting formal beauty to the ear; 
Thou that hast been in England many a year 
The interpreter who left us nought to seek, 
Making Beethoven's inmost passion speak, 
Bringing the soul of great Sebastian near.
Their music liveth ever, and 'tis just That thou, good Joachim, so high thy skill, Rank (as thou shalt upon the heavenly hill) Laurel'd with them, for thy ennobling trust Remember'd when thy loving hand is still And every ear that heard thee stopt with dust.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

To Thos. Floyd

 How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'd 
Left the old home in need of livelier play 
For body and mind? How fare, this many a day, 
The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd? 
If not too well with country sport employ'd, 
Visit my flock, the breezy hill that they 
Choose for their fold; and see, for thence you may, 
From rising walls all roofless yet and void, 
The lovely city, thronging tower and spire, 
The mind of the wide landscape, dreaming deep, 
Grey-silvery in the vale; a shrine where keep 
Memorian hopes their pale celestial fire: 
Like man's immortal conscience of desire, 
The spirit that watcheth in me ev'n in my sleep.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

To the United States of America

 Brothers in blood! They who this wrong began 
To wreck our commonwealth, will rue the day 
When first they challenged freeman to the fray, 
And with the Briton dared the American.
Now are we pledged to win the Rights of man: Labour and Justice now shall have their way, And in a League of Peace -- God grant we may -- Transform the earth, not patch up the old plan.
Sure is our hope since he who led your nation Spake for mankind, and ye arose in awe Of that high call to work the world's salvation; Clearing your minds of all estrangling blindness In the vision of Beauty and the Spirit's law, Freedom and Honour and sweet Lovingkindness.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

A Passer-by

 Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 
Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, 
That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, 
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? 
Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, 
When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, 
Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest 
In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.
I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.
And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.
But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Absence

 When my love was away, 
Full three days were not sped, 
I caught my fancy astray 
Thinking if she were dead, 

And I alone, alone: 
It seem'd in my misery 
In all the world was none 
Ever so lone as I.
I wept; but it did not shame Nor comfort my heart: away I rode as I might, and came To my love at close of day.
The sight of her still'd my fears, My fairest-hearted love: And yet in her eyes were tears: Which when I question'd of, 'O now thou art come,' she cried, ''Tis fled: but I thought to-day I never could here abide, If thou wert longer away.
'


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Awake My Heart

 Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake
The o'ertaken moon.
Awake, O heart, awake! She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee: Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! And if thou tarry from her, - if this could be, - She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake, to be loved, my heart, awake, awake! Awake! The land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree; And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! Lo, all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me.
Come, more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, And awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!"


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

I Will Not Let Thee Go

 I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this? Can it be summed up so, Quit in a single kiss? I will not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds, As the soft south can blow And toss the feathered seeds, Then might I let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might; Or were he reckoned slow To bring the false to light, Then might I let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
The stars that crowd the summer skies Have watched us so below With all their million eyes, I dare not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
Have we chid the changeful moon, Now rising late, and now Because she set too soon, And shall I let thee go? I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content, Plucked ere their buds could blow, To seal our sacrament? I cannot let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands: Thou sayest farewell, and lo! I have thee by the hands, And will not let thee go.